Hard Pass

by Ney, Sara

  Miranda: I hugged him and he took off, so now I feel like I violated him.

  Me: LOL

  Miranda: Shut up! It’s not funny!

  Me: It kind of is. Who runs away when a beautiful girl hugs them? LOL

  Miranda: Well see, I’ve been wondering about that.

  Me: And what have you decided?

  Miranda: I think he liked it, but it freaked him out.

  Me: And why would it do that?

  Miranda: Listen, I don’t really want to get into it with you. I just wanted to make sure he’s okay.

  Me: He’s fine and I’ll tell him you were asking.

  Miranda: OH MY GOD, PLEASE DO NOT.

  Me: LOL why?

  Miranda: I don’t need him to know I…

  Me: …?

  Miranda: Nothing.

  Me: Tell me.

  Miranda: I’ll talk to you soon, okay? We’ll figure out a time and place to meet for that second card, yeah?

  Me: Sure—ball is in your court.

  Miranda: Good night, Noah.

  Me: Good night, Miranda.

  7

  Noah

  Why was Miranda texting ‘Noah’ about me?

  I can’t get it out of my mind. Not Saturday night—couldn’t sleep. Not the next day, or the next.

  Not today, at batting practice, and not as I stand here, fielding balls in the infield. An assistant coach slowly hits a grounder in my direction; it rolls straight through my legs. I hear him groan from where he stands on home plate, one hand in a catcher’s mitt.

  “Harding, what the fuck?” I can hear him spitting tobacco out the side of his mouth; that’s how pissed he is. “A toddler could have stopped that ball with his eyes closed.”

  Coach’s arms go up then come down, slapping at his meaty thighs, face getting redder with each grounder I miss.

  “Eight. Zero.” He points at me, fist shaking. “Start fucking earning it, kid.”

  Way to shame me in front of the entire infield, fucker.

  I pull the cap from my head, running a hand over my perspiring forehead and through my hair. My face is beginning to match Coach’s burgundy jacket.

  Get your head in the game. The season opener is three weeks away—you do not have time to suck. Per my contract, if I biff it in practice, they can bench me—and if they bench me, I lose a few million bucks, and my contract could get cut short.

  Still, I can’t stop Miranda’s words from running on a loop through my goddamn head: I think he liked it, but it freaked him out. Freaked him out, freaked him out.

  Yeah. I did like when she wrapped her lithe body around mine for a hug. And yes, it freaked me out, too.

  But damn, she didn’t need to go and psychoanalyze that shit. The timing of her crawling into my headspace and setting up camp there is awful.

  Thank God she’s not actually texting Wallace; thank God it was me on the receiving end.

  “Heads up!” a voice shouts, and instinctively, I raise my glove toward the fly ball. It lands in the center of my mitt with a satisfying pop and immediately gets released again—to the first baseman.

  “Nice,” Coach praises because I finally did something right this morning.

  Somewhere near the dugout, when another member of the coaching staff announces a 15 minute break, gloves around the field start coming off. Bowing my head, I begin the leisurely stroll toward the locker rooms, a water bottle appearing out of nowhere from one of the assistants, placed in my waiting hand.

  I squirt a steady stream into my mouth, wiping the dribble hitting my chin with the hem of my blue team t-shirt.

  “Earth to Harding.” A hand gets waved in my face while I chug, not realizing until now how thirsty I was. Am. “Yo, Baseman.”

  My eyes snap up; three of my teammates are watching me inquisitively, and it’s then I realize I’m not walking toward the locker rooms at all—I’m walking toward the opposing team’s dugout.

  Jeez. Get your head on straight, Harding.

  “What’s your problem, bro? You’ve been acting weird all day.” Jose Espinoza, a teammate who happened to be at Rent with us Saturday, follows me until we reach the locker room, follows me all the way to my locker. He wants information and he’s not alone.

  They all fucking followed me like a bunch of teenage girls wanting to gossip! The actual fuck?

