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To Stockton’s hat, where we all do the cross again.
“Pick that hat up and look at the stool, would you?” I smile.
“Why would we do that?” Staler huffs.
“Jesus, man, just do it.”
Waldorf picks up the hat, and the four of them all slide off their stools to get a good look.
“Son of a bitch,” Oscar says, shaking his head.
I raise two thumbs in the air. “Good chat, as always. Drinks are on me tonight, but remember, your bladders are old as fuck, and you piss every five minutes, so you may want to pace yourselves.”
I squeeze Blaze’s shoulder. “Come on, kid; let’s go get a drink.”
“Um, yeah, nice to meet you all.”
“You’ll see a lot of us, kid,” Oscar yells to him as we walk away.
“What the hell was that?” Blaze asks me.
“That’s what’s left of the Jersey Ballbusters. They were all part of the construction crew when the original Jersey Jags field was built. They’ve never missed a home game. The Steel family gave them lifetime season passes when they tore down the old stadium to make peace. They are a fucking trip.”
“The stool?”
“Stockton passed away the day after our season closed at home last year. When I replaced the stool that got smashed during my little fight the other night, I asked the owner if I could have a plaque made.”
“Made for the guys who just dogged your play?”
“Made for the fans who have been here since day one,” I correct.
“Not sure I would have done that.”
“They pick one or two players every few years to talk ball with—the good and the bad. You’ve been chosen, so buckle up, kid.”
“Why the hell did I come here tonight?” he grumbles.
“Believe it or not, you’re gonna grow to love them.” I laugh.
Hudson Hart sees us and yells, “Might wanna grab four instead of two. All the kids are here.”
I wink at Bennett. “You hear that? You just got claimed again.”
* * *
Hart was in a yank to get back. I guarantee it had everything to do with leaving town tomorrow and wanting to see the neighbor … or is that just me projecting? Regardless, it was fine by me.
Was fine.
Now, I would instead be sitting with the Ballbusters, letting them take whacks at my ego than on my couch, watching dots jump across the screen, waiting for a reply from Gwendolyn.
I read over my text, and then the one from last night to compare; see where I may have fucked up.
Me
Evening. Your place or mine?
Nothing wrong with that, right?
