“Who is this again?” Wren speaks my mind. She and I have never cared much for sports, and the first time we’d ever been to a ball game was when she and Lorenzo first started dating. He was a huge Yankees fan and dragged her to every home game for an entire season one year. I tagged along once. To be nice. But Enzo definitely gets his baseball-loving genes from Lorenzo’s side of the family.
“Alessio Amato,” Enzo says, slight impatience in his tone. “Everybody calls him Ace.”
“Are you speaking English?” I tease.
“Sorry, buddy, I haven’t heard of him,” Wren says, amused twinkle in her eye. “What team is he on?”
“He used to play for the Baltimore Firebirds,” Enzo says, his little body fidgeting. “He retired last year.”
Wren leans closer to Enzo, peeking outside of our booth and trying to catch a good look at him.
“Definitely never seen him before,” she says. “Think I’d remember a face like that.”
In the seconds before I think about stealing a look myself, a waitress squeezes through some tables, a tray of drinks in her hand, and my attention is completely intercepted by the Irish cocktail with my name on it.
“Can I go get his autograph, Mom?” Enzo asks, eyes squinted and pleading. “Please, please, please?”
“What’s he going to sign? Your arm?” she asks, slipping the straw of her ice water between her thumb and forefinger.
Enzo scans the table, “Aunt Aidy, do you have any paper in your purse?”
I pull out my bag and rifle through it. “Nothing but a stack of business cards, buddy. Sorry.”
“Are they blank on the back?” he asks.
I pull one out and flip it over. “Yep.”
“Can I have a pen, too?” he asks.
Wren laughs.
“Sure thing.” I hand them over and he slides out of the booth, darting across the busy pub.
My sister keeps a hawk-like eye on her son as he scampers away, and I focus on the deliciousness before me, sucking in sip after sip until I feel my nerves evaporating into thin air by the second.
“Uh oh.” Wren’s face falls, and I recognize her grief-stricken look. Twisting my head and peeking out from our booth, I see the front door slam shut and hear the jingle of the bells on the door, and then my gaze falls to a sobbing, empty-handed Enzo. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him close. “What happened, buddy?”
“He . . . he said,” Enzo sobs. “He said he doesn’t sign autographs anymore. He said to check eBay. Mom, what’s eBay?”
My jaw hangs as Wren consoles her son, and I waste little time yanking my phone out of my purse.
“Enzo, what’d you say his name was again?” I ask, mind feverish and fingers twitching as I pull up Google.
“Ales . . . Alessio . . .” he heaves, shoulders rising and falling with each strained breath. The kid’s going to hyperventilate if he doesn’t calm down. “Ace . . . Amato.”
I tap his name into the search engine and click on “images.”
There are tons of them, only the man in these photos is clean-shaven. Devilishly attractive. There’s no beard, but there’s no doubt in my mind.
It’s him.
The Lexington Avenue Asshole.
I recognize that piercing stare and my hands begin to shake.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath.
Nobody makes my nephew cry, especially not some retired, past-his-prime baseball player.
“He sounds like a jerk, sweetie,” Wren says. “You don’t want an autograph from someone like that anyway.”
Enzo sniffs, nodding, and buries his face into Wren’s shoulder.
That fucking asshole.
He better hope we never cross paths again.
Chapter 4
Ace
The pizza box slides across my island, coming to a quick stop in the dead center. Hunched over this poor excuse for a dinner like some lion devouring a gazelle, I inhale slice after slice.
It’s been one of those days.
One of those so-much-shit-going-on-I-forgot-to-eat kind of days, and I fully expect to devour every last slice of this disgustingly large corned beef and cabbage pizza.
Eating standing up is one of the best things about living alone. The table never gets dirty and never needs to be set. No one’s fussing at me to eat a proper meal.
I grab a bottle of dark lager from the fridge and twist the cap, watching the evaporation spray from the top and disappear into thin air before taking a swig. The bottle leaves my lips with a satisfying pop as the lager swishes to the bottom.