  I make a show of retying my shoe then yanking a towel from the rack above the open hooks. Drape it over my shoulders and drag it through my perspiring hair, wanting to cover my entire damn head. Then I wouldn’t have to stare into their annoying faces.

  “I’m just a little distracted—since when is that a crime?”

  “Since someone could get hurt, because gee, I don’t know—balls are flying toward our faces and dicks at 90 miles an hour?”

  “Oh good point, Wallace.” Jose raises a dark eyebrow. “Does your bitchy attitude have anything to do with that groupie hanging all over you the other night?”

  I raise my eyes. “What groupie?”

  I don’t remember speaking to a single gold digger, cleat chaser, or Steam groupie at the club.

  “The one we saw rubbing her tits all over you—how fucking weird was that?”

  Rubbing her tits all over me?

  Are they talking about Miranda hugging me?

  “Wait—are you saying you thought a groupie was molesting me and you did nothing to stop her? Fuck you very much, assholes.”

  “We’re not babysitters, you prick,” someone shouts.

  Espinoza laughs. “We didn’t have to—you peeled her off and fled the scene, as per fucking usual.”

  Is that what they thought? I had to peel her off and escape? This just gets worse.

  “That was Miranda. We’re acquainted.”

  “Acquainted? Is that the term kids are using these days for ‘casually fucking’?”

  “No, Jesus. I bought some stuff from her and when she saw me out at the club, she came to say hi. You literally met her—what the fuck? Wallace introduced her.”

  “Barely.”

  Bam Blackburn removes the towel from my head and scratches his balls, propping a leg up on the locker room bench. So glad he’s not naked. “Wait…I might have been drinking, but I distinctly remember her calling him Noah.” He looks between Buzz Wallace and me, confused. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Buzz is at his locker reapplying deodorant, turning toward the conversation. “Baseman, you gonna explain?”

  No.

  Except, I’m going to have to, because someone else chimes in with a curious “So what’s the deal with that?”

  “There is no deal.”

  “Dude, would you just…” Wallace won’t let himself throw me under the bus, but he sure does want me to spill my guts out to the team.

  No one moves. They’re all too invested in what I might have to say, particularly given the fact that I usually say nothing at all.

  I turn my back to the guys, digging through my duffle bag to kill time. Stand straight and sigh heavily, knowing I’ll have to give in sooner or later—Wallace will never let this go.

  “I found a baseball card online and the girl at Rent hugging me was the woman who sold it to me.”

  “But she doesn’t know it’s him,” Buzz snitches, to the delight of the room. A few of them have settled on the edge of the benches, leaning forward like they’re watching a live action play or show—all they need is popcorn.

  Like fucking girls at a slumber party, these bitches want details.

  “What do you mean she doesn’t know it was you—she was hugging you, man. She had her tits all over you.”

  Yeah, no—that’s not at all what she was doing. “She said I was grumpy and that I needed a hug.”

  That sounds so dumb.

  “You are grumpy.” Espinoza states it as a fact. “And you probably did need a hug.”

  “A hug, a fuck—same thing.” Jerry Johnston laughs, removing the athletic wrap from his wrist and tightening it.

  “Except he is
n’t fucking them either—hugs only.”

  I wish they’d all shut up and leave me alone; this is none of their business!

  “When’s the last time you got laid Harding? On your last birthday?”

  Not even close. It’s been two years since I had sex, that night turning into my worst nightmare. The girl was a mean, snotty bitch, and it was a lousy lay, one I wish I’d forget, but it’s burned into my goddamn memory.

  “Okay, so you bought a baseball card from this girl. Suddenly she’s rubbing her tits on you and that’s it?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “She thinks I’m him,” Wallace kindly informs them, fount of knowledge that he is, the authority on everything and boastfully in the know.

  Everyone glances from him to me to him.

  Johnston screws up his face. “If she thinks he’s you, then who did she think you were?”

  Good question. “I don’t know. I didn’t stay to find out.”

  Ricky Thompson blinks. “But then why wasn’t she rubbing her tits on him?”

  “Dude, I don’t know!” I’m not shouting—you are.

