Mister Dimples
Lindsay Becs
Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Cocky Hero Club
About the Author
Other Books by Lindsay
Acknowledgments
Copyright ©2020 by Lindsay Becs and Cocky Hero Club, Inc
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except for the use of brief quotation in a book review.
The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Design: Amanda Walker
Formatting: Marley Valentine
Editing: Tricia Harden
** Thank you, Internet, for providing me with humorous lines and sayings to add to the beginning of each chapter. They are, unfortunately, not ones I thought up on my own. I wish I were that funny. **
Introduction
Mister Dimples is a standalone story inspired by Vi Keeland and Penelope Ward’s Mister Moneybags. It's published as part of the Cocky Hero Club world, a series of original works, written by various authors, and inspired by Keeland and Ward's New York Times bestselling series.
Dedication
Love your curves.
Love your sass.
Love yourself.
And always laugh.
Prologue
JUNIPER
“I’m sorry, you want me to do what now?”
“We need you to go cover the basketball game today.”
I stare at Daniel, my boss—for lack of a better term—here at the college radio station where I work.
I don’t do sports. That’s Jason’s job. Definitely not mine. I’ve never played a sport, watched a sport, or hell, even been in the gymnasium of the school before.
Here, at Penn State University, sports may be everything to a lot people, but not me. I’m here to get a degree in communication with a minor in creative writing. My dream is to write for a magazine one day. I’d love nothing more than to be the next modern-day Dear Abby. Which means, when I’m working for the school paper, radio station or online networks, I’m working more with the arts. Not sweaty, cocky athletes who think they run the school and one day the world. Barf.
“I thought that was what you said, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating,” I tell him, still confused by why the hell he’s asking me to cover the game.
“Jason has a family emergency and had to leave for home. You’re the only one here right now who knows how it all works and is close enough to get to the gym in time to be ready for the game,” Daniel goes on to explain. “Plus, we all know you’re the best writer we have.”
I’m still looking at him like he just grew three heads, and I’m sure my face is showcasing that exact expression as well, regardless of his added compliment. “I don’t know anything about basketball.”
“Just… fake your way through it. It’s not that hard. Just say what you see, update people every time a team scores, interview a few players after the game and you’re done. Easy.” Easy? He’s trying to sell me with this word, but it’s not the one I’d choose to describe what he’s asking of me.
I take a deep breath. “Are you sure? You want me to cover a game for a sport I know nothing about?”
“Juniper, I literally have no other option. I’d go myself, but I’m already over on my allowed hours for this month. You’re it.” He taps me on the shoulder like it’ll give me some sort of phantom luck.
“Okay then,” I sigh, resigned to the fact that I’m about to do something I never thought I would. Talk about sports.
* * *
I’m set up with my microphone and laptop in the corner of the press box, looking down on the… field? No, gym? I don’t even know what they call this. Oh, this is going to be bad. Very, very bad.
I try to give myself a pep talk before the game begins. I’ve decided I’m just going to give it my all. And by my all, I mean I’m going to just be me and tell it like I see it. I’m not trying to be anything but me here. And a sports enthusiast is not it.
“Hello to all the basketball fans out there. I’m Juniper Love standing in for your usual sports guy, Jason, on this Saturday. Today we are playing Maryland on our home field.”
I pause, groaning at myself and my lack of knowledge but keep rolling with it as I run through the team’s list of players as they warm up before the game begins.
“Players are in formation down in the gym and ready to play. There are… one, two, three, four, five from each team if I’ve counted correctly. Oh, the ball is thrown up and they are slapping it! It’s bouncing! The red team is running to one side, bouncing the ball. He’s stopping and throws to another red person who also throws it. There’s no more bouncing, people. He throws to the hoop thing, and it ricochets back. Oh, dang, now they’re going to the other side. Blue has the ball bouncing again.”
And this is how it goes for a while. They run back and forth. Back and forth. Throw, bounce, throw, bounce.
“Do you all hear their shoes squeak? I mean, it’s like a dog toy party palooza down there. Someone put some felt on the bottom of their shoes please. They could slide from side to side.
“Wait. Hold up. Did that guy just lick his hand and then rub it on the bottom of his squeaky shoe? Okay, gross. If he has a girlfriend here, girl, I hope you make him wash his hands, and his mouth, before you go near that.