Irish beer and pizza.
Never gets old.
When I’m well past the point of full and my stomach is threatening to burst, I shove the box in the trash and head to my room. Slipping my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, I empty the contents on my dresser before unzipping my fly.
A handful of coins go rolling before spinning and coming to a stop between a pack of gum and a wadded-up receipt, and a thin, mint-green business card rests in the middle of all that. Squinting, I examine the card, trying to remember where it came from.
And then it hits me.
That gap-toothed, freckle-faced kid at the pizza pub.
He wanted my autograph.
I don’t care how cute those little snot-noses are, I have a strict no-autograph policy, and I have since the day I retired. If I’d made an exception for him, I’d have had to make one for the group of assholes sitting at the bar, harassing me as I waited for my carryout pizza. I’d just finished telling them “no” and listening to their jeers and heckles about how pathetic and washed up I am when the kid walked up and handed me a pen and a business card.
I’m in no condition to be dealing with the general public, and maybe I should’ve ordered delivery, but being holed up in this apartment day in and day out makes a man crave a brisk, mind-clearing walk.
The whole concept of autographs is ridiculous to me anyway. Who the fuck cares about an illegible signature? It’ll probably get stuffed in the bottom of some teenage boy’s smelly sock drawer anyway, or if the thing is lucky, it might get framed and hung on the wall of some memorabilia collector’s basement in Indiana after he buys it from the kid at a yard sale.
I saw one of mine fetch over five grand once, when I was at the height of my career. It disgusted me. These people paying this kind of money for a scrap of paper? I’ll never understand it. That money should go to feeding the homeless, mosquito nets in Africa, no-kill animal shelters.
Not my goddamned signature.
Come the fuck on.
I’m just another asshole who happens to know how to throw a ball.
Or at least, I used to.
I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror, my eyes sagging and tired, and run my hand down the sides of my jaw. My beard needs trimming, but making a trek to the barber’s tomorrow holds zero appeal to me.
I need to get out of the city, and I could use a day or two to clear my head. Fishing and fresh air might help. Someplace without honking cars and Wi-Fi and constant reminders of the way things were before everything came crashing down sounds about perfect right now.
The business card is sandwiched between a couple of quarters and I reach for it, bringing it close for inspection.
Aidy Kincaid, Professional Makeup Artist and Owner of Glam2Go
Chuffing, I set it aside. Sounds like the name of an American Girl doll. Why some kid would be walking around with something like that is beyond me. Pretty sure he grabbed that card from his mom’s purse.
With the card still in my hand, I make my way to the living room, plopping down in my oversized leather chair and switching the TV on. Flicking the card between my fingers, I think about the kid.
His messy brown mop reminded me of when I was about his age, and the smattering of freckles across his nose reminded me of how freckled my brothers and I used to get playing ball all summer long as kids. The boy spoke really fast and sort of bounced arou
nd in place, like he couldn’t sit still, and his face was lit like a firecracker as he tried to give me his pen.
I flip the card back and forth, mint side to white side.
For the rest of his life, that kid’s going to remember walking up to me and leaving feeling like a pile of shit, and I don’t know if I can have that on my conscience. Grown men? Yeah. Especially the entitled assholes, which most of them seem to be these days. They walk up to you and demand an autograph. Or a selfie. Those are the ones that really get me. I don’t take fucking selfies, and I sure as fuck don’t take them with other grown ass men.
A commercial plays across the TV, and I realize I’m not even sure what I’m watching. I’m just sitting here, phased out, mind wandering and lost in space. Groaning, I rise from the chair and make my way back to the kitchen to grab another beer.
My right shoulder aches when I pull the handle of the fridge door. It’s been over a year since a car accident broke it in five places. The doctors were able to rebuild it, but the pain has never really gone away and my range of motion has failed to return despite months upon months of intensely excruciating physical therapy. Sometimes I wonder if the pain isn’t there at all. Like it’s phantom and I’m imagining it. Because the real pain? That’s what I feel when I think about the career I lost at thirty-two.
