by Ney, Sara
3
Noah
“Here.” Buzz Wallace waltzes into my office as if he owns the place setting a clear, plexiglass box on the desk. It’s about four inches long by three inches wide, housing an item I’ve always wanted.
The Hank Archer baseball card.
“How did you get in here?” is the first thing I ask him, without preamble. Reaching for the case, I grasp it gingerly between my middle finger and thumb, turning it this way and that, inspecting the card inside.
“Garage door was open.”
It was? Shit.
Even though I live in a gated community, I usually make sure all the doors are locked and the garage door is always closed if I’m not in the front yard or jogging through the neighborhood. Too many people coming and going—contractors, lawn care providers, pet sitters, nannies.
“Well make yourself at home,” I sarcastically add when he does just that, propping his feet on the corner of my desk. The bastard is lucky he took his shoes off—otherwise I’d kick his ass out.
“Thanks, I will—as usual.”
“So how did it go?”
He gestures toward the card in my hands. “Obviously it went well.”
But that’s not what I mean; I want details on Miranda. What she looked like, how she behaved. Was she as cute as I imagine her to be?
“And?”
He picks at a hangnail, biting on his thumb. “And what?”
“God, are you really this obtuse?” I roll back in my desk chair, setting the card on the built-in bookshelf behind me. I’ll take it out and inspect it later; for now, I want to discuss the woman who sold it to me. Without being obvious, of course.
“Obtuse? What the hell does that even mean?” He continues chewing on his nail, picking at the cuticle and ignoring me.
Jesus, is he serious? Dude needs a dictionary to translate half the shit I say. I cannot believe he graduated from a Division 1 university with a degree in finance.
“What else? Did you talk to her? Was she normal?” Give me something—anything! I can’t tell him I want information; he’s like a goddamn animal that smells fear and as soon as he knows you want something from him, he takes it away.
As far as friends go, Wallace is bottom of the totem pole. My best friends still live in my hometown, only coming to see me on an occasional weekend here and there throughout the year. Most of them can’t afford to fly to Chicago unless I’m the one paying. Humble, hardworking, family dudes—like me, plus the family part.
Since Wallace is my teammate and seems to like hanging out with me, he’s what I’ve got at the moment, as shitty a friend as he may be.
“Yeah she was normal, about yay high.” He extends his arm, palm turned down to indicate how tall Miranda was.
“Short?”
“About five four.” He spits a fingernail onto the hardwood floor.
“Could you not do that?” I’m trying to talk, for fuck’s sake. None of the other guys on the Steam seem to act like this—why did I get stuck with Wallace following me around like a stray cat?
Because, dipshit, you haven’t told him to piss off.
The thing is I can’t. He’d be pissed and it would cause friction and I have to work with the douchebag.
So, I lean forward a little, cocking my head, arching my eyebrows expectantly. “If this were you and I were doing you a favor, I would give you more information.”
He looks up. “What the hell kind of information are you looking for? I picked up the card so you could self-isolate and I dropped it off. What more do you want?”
I want him to tell me more about Miranda.
Buzz Wallace sits back in the chair, crossing his beefy arms. “Wait…do you want information on the girl?”
Finally, he gets it.
“Pfft. No.”
He stares me down, those blue eyes unblinking. Narrow. “She was cute. Small. I didn’t really get a look at her tits. Kind of a bad attitude.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know—she didn’t count the money and she was bossy.”
“What do you mean?” I sound like a parrot, repeating myself. What do you mean, what do you mean?
“I don’t know, man. She was just trying to get in and get out, if you know what I mean. She was in a hurry, that’s all I’m saying.”
Translation: She wasn’t into him and didn’t want to stick around and flirt.
Wow. A girl who doesn’t fall for his charms? Miranda just earned another point.
“Well thanks for going—I appreciate it. I would have gone myself, but I had…” I rack my brain for an excuse. “I’m getting a head start on my taxes.”
His brows shoot up. “You do your own taxes?”
No, but I have a hand in them so I know what money is coming in and what’s going out. I don’t want to get bent over and fucked up the ass by my manager, who also has his hands in my finances.
I let the silence linger, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.
He stands. “You got any of that food leftover from the game this weekend?”
“No, I sent it home with the cleaning ladies.”
“Damn, I’m hungry.” His hands are on his hips and he’s rolling them, stretching—right there in the center of my office, like it’s a yoga studio. “What else you got?”
“Fruit.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, not in the mood. Got any burritos?”
“No, dude. Go order one.”
Wallace glances down at me. “Can’t you do it?”
“What the fuck do I look like, your personal secretary?”
“Nah, she quit weeks ago.” He says it so nonchalantly.
I stare at him for a few seconds. “Yeah, probably because working for you is like working for a toddler.”
A spoiled one who is good-looking and pleasant to look at and therefore always gets his way.
Must be nice.
Wallace continues stretching, bending his leg back and grabbing his ankle.
“Now what are you doing?” Man he aggravates me.
“Think I’ll go for a run around the neighborhood—how far is it if I do the loop?”
“Don’t you have your own subdivision to run in? It has to be mine?” Why won’t he just leave so I can shoot Miranda a note, thanking her for the sale?
