Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends)

by Sara Ney

  “My house is not your house.”

  “Eh,” he disagrees.

  “It’s not.”

  “Whatever you say.” With a shrug, he releases another ball to the coach fifty feet away. “By the way, you’re almost out of almond milk.” Thwak goes the ball. “And toilet paper in the powder room off the kitchen.”

  “Stay out of my fridge asshole.” I laugh, eyes trained on the staffer who’s about to catch with me, making sure there’s room between Wallace and me. “Or go shopping yourself.”

  “Shopping is your job.”

  What the hell? “Stay home,” I argue, lobbing a ball toward the staffer. His head gives a shake every time Wallace says something outrageous. “Not my home, your home.”

  “But you have a more comfortable couch.”

  “It’s not my fault you bought a man couch.” Meaning: a black leather sofa, shaped like a square and completely uncomfortable.

  We go on and on like this for a solid hour, neither of the assisting coaches joining in on the banter, but amused by it just the same. My catches are on point, my throwing game strong, perspiration dripping from my hair to my forehead.

  I remove my hat and wipe with the back of my hand then reach for the hand towel hanging from my belt loop. It’s not summer, but working out has me sweating as if it were sweltering outside or maybe it’s just nerves.

  Nothing prepares you for being out in front of crowds and it’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, no matter how long I’m a professional.

  I wish it had been you.

  Miranda’s words repeat when I’m under the shower spray in the locker room, head tipped back, hot water sluicing over my entire body, dirt and grime disappearing down the drain at my feet. My eyes open to stare at the tiled ceiling of the shower room then close and I turn my back to wash the shampoo from my hair.

  Women. I will never understand what they want from me especially when they don’t seem to want my money. Buying a card from Miranda is one thing; I get it—she has something I want. Being used because I’m famous is entirely different.

  I shut the water off and reach for the towel on a nearby hook, wipe it down my legs, arms, and torso then wrap it around my waist. Stroll to my locker and root through my duffle for a clean t-shirt.

  Sniff it.

  It might be clean, but it smells like gym bag, so it looks like I’ll be going straight home and not to the grocery store; I cannot go out in public reeking of moist, dirty socks.

  Down on the bench in front of my locker, my cell screen lights up, catching my eye, and I glance down at it while I pull on a pair of mesh shorts.

  Miranda. And the text preview reads: Yes. I think that would…

  Huh?

  Yes she thinks that would what?

  I snatch the phone and tap in the password to unlock it, quickly tapping the messages open.

  Miranda: Yes. I think that would be fun.

  My eyes wander, tracking farther up into the conversation, then damn near bug out of my sockets.

  Apparently, five minutes ago, I texted her and asked her on an actual date.

  And she said yes, in an exchange that went like this:

  Me: This is gonna sound super rando, but I was wondering if I could take you out?

  Miranda: Take me out?

  Me: Yeah like on a date or something.

  Miranda: Or something? Ha ha.

  Me: I’ll be cool, no worries.

  Miranda: Well if you’re going to be cool, how could I say no?

  Me: So you’re saying what exactly?

  Miranda: Yes. I think that would be fun.

  Horrifying words and grammar stick out at me: Super rando? I’ll be cool? Or something?

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  Who talks like that!

  God I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Please God, just do it—I cannot talk to her again or look her in the eyes knowing she thinks I would say stupid shit like this.

  Fucking embarrassing.

  I hold up my phone and thrust it out toward the rest of the locker room, daring someone to take ownership of the texting conversation with Miranda. “Who the fuck went into my phone and…” I swallow, unable to finish the sentence.

  Wallace raises his hand. “Yeah, that was me. I did it while you were in the shower.” His tone is bored.

  “What the actual fuck!”

  “It was just sitting here.” He’s tying his shoes, one leg up on the bench, casually ignoring the anger in my voice.

  “This is password protected!”

  “Yeah, well, find a new password—your old one sucks donkey balls.” He raises his arm and gives Espinoza a high five. “I guessed it on the first try. Boom goes the dynamite!”

  He makes his fist explode.

  Remember all those nice things I said earlier about him having my back? I retract all of it because this feels as if he’s just stuck a knife in and twisted it.

  “How the hell did you know my password?”

  “Are you being serious?” He sighs, exhausted by me. “You’re not supposed to use house numbers as a password, dipshit. Everyone knows that.”

  You’re not?

  They do?

  Shit. “That’s not the point dude. You can’t just break into a person’s phone and…and…” I can’t even talk I’m so pissed.

  “And what? Do you a favor?”

  Yes!

  “You asked out a girl for me—one I had no intention of asking out!”

  “You’re welcome!” He glances over now, standing, brows raised.

  “That was not me thanking you!”

  The entire team looks amused, watching and smirking dressing while Wallace and I bicker like an old married couple.

  “What did she say, Baseman?” someone asks from the other side of the room, but I can’t tell who because they immediately scurry away like a rat.

  My lips clamp shut—I refuse to give them the satisfaction of knowing Buzz Wallace hit a home run with this one.

