The F#ck It List: The Complete Story

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  Fucked, I believe, is the legal term to describe my current situation. Coach is going to murder me in my sleep. He’ll chop me up into a million pieces and feed me to his pigs.

  “Street racing.”

  Shank interrupts my thoughts, which rapidly shoot from sexy redhead to the death of my career quicker than I could blink. “Say what?”

  “They nailed me for street racing. I blew a tire and they caught me. My boys got away. Not too bad, though. We’ve all taken the hit. Goes with the territory.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “2013 GT-R. Cherry red and dead sexy. She’s too good to slum it in the impound, but what are you gonna do?”

  “Not street race?” I flash a grin. Shank scowls at me for a minute and I’m back to fearing he’ll demonstrate where he got his nickname, but he slaps me on the back and laughs.

  “I like you. What’s your name?”

  “Jamie.” I always use my buddy’s name, though he may not know that. I mean, I want the girls that come along with being Kemper Fife without the scandal that comes along with girls selling their stories. So I go with the look-alike-named-Jamie bit. That’s what best friends are for, right?

  “So what are you in here for, Jamie?”

  “Fight.”

  “You must have fucked up the other guy. You don’t have a scratch on you!”

  “Used a bat.” I flash another smile and a wink. Shank eyes me warily, but laughs good naturedly and goes on about racing and some other business I don’t particularly care about. Instead, I’m trying to remember if I got the redhead’s number.

  If I live to see another day, I’d like to give her a call. Just maybe not as many Fireball shots next time. I can’t end up back in here or I’ll really be shot dead in the locker room.

  Hey, if Lamar Odom can be arrested fifty-seven times and still make it out okay, why can’t the second baseman for the Royals?

  “Fife.” A burly police officer comes up to the holding cell, keys in hand. “You made bail.”

  Shank stops mid-sentence and stares at me. “Fife? I thought you said you weren’t—“

  “No relation.” I stand up quickly and head for the bars, eager to get out of here, praying it’s my aunt and not Coach. I hate calling my aunt to bail me out, but it’s better than Coach. Anyone is better than Coach.

  If it’s my aunt, she’ll bring my clothes and I can throw on a hoodie and everyone will be none the wiser that I was ever here. She’ll take me to breakfast, slap me on the wrist a little, and take me home to sleep off this massive hangover building. If it’s my aunt, I’m golden. I can already picture my bed, all comfy and waiting for me back home.

  But it’s not my aunt signing paperwork and scowling. Of course, it’s fucking Coach Holstead, looking madder than that time the Yankees came from behind to win with three unearned runs.

  The last time my aunt bailed me out, she swore she wouldn’t do it again. But she’s my aunt. Aunts are supposed to always be there for you. That old bat sold me out.

  I rally the brightest smile I can. “Hey Coach.”

  He doesn’t look at me, just signs the paperwork and takes my things from the discharge officer.

  “Come here often?”

  He cuts me a look, his face drawn up in a frown. He’s deadly when he’s silent. I swallow down the lump in my throat and keep a bright smile on my face, trying to sneak a glance outside. No paps. Maybe I’ll get lucky.

  I follow him to the door, but he stops there and turns around, fury in his eyes. “Listen good, Kemper.” His voice is like venom. I swallow it down and lean forward. “This is the last time. You got me? Absolute last time I ever see you in here. Here is how you prove to me it’s the last time. No more flings. No more parties. No more absolutely anything. You live for two things, and two things only: practice and games. You will eat, breathe, and sleep baseball. There is no more room in your life for anything else. If you aren’t sleeping, eating, or shitting, your ass is on the field. Give me your word.”

  Good-bye, redhead. As much as I would have loved to bone you good, I’ve got a contract worth more than your fake tits and a real shot at a championship ring. And a coach who will literally end it all. “I swear on my life, Coach.”

  “No more one night stands.”

  “Done.”

  “No more parties.”

  “Had my last.”

  “No more running around, butt-ass naked on the goddamn lakefront.”

  “It’s struck from my bucket list.”