He goes about stretching his arms, pulling back on his elbow. “Yeah, but too many people know me and always want to stop me to talk. Ain’t in the mood.”
I sigh. “It’s three miles.”
“Cool, I’ll do it twice.” Bending, he reties his sneakers, the hair on the top of his head a gleaming, glossy mop.
Fucker.
“Where are your water bottles?”
“You run with a water bottle?”
He stares at me like I have two heads. “You don’t?”
“Uh, no.”
Wallace pulls at the elastic waistband of his track pants. “I tuck it into my waistband, der.”
I glare. “Bottom drawer to the right of the sink.”
“You keep your water bottles in a drawer?”
“Would you just go!” He’s making me insane!
“Christ, testy much?” I hear him muttering under his breath as he walks away, toward my kitchen. “Someone needs to get laid and it isn’t me.”
God, I hate to admit it, but he’s right.
I do need to get laid.
Except I can’t do it with a stranger. Not after my last one night stand.
“Hard pass.” The words and the laughter ring in my ears, bringing a blush creeping to my face, heating my neck and the space between my pecs.
Dammit. I hate it bothering me that much after all these months; the girl was a complete asshole, straight up laughing in my face. Thinking she was such hot shit, doing me a favor by fucking me.
Hard. Pass.
Embarrassed and humiliated by those two words, I never breathed a word about it to anybody, not even my good buddies back home.
&nbs
p; Admittedly, they hate this lifestyle for me. The groupies who stand outside the chain-link fence of the stadium, at the entrance to the parking lot, hoping to catch a player’s eye. The groupies at the bars and clubs. The social climbers who want to befriend me for their own gain, tagging me in photographs, pretending we spent the night together, just to impress people.
Hard. Pass.
I shake my head to get the image of that night out of my damn mind, failing when insecurity rears its ugly head.
Ugly. Ha!
I’ve never been in love.
I thought I was once, in high school, with a beautiful girl named Kimora Westinghouse. Dark skin and brown eyes, she was my teenage dream. Outgoing. Popular. Always with a kind word for everyone, that girl was as sweet as the day was long, and I harbored a secret crush on her for years—but was unconfident and too shy to do anything about it.
That didn’t stop me from jerking off to the thought of her though—basically every morning and every night once I realized stroking my dick felt almost as good as hitting a home run.
Almost.
Irritated by this stroll down memory lane, I almost forget the baseball card resting on the bookshelf behind me. I gingerly pick it up, cradling it in my hand. It’s dwarfed compared to the size of my palm, and I gaze down at it, heart racing.
I cannot wait to show this to the guys—not my teammates, the guys back home. They’ll shit themselves when they see this, a national treasure.
And I own it.
Who would have fucking thought.
Gratitude flows through my veins, so I pick up my phone, pounding out a quick text to the woman who sold it to me.
Me: Hey Miranda, I just want to thank you again for this card—it’s incredible. I assumed it would be in good shape, but this… Has it even been touched? I’m impressed. So thank you.
Miranda: You are so welcome. Told you it was mint **wink**
People say lots of things, but we all know a lot of it is smoke and mirrors. Just bullshit. I get jerked around by assholes trying to take advantage of me every single day—my manager included, who’s only in it for the paycheck. Oh, he does a great job pretending to be my buddy, but we both know it’s horseshit. He’ll drop me like a bad habit once I stop making him boatloads of cash.
If Miranda naively believes a person is as good as their word—should be taken at their word—she needs a wake-up call.
Me: I keep staring at this card and I’m fucking obsessed with it.
Me: Shit, pardon my French. I’m just so damn excited—it’s better than I thought it would be.
Miranda: Strange, ’cause you didn’t seem concerned about it—or its condition—when we met. You didn’t even look at the card to check before you bought it! Who does that?
I didn’t?
I didn’t?
Did I not specifically tell Wallace to fucking check it over? Make sure it wasn’t bent, stained or ripped? Is Miranda implying that he just handed over the cash without inspecting the goods first? Goddamn him, making me look like an idiot.
If you want something done right, do it yourself.
My mom’s words ring in my ear as I scowl down at the messages on the glowing screen of my phone.
The pisser about this situation is I can’t ask Miranda if I inspected the card because she doesn’t know the man who showed up at the cop shop WAS NOT ME. As far as she’s concerned, I am Buzz Wallace, heartthrob of the Chicago Steam—when in reality, I’m Noah Harding, shortstop and recluse.
The guy known for avoiding the limelight, always taking the back door out of the restaurant, interviewing only when it’s contractual. I’m not here for the fame; I’m here for the game.
Miranda: Anyway, I was organizing the other cards earlier and I think I’m ready to negotiate.
Me: With just me, right?
I have to make sure she isn’t going to sell them out from under me, even though we kind of had a deal.
Me: They’re all in mint condition, too?
Miranda: Well, before you go and get ahead of yourself, I’ve been giving this some thought after our meeting today…
The hair stands up on the back of my neck, instincts kicking in.
Is she having second thoughts? Because there is no need to negotiate with me, as I’m tempted to tell her. If my agent knew those thoughts were going through my head, he’d have a fucking stroke. Still, I don’t tell her that; nothing would prevent her from doubling her price, my balls in a sling.