  “What did she say, bro? Do not make us tackle you to the ground for that phone because God as my witness, we’ll fucking do it.”

  Around the room, they mutter their agreement.

  “This is for your own good, amigo,” Espinoza says, nodding. “What did the chica say?”

  I need them both to stop talking so I can figure out what to fucking do.

  I cannot tell her I was not the one who asked her on a date, not after I lied about Wallace being me and sending him to get that card and fuck what am I going to do?

  “I hate you right now.”

  He is unperturbed. “You say that at least once a week.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  “She said yes, didn’t she—don’t lie to us.”

  I hate him even more now that the entire team is on his side.

  “You have to start dating, bro. You need a good woman in your life.” This from our third baseman, because suddenly everyone is a goddamn expert on what I need.

  “Thanks, but if I wanted to date someone, it wouldn’t be difficult to find someone.”

  A few shakes of their heads. “If you’re talking about groupies, get your head out of your ass. He means someone you’d bring home to your mama.” Darren Dafke isn’t wrong, but I’m not admitting that, either.

  “You can’t ignore her.” Wallace begins his walk past me. “You’re gonna have to text her back sooner or later.”

  “I’m telling the guard gate you’re not allowed in anymore” is my only response.

  “But not until after tomorrow morning—I’m coming for breakfast.”

  “No you’re not!” I tell his back.

  He laughs. “Get almond milk!”

  10

  Miranda

  He hasn’t texted me back since I said yes.

  Yes. I think that would be fun.

  It’s been hours.

  I check my phone millions of times (definitely not exaggerating the n
umber) and message Claire and Emily a few hundred times each. Both of them tell me to chill out and relax: he asked me out—why would he change his mind?

  Because. This is Noah we’re talking about. He is big and adorable, but painfully shy, as I’m slowly discovering. A man of few words and many thoughts who hides behind the cover of his phone, who was so afraid to meet me he sent his friend instead.

  He hasn’t admitted that to me officially, but I suspect that’s the case.

  I wear a path across the carpet from my spot on the couch to the place in the kitchen where I set my phone, determined to leave it alone, but failing on a colossal scale. Why am I bothering to even try?

  One hour turned into two.

  Two hours turned into five.

  Why hasn’t he messaged me back yet?

  Has he changed his mind?

  I preoccupy myself by binging a series about daters who can’t see each other’s faces—they’re hidden behind walls and it reminds me of Noah hiding behind his phone. And his friend. Which only makes me think of him again and has me getting off my ass to grab my cell.

  You are an independent, grown-ass woman, Miranda Pressinger. Call him.

  Why am I so nervous?

  Because you’re afraid of being rejected.

  But he’s the one who asked me on a date!

  Right, but he could have decided that was a terrible idea and now his plan is to ghost you.

  “Why are you talking to yourself? Get a grip!”

  I inhale, heart racing a mile a minute as I suck it up and search for his number. It’s one of the last ones I dialed and we all know how that conversation ended.

  The call connects. The phone rings.

  Then…

  “Hello?” I shiver at his greeting, his voice so deep it has me like woah.

  “Hey Noah.”

  He pauses before saying, “Hey Miranda. I was…going to…I was just about to text you back.”

  This has me chuckling softly, the liar. “No fibbing.”

  “Okay. I wasn’t just about to text you, but I was going to text you back, I swear.”

  “Alright.” I let the silence sit, not wanting to fill it with idle chatter or babble. I want him to say what he has to say, even if I have to wait all night.

  Admit you changed your mind.

  It would suck, but at least I’ll know.

  “I wanted to figure out a few nights for me that would work to go out before throwing anything out there. My schedule is pretty hectic right now, so I had to look at my calendar first.”

  At least he didn’t say he was busy.

  Of all the excuses in the world, “I’ve been busy” is the laziest alibi, one that never fails to rub me the wrong way on both ends.

  “And did you find a few days that work?”

  “Are you okay going out during the week? I work most weekends.”

  Inquisitiveness demands that I ask what he does for a living, but then we wouldn’t have that to discuss on this date we’re going on.

  “I could do a weekday, sure.”

  “How about…Thursday? Or Tuesday of next week?”

  I am literally free every day of the week, but pretend to consider it. “How about Tuesday? I have some things to get done in the office space I just rented.” Plus, I need time to plan my outfit. “What time are you picking me up?”

  There’s a long pause. “You want me to pick you up?”

  Uh. Yes? “You said you weren’t a criminal and I assume that means you’re not a murderer. Call me old-fashioned, but…I’d love for you to pick me up.” So it’s official.

  “Then it sounds like I’m picking you up.”

  “Six thirty? Any later and I will die of hunger.”

  “How about six? It will take us time to get downtown.”

  “Ohhh downtown. Oo la la!”

  “Or not? We can stay local.”

  Hell no! If I get to wear a dress and go somewhere in the city, I am not passing up the opportunity. “Surprise me, okay? I’ll be ready at six. I’ll text you the address next week.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Hey Noah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s a date.”

  11

  Noah

  I feel sick.

  Literally ill as I slowly crawl my way down the street, the navigation system in my car directing me to the address I punched in before leaving my house.

