Mint condition.
My dick tingles a little at the sight of it, if I’m being honest. I’ve been salivating over this baseball card since I bought my first one at 11 years old when I spent my entire five-dollar allowance on a pack of trading cards adding an Archer to my dream list. I’ve wanted to own one since I picked up a bat and began to love the game—except there aren’t many of them around, because back in the day? No one knew they’d be worth anything. Moms cleaning out their teenagers’ rooms tossed them, given away, or recycled. Not to mention they weren’t mass-producing them in the 1920’s. Baseball might have been America’s pastime, but it wasn’t the money machine it is today.
It’s my passion.
My career.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’m famous.
Shit, that sounded vain, and that wasn’t my intention—I’m just stating the facts. I would never brag about something like that; it’s not my style. Never has been. No matter how much money I rake in from playing ball or how long I’ve been in the league, I’ll never be an asshole about it. Even though the fact is, as a teenager, I had college baseball scouts parked on the bleachers during my games, watching me. As a sophomore, 15 universities wanted to sign me early. Fifteen. ONE. FIVE.
I wasn’t ready to commit, so I waited. Signed to a smaller Division 1 school. Not as many students, but a great program, on the East Coast, not far from home. I had my pick of the best; everyone wanted me.
It was overwhelming.
All I wanted was to play baseball, not be the poster child for douchebag athletes.
So I went where it felt familiar, kept my nose to the glove and the ball in my hand, and when the big leagues came knocking, I answered their call.
Hesitantly, but surely.
Who wouldn’t? I live for baseball. Nothing else has been there for me, if you don’t count my folks.
Turning a blind eye to everything, but the game, I became famous—and became infamous for being reclusive, too. I’m on the field to do a job with no interest in what comes with it: the fans, the gold digging women, the paparazzi.
Not even the paycheck.
That’s just a perk.
One I’m willing to blow a chunk of to own this Archer card.
I stare at the computer, memories from my childhood rising as a lump in my throat, want and need and determination, which I gulp down as I click through the photographs.
Being scouted as a high school student then getting drafted to the pros as a senior in college has made me hermit-like; everyone wants a piece of me. I just want a piece of history.
“You’re not going to come look at this?” I call to Buzz one more time before clicking the Contact Seller button located at the bottom of the page.
“Can’t. Scratching my balls.”
Sounds about right.
I crack my knuckles and stare at the air, conjuring up the words I want to use in my text. Then, without any more hesitation, I click open the text box on my laptop, type in a phone number, and—
To 555-4439: Hey. I’m interested in your Hank Archer baseball card. Is it still available?
My heart is racing. What if it’s already been sold?
I wait.
Stand up and go to the sink, wash my hands though they’re not dirty. I pace from the pantry to the windows, looking out into my massive backyard. Stare at the pool, its cascading waterfall, the fake boulders and slide made of molded concrete.
It’s a tropical oasis in the middle of the Midwest and it cost me a small fortune. An embarrassingly large house for a man with no wife, no kids, and no family.
My own parents rarely come to visit and I have zero siblings.
I glance away, lump still lodged in my throat, this one from loneliness.
Nothing makes me feel more pathetic than being alone in this stupid house—the one my mother helped me pick out, convinced I would soon be settling down with a nice girl.
Wallace doesn’t count because he’s a cling-on and the worst fucking company, only comes to my house to mooch from the refrigerator, despite his paycheck being almost as fat as mine.
80 million dollars for three years.
Not too shabby for a 24 year old.
Sighing, I glance back at him. Pretty boy “Buzz” Wallace, the shiniest new toy on the Chicago Steam. Women love him, throw themselves at him. New girlfriend every damn month and every one falls madly in love with him the first time he burps at them across the dinner table.
Fucking caveman.
No class.
Me? I’m my mother’s son: polite. Mannered. Affectionate. Hardworking and driven with a fantastic career, great benefits and retirement plan. Homeowner. Responsible.
The list goes on and fucking on, and the ironic part is nice girls don’t want to date a dude with a face like mine.
“Hard pass.”
That’s what the last girl I slept with said when she got her first sober glimpse of me. She laughed, walked out of my house—and I never saw her again. It doesn’t matter that I’m a rich, professional athlete; what mattered was my face.
Beauty might only be skin deep for some, but I know better.
“Did the dude message you back yet?” Wallace wants to know after I’ve ignored him for too long.
“Not yet.” I don’t know for sure if it’s a dude selling the card. The name is Randy, but spelled with an i, and I’m almost positive that’s not the way a man would spell it. Then again, I’ve never met a female who went by the name Randi, so who knows. Hell, it’s probably some old lady selling her dead husband’s prized collection, which would explain why the card isn’t through-the-roof expensive like it could be—should be.
I can easily afford it at twenty-five grand.
To me, that is a steal. Chump change.
Have I mentioned the fact that I’m loaded?
My phone and the computer ding with a new notification.
I casually saunter toward them where they sit on the counter, forcing myself to slow my pace though my heart beats as wildly as it does when I’m on the field and a batter is about to take his first swing. Uncertainty and anticipation flood through my veins like a tidal wave.
From 555-4439: Hey there, yes the card is still available. I will not ship it—are you local enough for a pick up?
Me: Cool, relieved it’s available—that is great news for me. I guess local depends on where you live?
555-4439: I’m in DuPage County. What about you?
Me: That doesn’t narrow it down—DuPage is huge. I’m in Chicago, in the suburbs.
555-4439: Actually in Chicago? Or are you one of those people who SAYS they live in Chicago but really they’re an hour north and just like to brag that they live in the city?
Yup, okay. There is no way this is an old lady—she’s way too sassy. Unless the name Randi in the ad was a typo and the name is actually Randall. Or Ray. Or…
Me: I’m 8 miles from downtown, an hour if the traffic is horrible. I’m in Barrington Heights. You know where that is?
555-4439: I do. I’m actually not far from there, but no one is coming to my house. I don’t need to be assaulted or murdered for a baseball card.
Yup. Definitely a young woman. Men don’t worry about being assaulted and murdered when they’re selling shit on the internet. Most of them should, but most of them do not.
Me: Totally get that. I’m willing to meet you somewhere neutral, like the library or a gas station.