  “I’m not fucking around, Fife. I own you. You got me?”

  I give him my most serious look and hold out my hand. “I’m done, Coach. My ass is owned by the Kansas City Royals and no one else.”

  Coach takes my hand and grips it firmly. “You’re out of chances.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As soon as we open the doors, the world explodes in light and color. The press were waiting for this, probably tipped off before I’d even been booked. I can barely walk without being blinded. Coach grabs my shoulder and hauls me through them, grumbling and scowling and telling everyone exactly where they can ram their cameras.

  Coach Holstead is kind of a badass. I admire him, truly. Tonight, this morning, whatever, though, I’m terrified of him. If these maggots know what’s good for them, they’ll get the fuck out of the way.

  He throws me in his car and slams the door. I cover my face with my hands, knowing the whole while that it’s fruitless because they’ve already got me red-handed, and silently wish I was anywhere but here.

  Real talk: no piece of ass or bottle of whiskey is worth this shit. If I was a normal guy, this would be a non-issue. No one would give a fuck about what I was doing or where I was going or who I was doing it with.

  The second the buzz wore off and the headache settled in, I knew I was fucked. Ready for a secret? Every sports star knows how easily it is to lose everything. How can we not? It’s all over the news. Some are just harder learns than others. Some let the spotlight blind them. Usually football and basketball stars.

  You don’t tend to hear about baseball or hockey or soccer players fucking up as bad. Maybe because our contracts aren’t as pricey, I don’t know. But we listen and we learn. They pound this shit into our heads daily.

  “Fuck up and kiss the money and the fame goodbye.”

  I happen to really fucking like the money and the fame. I like having random people tell me they watched the game and thought I was a badass. If I weren’t slowly dying and imagining my last days at Kauffman, I would have signed Shank’s big, bald head and kissed it. I don’t live under a bridge. I know how lucky I am. I knew it the first day I paid off my mom’s mortgage.

  Coach Holstead is silent during the drive. He flicks the radio over to a local news channel, and the anchors are already talking about my arrest.

  “This shit is going to be everywhere by the time you sleep this one off.” He doesn’t sound as pissed as he should, which is worrisome. “We’ve gotta hold a press conference tomorrow. I will draft your statement personally, son, and I expect you to read it to the letter. No answering questions, no adding any remarks.”

  My stomach drops and my mouth waters with that I’m-going-to-puke feeling attached. Never in my career have I ever had to give a press conference, but I’ve seen plenty. There is little worse than walking into a room full of cameras, having to swallow your pride, and apologize for having a good time.

  “Coach—“

  “Shut the fuck up, Fife. You’re going to go home, sleep, shower, shave, and get dressed in your nicest suit. Then, you’re going to apologize to the whole goddamn city for being a royal fuck-up. Then, you’re going to run laps until you’re dead.”

  “Royal fuck-up. That’s funny. I see what you did there.”

  “So help me, I will end you now.”

  “Sorry, Coach.” I brace my head against the window and watch KC fly by. I love this city almost as much as I love baseball. I’d do almost anything for it. But I have
my pride, like I said, and this…it’s going to hurt.

  My sleep is restless and my showers scalds my body. I try to scrub off my failures from the night before, and the many other nights before, but they seem to stick to me like black tar. I’m a sucker for pretty faces and things that have the word “PROOF” in their description. There’s a lot of stress that goes with playing for a high-profile team, things I never expected when I signed on with them, and I de-stress by losing my mind. It’s fun.

  I like to have fun.

  Except this time I got caught. I don’t like getting caught. I steal bases for a living and have a 98% success rate. I get paid to not get caught.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, towel hanging off my hips. I want to not give a shit. In this moment, I wish I was just some normal guy who works a normal job and can do whatever he wants without having people watch him, without having to go in front of cameras that stalk his every move, and apologize for having fun.

  It’s bullshit. No one else has to answer for his actions, not like this. Not publically. Just because I play in front of crowds doesn’t mean I should have to live in front of them. For them.