Whatever it is she’s not sure about, I have to get her to throw out a number. I try to get her back on track.
Me: How many did you say there are in the collection you have?
Miranda: At least a dozen. They’re not all from the same year, but quite a few of them are from that championship season the Steam had in ’28.
Me: You don’t happen to have a signed baseball lying around anywhere, do you? LOL. Kidding.
Me: But do you?
Miranda: LOL I don’t think so, but if I find one when I’m going through his things, maybe, I’ll keep you in mind.
Maybe she’ll keep me in mind?
Me: I would shit myself if you did.
Miranda: Well that sounds…unappealing.
Me: Totally joking, obviously—the last time I shit myself I was still wearing diapers.
Jesus H. Christ, did I really just say that? I put my head down on my desk and groan out loud.
Me: Please forget I just said that.
Miranda: TOO LATE. LOL OMG—you’re so much funnier in text than you are in person!
At this rate, it’s beginning to feel suspiciously like flirting and it’s beginning to feel like no degree of negotiation on pricing is going to take place. I need those cards and I have to know what she wants for them—if only I could get her to say they’re mine.
Miranda: You don’t joke around much, do you? You seem like the serious sort.
Me: What makes you say that?
Miranda: I don’t know. You really didn’t smile at all today. It was more of a…leer? LOL. Forgive me for saying so, but what the hell dude! You are too much.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I hesitate, pausing before typing my reply and hitting send.
Me: You make it sound like a bad thing. Don’t you think I’m sexy?!
I hold my breath as those three little dots appear as she types. Then…disappear.
Reappear a few seconds later, and I hold my breath again—unable to believe I actually fucking asked her if she found Wallace sexy. Sexy? Jesus, I never say that word, let alone use it in a private message.
Miranda: No offense—I’m sure you’re a great guy? You’re just not my type.
The bubbles appear again.
Miranda: Like—at. All.
Miranda: Not that I don’t appreciate you hitting on me today. I mean that is what you were doing right? Asking me if I wanted to snack on you?
Wait. What?
WHAT?
Did she say hitting on me?
I fucking burn holes into that sentence, slack-jawed. Wallace HIT ON HER? And didn’t say anything? That prick! I sit there, stunned, staring at the incoming messages, blushing like a fucking idiot, embarrassed all over again.
Miranda: Since we’re back on the subject, I should probably tell you that after our meeting today, I’m not quite sure I want to sell you the entire collection.
My mind is reeling and not about the baseball cards.
What the hell did Buzz do during that exchange? WHAT THE FUCK DID HE DO?
The curiosity is going to kill me if I don’t find out the details; he’s clearly a lying asshole considering all he told me was she had a bad attitude.
Well no fucking wonder—he thought her attitude sucked because she rejected him.
What a dick.
I need to talk to her, hear her voice and…apologize. Grovel, even, for the sins of my friend. Get back in her good graces, so she’ll reconsider selling me those cards.
Way to fuck this up, Noah. If you’d gon
e to get the card yourself, this never would have happened.
Me: I don’t know what to say about today except I wasn’t myself. Please don’t not sell me those cards because of my bad behavior.
Miranda: That’s all fine and good for you to say after the fact, but you put me in an awkward situation today. What made you think I would be okay with you talking to me like that?
God. I’m going to kill Wallace.
Wring his fucking neck with my bare hands.
Me: Do you mind if we talk over the phone? I think it would be easier.
More personal = easier to grovel, although she may be able to detect my voice isn’t the same at Buzz’s. Would that give me away? Would she even notice?
Miranda: What are you going to do? Try to change my mind?
Me: Are you going to at least let me try?
Miranda: You really are a piece of work. (LOUD SIGH) Fine. You can call me, but you have to promise me no flirting or funny business—deal?
Yeah, yeah, I got it. Whatever fun I was having with her died with the words You’re just not my type. Also that part about me hitting on her, but mostly I’m distracted by the fact that Buzz killed this deal and I have to salvage it.
Me, the worst man for the job since I have no fucking clue how to speak to women.
Confusion muddles my brain and I mull all the facts over. Buzz Wallace, international playboy, isn’t her type. If tall, dark, handsome, and rich isn’t what she’s looking for then—what is? It’s hardly appropriate to ask; she’s a complete stranger. We’re conducting a business transaction, not matching on a dating app, for fuck’s sake. Still, I want to know what kind of girl isn’t attracted to a guy like Buzz Wallace. A guy who, in my mind, has everything.
I am not jealous of Buzz Wallace. She did not want him, not even for one night.
I would be jealous, though, if she were gushing all over him. Or if, God forbid, she’d taken him up on his offer to go out—or, in this case, to go down on him. Fucking Buzz. Where the hell was he raised? In a barn? Didn’t his mother teach him any manners?
Wallace is exactly the kind of dude who gives student athletes a bad name. Spoiled. Good-looking. Cocky. We didn’t go to the same college—he went to Florida State and I was on the East Coast—but we’d play a few games against each other each year, both entered the draft at the same time, both signed similar contracts.