  “Jeez, Baseman—did it occur to you for one second that she might have liked you?” Jose Espinoza asks after a long stretch of awkward silence.

  No.

  It didn’t occur to me that Miranda might like me.

  She has no idea who I am, so how would it be possible?

  “Listen to Espinoza, man. He knows women—he has six sisters,” one of the guys reminds me, ripping into a protein bar he’s pulled out of his bag.

  “Get this.” Wallace reappears to ruin my day a little fucking more. “He’s buying another card from her and wants me to meet her. Again.”

  “Stop with this. You’re the one who fucked it up,” I shoot back.

  He disagrees. “I shouldn’t have done it in the first place and you should know I hit on anything with a pulse.” Pause. “Wait, that is not what I meant.”

  I point at him accusingly, ire rising up, glaring the same way Coach was glaring at me out on the ball field. “I said you need to make it right—this doesn’t have to be complicated!”

  Wide sets of eyes fly back and forth, back and forth between Wallace and me, the volleying banter better than a tennis match at Wimbledon.

  “This is a you problem!” Wallace throws down the duffle bag he got his deodorant from with a scowl. “Not a me problem, so figure it out yourself.”

  “I’m not the one who complicated everything! All you had to do was not be a douche and you couldn’t even do that.”

  He’s right, obviously—this is not and has never been, his problem—and it really isn’t a problem, is it? Nope.

  It’s drama.

  Drama I created by being an antisocial, paranoid pussy.

  And you know what? I hate drama. If the tables were turned, I would have told him to find someone else to be his errand boy. Would have said I wasn’t agreeing to meet anyone for him.

  He’s just as famous as I am, if not more.

  Am I a better ballplayer? Yes.

  Do I get paid more? Yes.

  Does he have a prettier face? Yes.

  None of that stopped him from helping me out, yet I blamed him for the way things worked out.

  “Uh oh, guys—I see the wheels turning,” Espinoza cautiously pokes. “What’s goin’ through that head of yours, Baseman?”

  “Guys,” Johnston says, “it looks like his brain is about to explode.”

  “Nah,” Wallace says. “That’s cum built up inside his body.”

  Every last one of them laughs, even a few of the assistant coaches. Even the batboy who likes to linger, who occasionally shows up for practices if he doesn’t have class, just to socialize with us.

  Jesus, an audience. Just what I need.

  “Harding, bro.”

  I turn to face Espinoza, who is indeed full of wisdom, young as he is.

  “Eh?”

  “Go do the deed yourself, man. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

  Thing is, more often than not, ripping off a Band-Aid hurts like hell.

  * * *

  Miranda: So, I’ve been doing some thinking about that card. I hate to say this, but I’m ready to sell another one.

  Me: Not the whole shebang?

  Miranda: No, not yet—sorry. Every time we bump into each other, it’s a shitshow.

  Me: I’ll take what I can get. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  Me: So which card?

  Miranda: Does Leroy Jenkins work for you?

  Me: NICE!!!! I want it. How much?

  Miranda: Five less.

  Me: 20 large? Done. Same time, same place?

  Miranda: No, I have to be downtown. I’m meeting the property manager of this office I want to rent. I was hoping you and I could meet first, so I could run to the bank, deposit your cash, and then cut him a check for the security deposit.

  Me: That’s really fucking exciting, owning your own business.

  Miranda: Scary too! I want to pee my pants.

  Me: Better than shitting them.

  Miranda: Well what a pair we make.

  Me: Are you flirting with me?

  Miranda: GOD NO!!!! **gags**

  Me: Tell me how you really feel…

  Miranda: I will. And I’ll tell you TO YOUR FACE.

  Me: Dang, you’re in a mood today, eh?

  Miranda: I guess so. I’m just so nervous. I’ve never done this before, CLEARLY. Someone should talk me out of it.

  Me: No one should talk you out of it, and if they do, they’re a terrible friend.

  Miranda: Aww, aren’t you sweet.

  Me: I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.

  Miranda: So. Um…

  Me: ?

