Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
* * *
Chris: Sorry not sorry.
* * *
Josh: Thanks for rubbing it in.
* * *
Chris: Happy to rub it in any time. At length. Great length.
* * *
Josh: I may have a vague recollection of . . . length.
* * *
Josh: You going out a lot?
* * *
Chris: Mostly hanging out and going to the beach. How about you? Or would it cut down on your brooding time?
* * *
Josh: Didn’t figure you for a homebody.
* * *
Chris: Depends on whose home. And whose body.
* * *
Josh: Sounds like a good setup.
* * *
Chris: [picture of the Miami shoreline
taken through the window. Chris’s reflection is visible.]
* * *
Josh: Nice view.
* * *
Josh: The ocean.
* * *
Chris: Just the ocean?
* * *
Josh: Also not the ocean.
* * *
Josh: Sorry is this weird?
* * *
Chris: You flirting with me? Or you flirting with me when we’re not on second base?
* * *
Josh: Sometimes it was on third.
* * *
I don’t answer, not right away. Not because I don’t want to. But because that was pulses in my mind. Josh said he was afraid he missed his opportunity. But maybe I missed mine, too afraid to take a chance and swing.
I’m staying with some teammates at a house near our spring training complex. Normally, I don’t mind living with other people—I like the noise, the activity—but maybe I’ve gotten older or they’ve gotten louder because it turns out to be a mistake.
Because they’re looking to party. And I’m looking to get my head right. And my heart.
I do what any grown man faced with housemates who play electronica way, way, way too loud at all hours would do. I whine to a friend. In this case, Jamie DeLuca, who’s a catcher with the Miami Swordfish.
I call him from the deck of my rental, as the music blasts painfully inside. “Can I come stay with you?”
“That’d be a pretty long commute,” Jamie says. “But you can come hang out for a while.”
So I drive down to his place, a luxury high-rise about forty minutes south. He buzzes me up right away. His pad turns out to be a nice-ass penthouse condo overlooking the beach. “Wow,” I say, looking around, “Miami must be treating you well.”
“I’m renting it. The landlord’s pretty reasonable.” He smirks like there’s more to it than that. “I’ll give you the full tour later.”
We head into the living room, which is decorated within an inch of its life—maybe beyond that—bright enough that I try not to laugh. There’s art, a lot of it, or what I think is art but could be random knickknacks.
“Who did you say owned this place?”
“Uh, Matt Mackenzie.”
“Your landlord is Matt Mackenzie?”
Jamie grins. We’ve known each other for a long time, ever since Jamie was a minor leaguer with the Union, before he was traded to Miami. I’ve learned to recognize the categories of his grins, and this one is definitely an I’m getting away with something smile. In part because he’s apparently renting from a guy everyone in the game calls Big Mack, who was once the franchise player for the Baltimore Oysters. Baseball pays me pretty well but Mack is loaded. And apparently he decided to spend his money on some very tacky decorations.
“How much did you say you were paying to live here?” I ask.
Jamie deflects. “Like I said, the rent is very reasonable.” Which sounds like there’s a story there, but maybe for another time.
He leads me around the place, showing off the various amenities, with a slightly incredulous look between Rich people, amiright? and that he can’t believe he lucked out.
We end up in the living room. Jamie gestures to the vastly overstuffed couch. “Sit anywhere.”
I collapse across one end while Jamie sits on the other.
“What has you ready to flee spring training already?” he asks.
“Nothing.” Though I sound petulant.
“Oh, it’s like that? Because you only sound like that if it’s guy trouble or baseball trouble and you won the World freaking Series last year.”
Which is a sore spot for him because he was traded away from the Union, who are actually competitive, to the Swordfish. Who are not.
“It’s not guy trouble. I think you have to be something other than good friends for it to be trouble.”
Jamie gives a slightly solemn nod. “That’s the worst kind of trouble.”
“What would you do in my situation?”
“I’d say talk about it with him, if you want.”
“We did talk about it. We’re friends.” Friends who hooked up once. Like a lot of my friends, who were lousy first dates but better friends.
“Well, it sounds like there’s nothing you can do to change your situation,” he deadpans.
“Thank you for the sarcasm.”
“Technically, I was being sardonic.”
“All right, Mister Ivy League, whatever.” I sit up straighter, run a hand through my hair. I need to figure shit out. So I ask him seriously, “What are my other options?”