  Miranda’s place is twenty minutes from mine, not in the suburbs, but not in the city. A little offshoot near the mall tourists flock to, a cute apartment complex situated in an older part of town that probably used to be hip and trendy.

  It’s not anymore, but still has some charm.

  “Destination is on your left,” the guide instructs and I slow further, neck craning, eyes scanning the narrow street for a parking spot. Pull my car to the curb behind a hybrid.

  I cut the engine of my truck and glance in the rearview mirror at my reflection. Fresh haircut, no ball cap. No bruises on my face, for once. Glance around the interior of my vehicle, making sure the leather is clean, the garbage is gone, and it doesn’t smell like a locker room from the bags I normally keep in the back seat.

  Those are gone.

  Tonight is date night.

  Fuck that sounds weird to say and I keep thinking it all the way to Miranda’s front door.

  We won our game this past weekend, our first scrimmage of what hopes to be a successful season, so I plan to celebrate tonight with alcohol. Liquid courage, celebration—same thing. I’m going to need it if I want to make it through the night without making a horse’s ass out of myself.

  The door opens and I’m taken aback at how pretty she looks.

  I remember what she looked like that night at Rent, but barely. The image of her from then versus the image standing in front of me now does not compute.

  No wonder Wallace was hitting on her. Miranda is—

  I don’t want to say adorable. She’s pretty in a wholesome way, not a bombshell way, and that’s probably a horrible way of describing it too and I’d never say that shit out loud because she’d probably be insulted.

  Girls are funny like that.

  Pretty. Gorgeous.

  Pretty gorgeous.

  “Hi.” Her hand holds the door open, her eyes running up and down the length of me, checking out my appearance—the same way I’m doing to her.

  It’s a strange moment. A bit uncomfortable having her scrutinize me this way and I remember that this is customary dating behavior and not a critique. She has only met me twice, it’s normal for her to give me a once over.

  She’s taking a mental picture of you in her mind, not adding up everything about you she doesn’t like.

  Or maybe she is?

  The soft look in her eyes tells me if that is my guess, I’m wrong.

  “Is it cold out?” she asks, pulling the door open a bit farther. so I can walk across the threshold. I glance around, noticing all the little things. The stark white walls, white woodwork, white doors and trim. Couch? White.

  Everything that’s nailed, screwed, or buckled down is white. Everything else is pops of color, like the pillows on the sofa and the weathered wood. The hutch in the kitchen area? Grayed wood, a glaring contrast to its sterile backdrop.

  I see what she’s got going on here and as far as apartments go, it’s very simple, but stylish. I like it.

  My hands get stuffed into the pockets of my pressed slacks and I shrug my shoulders, willing them not to slouch. “It’s not that bad, but maybe bring a jacket anyway. For later.”

  She nods. I watch her walk away—presumably toward her bedroom—legs looking smooth, tan and freshly shaved, if I were a betting man.

  Her hair hangs down her back, stick straight, and I’ve always been a sucker for brunettes, though I’ve never actually dated one.

  The dress she’s wearing is short, but so is she, showing off her stems and ass nicely. It’s one of those wrap things that crisscrosses in front, givi
ng me a decent shot of tits without being tacky or vulgar.

  Conservative yet sexy.

  Classy but young.

  Miranda is gone for a hot minute, returning from the back room with a denim jacket thrown over her arm, wedge shoes a nude color I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t looked all the way down.

  Hot pink toenails.

  Man is she good-lookin’.

  “Ready?” She’s chipper and seems excited, her smiling lips a glossy shade of light pink, flipping the light switches off as I stand by the door, gaping like a fool.

  I step into the hall while she closes the door, listening for the lock to click into place, the door armed with one of those high-tech locks that doesn’t need a key.

  I let her lead, all the way down to the street, the quick elevator ride silent, as I’m dreading the car ride will be, too.

  Miranda looks left. Looks right.

  “I’m the black truck over here.”

  She follows and I open the passenger door, doing my best not to stare as she slides her way in, already buckling the seatbelt when I shut her in.

  I climb in and start the engine.

  “This is nice,” she says politely. “I feel so much safer in bigger vehicles.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I clear my throat. Rack my brain. “Um.”

  Um?

  Good one Einstein.

  I’m going to kill Wallace. Literally wrap my fingers around his beefy neck and—

  “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

  Okay fine. Maybe not wring his neck exactly.

  I’m not sure if I’m lying or not when I say, “I have too,” but I can’t bloody say I’ve been nervous as hell. What guy wants to admit that shit? Insecurity has been the driving force all week. Thank God I had that game Saturday to take my mind off of it, the nerves from that nowhere near as bad as the nerves pooling in the pit of my stomach now.

  And she’s such a tiny little thing.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, watching the landscape as we enter the freeway and I can see her image in the window, recently washed and highly reflective.

  “Mason’s.”

  Miranda turns to face me, eyes wide. “Mason’s?” She has a great poker face; the restaurant is notoriously impossible to get a reservation at. All it took was my assistant calling and we had a table for two in under five. “I’ve never been there.”