It doesn’t, but Noah sure does roll off hers nice and pretty-sounding; I want to hear her say it again.
Why did Wallace have to go and tell her my nickname? Makes me look like a damn idiot. This is the last time I send him to do my errands, I swear.
“How did you get the name Baseman? It’s odd.” Her voice is soft and pleasant, exactly how I would have thought she’d sound. “Wait, don’t tell me—it’s because you go all the way on a first date?” She giggles before continuing. “You look like the type who has sex after knowing someone three minutes.”
Just tell her that wasn’t you.
Do it.
Tell her.
“I…uh.” I clear my throat. “In high school I played baseball.” And in college. Oh, and by the way, I play for the Chicago Steam and am beloved by the entire nation. “They call me Baseman because I could run the bases even if I hadn’t hit a home run, I was that fast.”
“Ahh, I see. That makes sense now. And here I thought it was because you were a total douche.”
A douche.
Ouch.
She thinks I’m a douche because clearly Wallace was acting like one, but dang—for her to come right out and say it? I’m not sure how to respond to her sarcasm, to the disdain lacing her statement.
Take a chill pill, bro. Her disdain isn’t for you—it’s for Buzz. She has no idea who you are.
Because you’re lying to her.
But—I’ve been down this road before. The road where baseball groupies find out who you are, where you live, and pretend to be someone they’re not so you’ll give them the time of day, so you’ll sleep with them. Maybe, if they’re lucky, they get knocked up and pregnant with your kid so you owe them fifteen grand a month or more and they never have to work again.
I connected with Miranda because of baseball cards; it’s not wrong for me to be overly cautious, even throwing my underly cautious buddy to the wolves.
In my mind, though? I have my reasons.
The last thing I need is some groupie meeting up with me, recognizing me, and posting about the encounter on the internet or selling the story to the tabloids: Ballplayer shells out thousands for a collector’s card! Or Bachelor Chicago Steam shortstop will spend dough on ball cards but not on dates!
The media has speculated on my sexuality since I signed with the Steam. I don’t need them knowing my spending habits too. Ironically, Miranda didn’t recognize Wallace on Wednesday, though he’s one of the most photographed athletes of our time.
Which means she must know absolutely nothing about sports because Wallace is as popular as an international celebrity. Teams want to sign him, men want to be him, women want to sink their claws into him.
“Noah? Are you there?”
“Sorry,” I finally say. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
Miranda laughs. “I called you a douche.” She laughs again, amused with herself, confidence radiating.
“Careful—you might hurt my feelings a little.”
Another laugh, the sound musical and sweet, but not at all playful. “No offense, but I doubt anyone could hurt your feelings. In fact, I have a feeling it would take more than little old me calling you a douche to bruise that giant, inflated ego of yours.”
She’s bashing Wallace again, holding nothing back—apparently not afraid to lose the sale of her baseball cards.
Cheeky shit.
“What makes you say I have an inflated ego?”
I dread anything she’s about to tell me.
This time when Miranda laughs, it’s not soft and sweet. This laugh is entirely different, sardonic almost, borderline manic. “Are you being serious right now? Are you trying to pretend you’re not the biggest narcissist in the Northern Hemisphere?”
I listen as that laugh turns back into a giggle then a snort. It takes a good solid minute before she’s composed enough to say, “Listen, Noah—I’m sure you’re a really nice guy.” She does not for one second think Buzz is a really nice guy. “And I won’t lie and say I didn’t enjoy texting you before we met—because I did. I have, but today was just… It actually felt like you were two different people.”
“Two different people?”
“Yes. You’re so nice right now, being kind of cute, and you’re fun to chat with, but man—I don’t know what that was today. It just made me rethink the whole card collection. I know beggars can’t be choosers and there’s a chance someone else won’t buy the entirety, but I don’t know if my next buyer should be you.”
“Was I that bad?” I mean, come on.
Miranda inhales and lets out a frustrated breath. “I just thought it was rude how you offered to let me have my way with you, or give you a blowie—whatever you were pretending not to say like boys did in middle school. Come on—does that shit work on a grown woman?” She snorts again. “Because if we hadn’t been in the parking lot of the police station, I would have felt violated.”
“I’m sorry—could you repeat that?” Did she just say I offered to let her have her way with me? Did she say blowie? Goddammit, I’m so confused right now.
“You don’t remember?”
“I…”
Yes—I don’t remember! NO—I DIDN’T ACTUALLY EXPERIENCE IT. BECAUSE THAT WAS NOT ME.
“I—uh…” I fumble for a lie. “Forgot to take my meds.”
Anddd I just made it worse. I roll my eyes heavenward, each word leaving my mouth compounding the problem, making it a thousand times worse.
“You asked what I was doing later then asked if I wanted beer, wine—or a blowie. Or not, because then you denied it. Juvenile and immature.”
I’m officially embarrassed on Wallace’s behalf. I might not know shit about women, but I know enough not to say shit like that.
“I said what?” I shout it loud enough that the neighbors probably heard. “Jeez, he really actually did hit on you…” I mutter.
“Huh?” She pauses. “You’re not making any sense. Are you high? What medications are you on?”
None. Well, some, mostly for joint swelling, anti-inflammatories—those kinds of meds.
I groan into the phone, raking my fingers through the mop on my head, wishing I had a ball cap on. “Never mind. Let’s just talk about the rest of your cards.”
Miranda is quiet for a second. “You know what? Why don’t I just text you when I know what I want to do, okay? Plus, it’ll all be in writing. Yeah?”
This whole call has become a shitshow, leaving me no choice but to agree. “Sure.”
I don’t want to hear any more about her run-in with my friend. The pit in my stomach can’t get any tighter; the bile in my throat can’t get any more bitter.
“Great. Then I guess for now, just…you know. Wait to hear from me, ’kay?”
No, it’s not okay, but what the hell can I do about it? Nothing. “Sure, that works.”
“Super. Well…” Miranda clears her throat. “Have fun with the Hank Archer card. And again, I really, really appreciate the cash. Really.”
I am really, really going to kill. Buzz. Wallace.
Really.