And the mistakes I made.
A pitcher needs a good strong pitching arm.
One that can hurl fastballs and curveballs with accuracy and precision.
And you can’t do that if your pitching shoulder is permanently fucked.
I uncap my beer and stare ahead at the side of the fridge where a magnetic memo pad rests naked as the day it was hung there by a woman who’ll never set foot in my place again.
Reaching for a pen from a nearby tin cup, I tear off a sheet of memo paper and press the tip against it. When I’m finished a mere second later, the name “Ace” is scrawled across this small, rectangular sheet of paper. I garnered that nickname back in the day, when I first started in the pros. As a rookie, some of the older guys thought it was funny to tease me and call me “Alice” instead of Alessio, so I lied and told them I went by “Ace” since I’d been a starting pitcher pretty much my entire life. Lucky for me, it didn’t take long to earn their respect. Striking all their asses out during our first practice was one of the highlights of my career.
I was only ever “Ace” after that. To my team. To my coach. To the media and the rest of the world.
Grabbing my phone, I sit Aidy’s business card flat on the kitchen island and enter her number before firing off a text.
Me: SORRY ABOUT EARLIER. I’D LIKE TO SEND THE KID AN AUTOGRAPH. WHAT’S YOUR ADDRESS?
A few seconds pass, and I notice a little bubble pop up, like she’s responding. And then it goes away. It comes back again a minute later, lingering, bouncing, taunting. And then it goes away completely.
I take a swig of my beer before realizing I have no reason to sit here and wait for some random woman to respond to my rare and generous offer. If she doesn’t want it, it’s on her.
Making my way back to my chair, I rest my phone on the coffee table and kick back.
Two minutes go by, rendering my phone silent.
And then it buzzes.
Glancing at the screen, I see that Ms. Aidy Kincaid has finally responded.
Aidy: FUCK OFF, ASSHOLE.
Sorry, kid.
Really.
I am.
I crumple the autograph and toss it aside.
Chapter 5
Aidy
“Look. Look at this.” I shove my phone at my sister the moment she finishes tucking Enzo into bed. The kid was so upset earlier, he shoved his face full of pizza and got so full he almost passed out from exhausted gluttony in the cab on the ride home.
Pulling the door closed, she takes my phone and squints at the bright screen in the dark hallway.
“What am I looking at?” she asks.
“That asshole baseball guy,” I say. “He must’ve gotten my number from the back of that business card I gave Enzo. Can you believe he wants to mail him an autograph now?”
“That’s . . . actually kind of nice of him.” One side of her mouth pulls up, and she folds her arms, peering at my phone screen again. “And look at that. You told him to fuck off.”
Pressing my phone against my chest, I frown. “No, he’s not nice, Wren. He’s a jerk.”
“Maybe he was having a bad day? People are allowed to have those, you know.”
“He made Enzo cry.”
Wren smirks. “Come on. I love my son, but we both know he cries at the drop of a hat. Always has. Just like Mom.”
Brows furrowed, I stand shoulder to shoulder with my sister. “What am I supposed to do now? I can’t be like, ‘Oh, sorry. I changed my mind. Please don’t fuck off. You can mail him an autograph now.’”
Wren hooks her hand around my elbow and leads me to the living room. “Don’t sweat it. He won’t even remember this by tomorrow. He’s too excited about that field trip.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” I exhale just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. With my guard up, I fully expect it to be the bearded wonder again, only instead it’s my best friend, Topaz, asking me to call her as soon as possible. “All right. I’m going to my room. Topaz wants me to call her.”
“She’s back from Aruba already?”
“I guess?” Shuffling to my room, I close the door and change into pajamas. Phone calls with Topaz are never quick, so I at least want to be comfortable. Crawling into bed, I pull the covers up to my waist and sink back before pulling up her contact information and pressing the green button.