  Miranda: Not to be weird, but how is your friend? Is he feeling better?

  Me: My friend from the other night? The one you were hugging?

  Miranda: The one who ran away?

  Me: Did he though?

  Miranda: Yes and I’m so embarrassed. I feel like such an idiot for making him uncomfortable.

  Me: That’s… He’s dealing with a lot. It was nothing you did.

  Miranda: That’s kind of you to say.

  Me: I’m not a kind person.

  Miranda: Yeah, that seems like it’s probably true. You do seem like a giant asshole.

  Me: WTF!

  Miranda: Okay, I have to go. Wednesday at 2?

  Me: That’s a bit early for me because I have to work, but I’ll make it happen. Where at?

  Miranda: Coffee shop on Dysart and Lisbon?

  Me: Blended Buds?

  Miranda: LOL

  Me: What’s so funny?

  Miranda: You saying Blended Buds. It sounds so cheesy now.

  Me: Yeah, well…it is LOL.

  Miranda: See you Wednesday Noah.

  Me: See you Wednesday.

  8

  Miranda

  Noah is late.

  I wonder if he drinks coffee as I stand in line, tapping the toe of my heeled pump. I check my phone again for the time and sigh, grateful there are at least three customers in front of me.

  I’m smartly dressed for my first business meeting since incorporating. The black pressed pants are a sophisticated contrast to the jeans I wore to the club and my hot pink blazer announces my love of bold colors. Gold hoops, hair down, hot pink lips.

  I’m pursing those lips with displeasure with every second that passes, anxiety chipping away at the confidence I felt striding through the door of the coffee shop—only to find Noah isn’t here.

  My finger rubs along my top row of teeth, paranoia that there’s something smeared there making me fidgety; I’m more nervous about this exchange than I am about my meeting at three.

  Except. Noah isn’t here.

  Two more people in front of me.

  One.

  The door opens, wind whistling, just like in the freaking movies, a familiar silhouette standing there, gaze roaming the shop behind a pair of dark
sunglasses. Backward baseball hat. Torn t-shirt, black mesh track pants, black sneakers.

  I would recognize him anywhere. It’s not Noah, it’s…

  That guy.

  The one who bolted when I touched him.

  I don’t understand what he’s doing here.

  The girl ahead of me orders, and I avert my eyes, focusing on the back of her head. She has a cowlick and not a cute one. More like bedhead, and oh my god, I am so nervous.

  I reach the counter, stumbling on my words, his gaze staring holes into my profile. I know it as well as I know what day I was born on. He. Is. Staring.

  “I’ll have a, um… Um. Sorry.” I giggle. Shit. “A medium—no, a small.” Get it together, Miranda. “Plain. No, not plain.” I fiddle with the app on my phone, inhaling a deep, cleansing breath. Start over. “I would love a small, no foam, skinny latte with soy. Please.”

  There.

  Phew!

  I step back a foot and bump into a solid form. There wasn’t anyone behind me when I got in line earlier and now warm heat spreads across my back. The hair at the base of my neck stands on end, a bit static.

  The girl behind the counter zaps my app with her scanner and I tuck my cell in my purse. Trying to muster the courage that will allow me to turn around, to face what I know is standing there.

  To face who I know is standing there.

  I mean, I know him, but I don’t know him? If that makes sense.

  He never told me his name. I only know what he felt like when I hugged him, hot and stiff and…

  Stiff—and not the good kind.

  My eyes hit a massive wall of chest before beginning their journey north. That unsmiling mouth. That Roman nose. The half-hooded eyes, shielded by his glasses, no doubt a bit too guarded for someone so young.

  He can’t be much older than me, can he? What, maybe 25?

  “Hi.”

  He wavers before letting out his own “Hi.”

  I look around, raising my eyebrows. “What are you doing here?”

  Noah must have sent him. Should I trust this guy with this baseball card?

  Wait—Noah trusted him with $20,000.

  “I’m here for the card?”

  Ahh—so he is doing his friend a favor. Makes sense. Still, a text giving me a heads up would have been nice.