  I hurl a bar of soap at the bathroom wall and stalk off to get dressed. I also hate suits. I’m more comfortable in my uniform than in a suit. I get paid to get dirty for a living. Suits aren’t my thing. So, of course, I have a whole goddamn closet of them.

  There are parts to this gig I wish I could change.

  My phone lights up. Jamie. I shake off the melancholy to answer it, because, let’s face it, I’m acting like a little bitch. And Kemper Fife is not a little bitch. Plus, I do owe Jamie a good story after I ditched him yesterday.

  “Jamesy!” I answer the phone, strutting around my room naked. Gotta act like this is water off my back. Fake it til you make it.

  “You’re a dumbass.” Jamie says, but he’s laughing, sort of. “All over the news, man. Sweet jumpsuit. What happened to your clothes?”

  “Ah, they were used as kindling.”

  “Come again?”

  “Remember that redhead from last night?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “We made a bonfire. Fireball told me it would be a great fucking idea to use my clothes.”

  There’s a bit of silence on the phone. “Someone should really kick Fireball’s ass.”

  “I concur.”

  “Please tell me you at least got laid for all this trouble.”

  I look down at my dick and send it a mental apology. It deserves one more than the whole damn city. “You know how I do.”

  Like I’m going to tell my best friend that, after all that shit, I didn’t even get the pussy I was gunning for. It hits me that if I’d just stayed with the first two girls, I could have had a threesome and avoided this entire fucking debacle.

  It’s all that redhead’s fault. Every last bit of it. If I ever see her again, I’m going to make a point not to buy her any shots. Or at least not of Fireball. All their fault. Mostly.

  “How pissed was Coach?”

  “Well, I’m still alive. Take that as you will.” I pull out a couple ties to compare.

  “Pretty impressive, actually. I thought you’d be missing a limb or two.” Me too, honestly.

  “Nah. He needs my sweet batting average, dude. He wouldn’t maim me.” I’m going with pink. It’ll soften me. Remind them of all the charitable games I play for breast cancer awareness. Of all my faults, I do love women.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Maybe one day you can hit like the big boys and see how it feels.” He could too, if he’d ever take any of my tips.

  “I’m going to kick your ass at batting practice.” No, he won’t. But the team might. This isn’t good for any of us.

  I stare at the suit and sigh. “How bad is it?”

  “Pretty bad. I mean, not OJ bad, but you walking out in a jumpsuit is not exactly a good thing.”

  “Shit.” I’ll have to draft another apology to the guys.

  “Do you want me to be there at the press conference?”

  I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “Nah. I’m a big boy. I’ll go make nice with everyone and then kick your ass around the field.”

  Truth be told, there is nothing more I’d want than my boy at my side, but I did the crime alone and I have to face the music alone. We hang up and I consider knocking back a couple shots of Jack for courage, but Coach really would kill me dead. Apparently, apologies only count if you’re sober.

  Paparazzi are everywhere from the moment I park my car. I keep my shades on and ignore all of them. It would only take one wrong comment to destroy what’s left of my reputation now. Coach is waiting for me inside. He looks less pissed today, but so does a viper right before you step on it. Take that as you will.

  “You better make this believable,” he hisses in my ear before stepping out to address all the photogs snapping away.

  He talks for a minute about all the good the team does for the city, our volunteer work and donations, how we are here to serve the city. How we’re nothing without the fans. Guilt starts to poke at me. He’s right. I wouldn’t have one red cent to my name without this city. These people who’ve supported me, cheered for me, bought my merch.

  Coach steps aside and all but shoves me over to the table. The lights are blinding and disorienting, so it takes me a minute to get my shit straight. I know I’m not supposed to deviate from the little sheet of paper Coach slipped me, but I also know I need to make this one come from my heart if I have any hope of redemption.

  I crumple the paper, ignoring the hissed intake of Coach’s breath to the side.

  “I messed up.” I start. Deep breath. “I took advantage of this city and the kindness it has always shown me. I’m proud to be a Royal, proud to be in Kansas City, and I’m sorry I let you down. I respect this game and this city more than words can express. If you’ll allow me a second chance, I’m going to do you proud. You deserve my best.”

