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“Three.”
“You know that you don’t need to impress Sawyer with grand gestures like a huge ass house, right? You’ve already got the girl.”
“No shit Sherlock. I wanted to test out the space. See if one day, something like this would be what we would like. You know with babies and shit.”
“Babies and shit?” Bently head swings to me his jaw practically on the floor. “Wait, are you guys…?”
I hold up my hands to stop his train of thought. “I mean, down the road. She’s the baby wanting type, and if my woman wants a baby, you best fucking believe I’m gonna knock her up. I’m going to knock her up so fucking good.”
“I mean, it would probably suck to knock her up ‘badly’.” Bently smirks making fun of me.
“Anyways, maybe we throw the farm boys a party too?” I change the subject.
“That could be a good use to this place. Any rules against it in your rental agreement?”
“As long as I don’t damage the property, we’re all good.”
WE THREW a party that first weekend.
We got the rooks so wasted that they didn’t know the ground from the sky. In the garage of the house was a box of women’s clothing labeled ‘Goodwill’ and decided to make the guys do a fashion show in their drunken state. Eventually, the party calmed down, while some of the guys leave and the rest of them just pass out.
Luckily, the team has the day off tomorrow - so the lazy and hungover guys all linger well into the afternoon when Bent and I are grilling up some food.
“Did you hear Skip and one of the team therapists hooked up over the off season?” Bently asks.
“No shit? I thought the fucker was a priest since his divorce last year. Which therapist? The brunette or the redhead?”
“Whichever worked on you last year during your PT from that knee injury.” Bently says pointing to my right knee.
I had taken a hit from a ball being thrown from Denver’s pitcher to third when I was stealing a base straight to my knee. It was an 80 mile per hour ball that almost shattered my kneecap, but luckily, I escaped with a nasty bruise and on the bench for the rest of the series that week. The PT that worked on me had amazing hands that rivaled my own and could kill me if she really wanted to. I’m thinking she was a Russian hit woman in her previous life. She’s hardcore scary looking.”
“That’s Deidre. She is the redhead, fucking crazy strong. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she added to the bruising that I had from that injury with her super human strength. I’m sure the Skip is loving it.” I laugh.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he was into some kinky shit.”
“Who’s into kinky shit?” Hendrickson, the center fielder asks siding up to the BBQ.
“Your mom.” I reply.
“So original, Gun,” he replies sarcastically.
“Dude, I was up late. I have no witty comebacks, so you get all the old re-processed shit.”
“So, I overheard one of the coaches talking and they mentioned your name.” Hendrickson says to me.
“Oh yeah, and what were they saying?”
“You’re a free agent, right?” He asks.
“Yep. I broke ties with my old agent, as he was shady as fuck. Why do you ask?”
“They were talking about trades.” He says.
MY MOVEMENTS FREEZE as I hear the word ‘trade,’ and with my beer against my lips, I take a long
CHUG AND CLEAR MY THROAT.
“WELL, FUCK.”