“What is happening?! They are on the ground fighting over the ball. They look like a bunch of toddlers battling for the same toy right now. Is this normal? I thought the falling to the ground on top of each other was a different sport. Am I wrong? Well, they’re up now. I guess that’s how they determine who gets to bounce the ball next. Seems like the opposite of sharing, like we’re taught as kids, if you ask me.”
Halftime comes around, and I talk about the cheer girls who I didn’t know existed in this sport either. Basketball is just full of surprises for me.
“Good job, girls! Now, go find some longer clothes; your butt is hanging out. But I like the glitter on your faces.
“Alright, the ball is thrown up again and they are smacking at it again and the blue has it. Go, number eleven! Look at how well you just caught that ball right out from under the net thing. Is it called a basket? Ohhhh… I get it! Basket plus a ball equals basketball. Wow. And I’m not even blonde, you guys.
“Did you see that?! That guy just plowed him over. Oh, snap, son, you just got toasted!” I chuckle to myself, thinking that this is kinda fun after all.
The second half of the game continues on much like the first, and I do my thing. We, the blue team, win. I pack up my stuff and make my way to where the guys from the team are supposed to be so I can try to get a few interviews.
Elbowing my way through the crowd of people with my lanyard around my neck, I make it into their changing room.
&
nbsp; Penis! I saw a penis. Slapping my hand over my eyes, I hold out my microphone. “Anyone want to say a few things for the school station?” I ask.
I hear a deep chuckle get closer to me, and when I peek from behind my hand, I see someone standing in front of me. Butt naked.
“I’ll answer any question you have for me, darlin’,” the nude man in front of me says with a smirk, wiping sweat from his head and neck.
“Can you put that away first?” I ask, motioning toward his penis as I avert my eyes to the ceiling.
“Nah, we’re good. I got nothing to hide.”
“O-kay…” I say and then look straight into his face. “How did it feel to beat the red team?”
“The red team?” he asks with an amused expression.
“Yeah, um, Maryland, right?”
“Oh, honey, if you aren’t the cutest little airhead I’ve ever seen.”
I point to myself. “I’m not an airhead. I’m just not a jock chaser. Now, limp dick, answer the question or I’ll ask someone else.”
Behind him several other guys are trying to hold in their laughter at our exchange. The guy in front of me though, he lost his sense of humor, turning around and leaving me. Rolling my eyes, I hold up my mic. “Anyone else?”
“Feels damn good to have beaten Maryland today. Looking forward to playing Ohio State next.” I mouth a ‘thank you’ to the guy now in front of me, for both his response and his genuine smile, before I ask another question.
Once I finish there, I pack up and head to the station to turn everything in before going home. I’m ready for a pizza, my jammies, and some Tommy Boy.
* * *
When I wake up the next morning, I have a million messages. Panicking at first, I’m afraid something bad happened. Which, in a sense, it did.
In the hours I was asleep, highlights from yesterday’s game with my commentating were put together and have already gone viral. I’ve been tagged hundreds of times, and my phone is blowing up with notifications, emails, texts and calls.
Oh, this isn’t good…
Clicking on the link and turning up my volume, I watch it and cringe. But the funny thing is, most of the comments are positive. Some call me names, much like the limp dick from the changing room, but as a whole, everyone loved it.
Just then my phone rings. When I see it’s Daniel, I answer it and pray I’m not in trouble.
“Hi, Daniel,” I answer cheerily, despite having just woken up.
“I don’t know how you did that, but you just changed everything,” he starts right in.
“Is that good?” I slowly ask.
“It’s phenomenal! They want you to do more games and have your own spot. They want you to do all sports too, not just basketball. Everyone is talking about you all over campus, and I’m pretty sure the country, this morning.”
“I… I don’t even know what I did,” I confess.
“That’s the thing. Everyone just loves you and your take on the game. It was brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.”
“Thanks?”
“We need to sit down on Monday and talk to the head of the department about it. He wants to set this thing in motion right away.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll see you then.”
“I hope you’re ready, girl. You just became a viral sensation.”
And that was the beginning of everything.
After that, I was sent to cover every sport out there. I didn’t know what I was saying most the time, but everyone loved it.
I graduated that spring and was offered a deal to keep doing exactly what I had done for the past year with my own podcast show. They wanted me to make it all my own. I could be live at games or watch them on TV. I could do health and workout programs. I had freedoms to make the show anything I wanted as long as I kept my knowledge of sports to a minimum and didn’t follow any player for any sport. They wanted it all fresh and humorous and fun.