  Applause starts, slow at first, but then turns enthusiastic. I bow my head and offer a shy smile and the audience eats it up. I glance over at Coach as I walk off. He still looks upset, but proud. Like a dad watching his son own up to his mistakes. I don’t deserve everything he’s done for me, but I want to earn his respect.

  It hits me as I walk out, listening to the crowd cheer me on. It won’t be easy, walking the narrow line Coach set, but it’s the right thing to do.

  2

  Everyone’s giving me shit during pre-game warm-ups, but I let it roll off my back. I said sorry and they accepted. We’re family, and family means it’s never too soon to bust each other’s balls. So Carlos pretended to cry and imitate my press conference, and Doug slow claps every time I walk past him, but it’s fine. Really.

  What’s really stressing me out is my knee. I tweaked it earlier this week at practice, but right now it feels like someone is jabbing a hot rod under my kneecap. I don’t have time for injuries, but a fucked up knee is not good. I can’t afford to sit out any games, either.

  First off, Gregerson is not as good as me. He likes to think he’s a good infielder, but that dude has no business in the dirt. He’s an outfielder for life, no matter what Coach tries to pump him full of. Giving up my spot to him isn’t good for the team. We have a championship to defend.

  Second, I don’t need to be on all the cable sports outlets with a heartfelt apology and then be benched for the next few weeks, injury or no. I need to play. I need to prove myself.

  So, I have a little conversation with my knee while stretching, telling it to mind its fucking business and work properly. Mind over matter, right? It’s not severe enough to report, yet, but I have to hold in a few winces when I pivot. No one needs to know.

  I’m probably still just tired from my stint last night. Maybe I pulled something while running around the lake butt-ass naked. Maybe it’s even psychological, making myself hurt for all the bad things I’ve done. I don’t want to delve into that right now, I want to have a batting practi
ce.

  I grab my lucky bat and hit a few easy balls, trying to work on a stance that won’t put too much pressure on my knee. It’s so hard to change my go-to, but I can adapt. I don’t need to make this worse. I stretch with the bat behind my back and squint my eyes, surveying the field, channeling my inner badass.

  I’m Kemper Fucking Fife. I can do this. I can do this.

  “Ice cream?” A girlish voice asks. There’s a hint of a laugh behind her words that makes me feel transparent. Like she knows what I’m trying to do and doesn’t even care that my entire career is just one ACL injury away from over.

  I shouldn’t turn around. I shouldn’t stop focusing on fixing this. I don’t even want ice cream. But taking this girl up on her offer is a good excuse to give my leg a rest.

  And, maybe if I’m being totally honest, I want to see the face that goes with that knowing voice. Look, my body and soul may be owned by Coach’s hard-line ultimatum, but I’m a sucker for a pretty face. I can look if I don’t touch, right? And she sounds so sweet.

  She’s even prettier, and younger, than I thought she’d be. Long blonde hair, green eyes, and a tiny, perky body that I’d love to move on top of. Her shirt says “The Sweet Spot.” It’s probably the name of the ice cream kiosk, but it sure seems to promise more when she’s wearing those cutoffs and her legs go on for miles. I have a brief flash of how they’d feel wrapped around me.

  Her nametag says “Ally H” and I know that name will dance through my fantasies tonight. Because that’s all I’m allowed anymore—late night fantasies.

  “Does that mean a yes?” She flashes a gorgeous smile and I have to bite my tongue and remind myself she’s off limits. Everyone is off limits. Coach has been keeping a close eye on me during warm-ups and he’s goddamn everywhere.

  “Got any chocolate?” I ask, trying to keep my eyes trained on the empty seats behind her and not on those chocolate brown eyes. Or those perfectly tanned legs.

  “I’ve got just about everything you could want.” Was that a wink? I just bet she does have everything, only I can’t taste what I really want. “Chocolate, vanilla, pistachio. I come very prepared.”