“Oh my god, Aidy?” she answers. “Oh my god, oh my god.”
“What?” I laugh. “You’re freaking me out here. What is it?”
“You’re never going to believe this,” she says, her words coming out in a rushed sigh. “There’s a freaking tropical storm down here. All flights are grounded until further notice. I’m stuck here.”
Lightly chuckling, I say, “Topaz, there are worse places you could be stranded than a tropical island.”
“Right. You’re absolutely right. What was I thinking? Let me just hang up with you and grab my towel. I’d love nothing more than to enjoy a Mai Tai while being pelted by hundred mile-per-hour rain.”
“Hang out in your hotel,” I say. “Order some room service and watch some movies. Just relax until the storm passes. That’s all I meant.”
Topaz groans. “I’m booked to do makeup in the morning. Can you cover me?”
“Of course. Where?”
“High Park Center,” she says. “Studio 4B. Ask for Michelle, she’s in charge of production. She’ll point you to hair and makeup.”
“What show is this for?” I don’t want to seem like a clueless buffoon when I show up tomorrow.
“It’s a morning sports show for the ASPN channel. It’s called Smack Talk and it’s exactly what it sounds like: some guys sitting around showing highlight reels from last night’s games, giving each other shit. So anyway, just basic camera-ready makeup. And be there by seven.”
“Ah, easy enough.”
“Yeah, they’re a riot. You’ll love working with them,” Topaz says. “Anyway, I should probably get off the phone. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow . . .”
“Topaz,” I say. “The storm will pass. I promise. You’ll be home before you know it. Call me when you’re back in the city and we’ll do coffee, okay?”
“Thanks, Aidy. Love you.”
Setting the alarm on my phone, I plug it into the charger and head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush up for bed.
I think about that guy – Alessio or Ace or whatever the hell his name is, and I think about what Wren said. Maybe he was just having a bad day, but it doesn’t give him a free pass to treat people however he wants.
When I’m back in bed, I pull up his text message again, wishing purely for Enzo’s sake that I’d have taken the high roa
d earlier. I’d like to think that if I ever ran into this guy again, and I probably never will, that I’d make things right – at least for Enzo.
But I’m still pissed.
So who knows what I’d actually say?
I fall asleep, mentally berating him, practicing all the things I’ll probably never get a chance to say.
Chapter 6
Ace
Never in my wildest dreams did I think eight years in the major leagues and two World Series pennants would land me a guest co-host chair on the set of Smack Talk.
I’m not talk show material.
I don’t even watch this shit. Not anymore, anyway.
No part of me wants to be here today.
But I let my old agent, Lou, talk me into it. It was one of the few things he ever said that actually made perfect sense, and I couldn’t argue his point.
“Ace, your career was cut short and it was wicked shitty what happened, but you can’t hide out the rest of your life. You still have fans, and you owe it to them to show them you’re gonna be okay,” he said, his words coated in a gruff Boston accent. The man was my biggest fan and number one supporter, he was like the father I never had. The only times his loyalty temporarily abandoned me was when the Firebirds played the Red Sox, but at least he was always honest about it. Lou was never a bullshitter, and that’s what I loved most about him.
I told Lou I’d never hosted anything in my life, I knew nothing about broadcast journalism, and I tended to avoid cameras every chance I got because their invasiveness almost always puts me on edge.
His response? “Can ya read a teleprompter?”
I make my way through the front lobby of the High Park Center building, stopping at the security checkpoint and emptying my pockets.
The guard ahead stares at me like I’m familiar to him, and just when I think he’s about to say something wise, he clears his throat and says, “Belt.”
My hands go to my waist when I make eye contact with a scrawny intern up ahead wearing gray slacks and a loose white button down. He’s carrying a clipboard and taps the guard on the shoulder, leans in to say something, and then the guard waves me through.
Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Page 27