I signed on the dotted line, moved to NYC, where the studio I was working with was based, and had the most fun job ever.
1
I run. I’m slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter. But I run.
JUNIPER: THREE YEARS LATER
“Heard you yesterday doing that baseball game,” Bianca, my best friend, says through a laugh.
“Shut up,” I reply, fighting back a smile.
I’ve had my own syndicated podcast since I graduated from Penn State University three years ago. It’s been a life-changer, to say the least. I travel some to various games around the country, but mostly I watch them live from the studio where I work in Manhattan.
That’s where I met Bianca. It was like a friendship destined to happen. She writes for Finance Times Magazine, which is housed in the same building where I work. The tall city building accommodates a whole slew of various media outlets.
Bianca and I were both getting coffee at the same time, each of us taking a midday break. We both thought the other was a creeper when we ended up at the same café. She bought the coffee, I bought her a pastry, and we ended up talking for longer than either of our work days allowed.
To top it off, we found out we had another connection through Forever Grey, a shelter for retired racing greyhounds. Bianca had been volunteering at the greyhound rescue for years, the same place where my mom works, taking unadopted dogs to live at her farm long term. Talk about a small world.
And that leads me to my favorite day of the week: Sunday. I get to volunteer at Forever Grey with my best friend and love on dogs all day. She used to come with her husband, Dex, and their little girl, Georgina, every week, but then I joined them and he became our third—or fourth— wheel, I guess. I think he secretly likes it though, giving him special time with their daughter alone.
Bending down to scratch behind the ears of Lucy, a newer greyhound here, I say, “I don’t do baseball as often. And when that kid got nailed in the head with that ball, I couldn’t stop laughing.”
“Savage,” Bianca says, clipping a leash onto another dog to take for a walk.
“I felt so bad after. I sent the kid a gift basket. Doubt he even knows who I am, but I had to say sorry in more ways than through a laugh on-air.”
Standing, my friend just looks at me before bending at the waist and laughing again. “It was just… your reaction was so hilarious. ‘There that little white ball goes into the—oh shit! That kid just got hit in the face! That’s gonna leave a mark.’ As the camera panned to the kid who was crying, not able to open his eye, and his dad holding up the ball that hit his kid as if it were a pot of gold, like you said.” She shakes her head, wiping tears from her eyes. “It was too good.”
“Anyway! Where’s Dex today? He finally realize you’re mine?” I ask, clipping the leash onto Lucy.
“Totally,” she deadpans. “He had to go away for work. He won’t be back until the end of the week.”
“You mean, I get you to myself for a whole week? Let’s have a girls’ night when he gets back. Give him special time with his princess.”
“Yesss… Let’s try that new bar that just opened up a couple months ago, Tipsy Travelers,” she suggests.
“It’s a date!”
We take off toward the park with two dogs each, like we do every week to help exercise these beasts. Waving bye to Suzette, who runs the place, we jog with the dogs and Georgina in her stroller.
Chatting about our weeks and planning our upcoming girls’ night, we’re both lost in conversation as we walk the path through Central Park on this perfect spring day.
Lucy starts to pull the leash in one direction while Brutus keeps walking straight. I tug on her leash to keep her on track, but when she yips, it turns Brutus’s attention too. Both of them begin pulling, and before I know it, they’re dragging me with them toward a smaller path. I’m yelling every command I can think of, but the two of them have their sights set on something and aren’t going to stop until they get to it. At this point, I know I’m just their unwilling victim.
Trying one last time to get them to stop, I close my eyes and let out another yell. “Stop!” But it’s too late; I smack right into a brick wall. Or at least it feels that way. Letting out a grunt as I hit, it’s enough to make the dogs pause.
It’s not until I open my eyes that I realize I’m still vertical. And the wall I hit was a wall of man. Muscles and man. That’s what I’m plastered against right now. Holy muscles.
“Are you alright?” Mr. Muscles asks me with his hands on both of my arms.
Looking up, still slightly confused, I see concerned whiskey-colored eyes looking down at me, shaded from under a hat. “Y-yeah. I’m so sorry,” I stutter out as I try to right myself. “Lucy, Brutus!” I yell at the dogs that are now sitting by our feet with tongues wagging in the wind, not a care in the world.
“It’s alright,” Mr. Muscles says, crouching down to pet the troublemakers. “You sure you’re okay though? You looked like you were preparing for the end,” he says through a grin that I see below the bill of his hat.
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