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“Probably somewhere.” I think about what Ez said and my pitching lately. “I ran into Brie the other night after the game.” As much as I don’t want to admit the sudden pitching slump I’m in, it has everything to do with Brie. Girls can really fuck you over. And it’s always the innocent ones who destroy you because you’re least expecting it. It’s like seeing a short skinny kid come up to bat thinking it’s going to be a base hit, maybe a pop-up, hit short to left field, and they drive one out of the park.
You’re never expecting it, but it happens.
“Oh yeah?” Ez sets his bowl on the coffee table and leans back, adjusting his robe, and continues texting someone.
I sit next to him and stare at the ball in my hand, running my fingertips over the stitching. Baseball got me through a childhood where my mom basically handed me off to anyone willing to watch me. It got me through the death of my best friend when I was seven and through a rough freshman year, but it hasn’t gotten me through this.
Why? Had the game given up on me, or was it back to that old saying my dad told me. Baseball gives you what you deserve, good or bad.
Maybe.
With his attention on his phone, he kicks my leg. “What did she say?”
“Acted all fucking innocent. Gave me some bullshit about loving baseball over her.”
“Bitch ain’t wrong, but why they all always pull out that goddamn line?”
“No idea.” Leaning forward, I sigh into my hands. I don’t need to be thinking about Brie, or women in general. I need to focus on why my fastball is suddenly the most hittable pitch in the league and where I went wrong. We’re two games into our series with Oregon State, and it ain’t looking pretty. “Ready?”
Ez sets his phone down, and I notice that he’s texting Remi. “Sure. Let me put some shorts on.”
I reach for my bag on the floor. “Are you dating Remi now?”
“No way.” With a shrug, the robe falls to his feet. I advert my eyes. He’s buck-ass naked again. “We’renotdating. I give her a base hit every once in a while.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m assuming he’s talking about a one-night stand here and there. But this is Ez, could be anything like drowning boneless babies. “Isn’t she dating that banker dude?” I’ll admit, Remi, she’s fucking hot. I’d probably be trying for a base knock with her, too, if I could. Long legs, blonde, absolutely gorgeous. And not in a stuck-up way either. Can’t say she’s all that bright, but fuckable nonetheless.
“Oh, probably.” After yanking on shorts, he grabs a shirt from the couch I’ve been sleeping on for the last three weeks. “He ghosted her though. She’s freakin’ the fuck out.”
There’s a reason why Ez doesn’t date. We have something in common.
Women fuck us over.
Senior year of high school, just as he was thinking of signing with the Dodgers, his girlfriend got pregnant. So he turned down the offer, and then she left him for turning it down and had an abortion. He hasn’t heard from her since.
Now he has absolutely no interest in dating, wraps it up, and never calls a girl back. Aside from Remi. And only because she’s dating someone else, so he figures there’s no attachment, so it’s all good.
Maybe I need to find someone who’s looking for some on the side? That way, there’s no chance of attachment.
My mind immediately goes back to the chick with the cold brew. She’s married. From what she said. Too bad I didn’t get her number.