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 gone 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.
My contract earns me more than his—10 million bucks more, to be exact—and I smirk, spine a bit straighter.
The weird thing is, Wallace isn’t competitive when it comes to his friends. Shocking, I know, but he isn’t bothered by the fact that his agent didn’t get him more money. Isn’t bothered by the fact that I have a bigger house. Doesn’t hassle me about my truck.
He just wants to hang out.
It’s fucking strange, a guy with his ego not trying to one-up everyone.
One bonus point for him.
My phone pings while I stand here overthinking things.
Miranda: Hey, you still there? Are you calling or no? It’s cool if you can’t—I have work stuff to go do.
My palms are sweaty and I wipe them off, almost nervously. Swipe a hand through my shaggy hair as if I’m about to take a video call.
I click through her contact until it begins ringing, chest thumping. Crap, I don’t remember the last time I called a woman if you don’t include my mom—and I don’t.
Don’t pick up, don’t pick up, don’t pick up.
She picks up.
“Hello?” The salutation is hesitant at best, despite the fact that she knew I was calling. “This is Miranda.”
So businessy and professional.
“Hey. It’s Noah.” Even to my own ears, I sound unsure and insecure, and I groan.
“Noah?” Miranda hesitates again, baffled. “Noah who?”
Dammit, that’s right—she thinks my name is Buzz, because that’s what I told her to call me.
I roll my eyes at the absurdity of this entire situation: the texts, me sending someone else to get the card, him pretending to be me, her thinking he’s scum, me apprehensively calling her to confess.
And I will.
Eventually…
“Uh, the guy who just bought your Hank Archer card?” Why do I sound so bloody nervous? I do press conferences in front of entire press corps, for Christ’s sake—I can handle a phone call with a cute girl.
You don’t know she’s cute, dipshit—you’re just assuming she is because Wallace wouldn’t hit on her if she wasn’t, regardless of whether or not she was his type. I’ve seen him in action, and I’ve seen him make plenty of passes at women who weren’t attractive. He’s never hit on anyone who wasn’t, so Miranda must be pretty.
“Your name is Noah?”
“Yes.” I’m smiling stupidly, now standing at my kitchen counter, clicking a solid gold fountain pen cap nervously. It has my initials engraved on it, a gift from my agent when I signed my contract.
Click.
Click, click.
Stop it, Noah—you’re fidgeting.
“Noah,” she says again. “So much nicer than Buzz, or Baseman, even though it’s weird that you have more than one nickname.” She laughs, amused and delighted by this new information and I realize Buzz must have used my nickname instead of his. The list of his screwups just keeps getting longer and longer. “Aww, I love your name, Noah. Why do you introduce yourself with a nickname? Buzz and Baseman don’t exactly roll off the tongue.”