Page 1 of Totally Played (Love In Play #5)

Chapter one

Calvin

“Where are all my underwear?” I yell.

“I grabbed the last pair this morning, sorry. You’ll have to do a wash,” Tony replies over the sound of the bathroom tap.

“They’re my underwear. What happened to all of yours?”

“They need to be washed, too.”

“I know we shared a womb for eight and a half months, but that doesn’t mean I have to share everything else in my life forever.”

He pops his head around the corner of the bathroom, his hair coated with far too much gel, and laughs. “Sure it does.”

Don’t get me wrong, having a twin brother is mostly awesome.

I grew up with my best friend, who just happened to look exactly like me.

We shared a room our entire childhood, our first car, and most of our wardrobe, because why buy two expensive leather jackets when we can split the cost and buy one to share?

We shared looks, interests, and for a brief time in college, we shared a girlfriend.

It’s not like it sounds. She liked us both.

It was college, and neither of us was monogamous, and although people suspected, we were not a throuple and have never been in a threesome or group thing together.

That was before Tony came out. And we share careers, sort of.

We both play Banana Ball, but on opposing teams. So, sharing has never been an issue for either of us, but I draw the line at underwear.

“You keep them all. I’m buying new ones and a padlock for my drawers.”

“You could just do the washing,” he says, like it’s my job to stay on top of all the chores.

“So could you,” I remind him.

“I did it last time.”

“Did not.”

“Did too. Remember, you complained that I made your boring white shirt green?”

Oh, okay, so he did do it last time, but I feel like he did a shit job on purpose to try to use it as an excuse the next time it’s his turn. What do they call that again? Oh, right, weaponized incompetence.

“Alright, fine. So technically, it’s my turn, but if we’re going on averages over the last month, you owe me about ten loads.”

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of my loads in the dirty washing.”

“Gross.”

“If you want me to do it, then it will have to wait until tomorrow. I’ve got a date tonight.”

“This the same guy as last night?” I ask, scrummaging through my other drawers in the hopes of finding underwear put in the wrong place.

It’s unlikely. I’m kind of a stickler for things being where they belong, and only where they belong.

My twin brother, on the other hand, will pick up something from the floor and sniff it to determine if it’s still good to wear.

“Nope, that was Brett. This is Lewis, or Larry, maybe Lenny. I’m not sure. I’ll check the new dating app before I get to the restaurant.”

I shake my head and pull on a pair of dark blue sweats without underwear.

“What was wrong with Brett?” I ask him. He seemed nice enough, from the two-minute chat we had in the kitchen before he left.

“Nothing, but if I want to boost my score on this new app, I need to give the other threes a shot.”

“Other threes? You get a score on that thing, like a ride share rating?”

“Sort of.”

“And you’re a three? Ouch. Please tell me it’s out of five at least?”

“Yes, it is actually, and before you get all high and mighty about rating people, there isn’t a score for looks or wealth or any of that shit.”

I laugh because, if I’m being honest, the next words out of my mouth were going to be exactly that.

I don’t do dating apps. I know a few of the guys on the team are on them, mostly so that when we play in different cities, they can hook up and honestly tell them they’re leaving town the next day.

Me, I’d prefer to meet a girl the old-fashioned way.

Like some meet cute grabbing the wrong coffee because she just happens to like Venti white chocolate mochas with caramel drizzle and an extra shot of espresso, too, or in a book shop, where we both go to grab the same book from opposite sides of the shelf and then she’ll spot me and smile and we’ll go for a drink or something.

Wishing for my own movie meet cute moment might be why I haven’t slept with anyone in almost a year, while my brother is on his third date this week.

“So what does it rate, then?” I ask.

He steps out of the bathroom wearing tight black jeans, a pink netted singlet, and the black leather jacket we bought in senior year. The leather is soft from wear and fits perfectly, even after seven years.

“If you’re on time, clean, can hold a conversation, friendly, all that shit.”

“So it’s basically checking to make sure you’re not an asshole?”

“Exactly, but you start at a two and have to work your way up, proving yourself with other twos until you move up in score. You can only see the profiles of others at your score or one up, or below. The guy tonight is a four, so if he rates me well, I should get enough points to move up to a four, too.”

“This seems like a lot of work.”

“Not really. Takes more time to order a ride home.”

“You call me to pick you up.”

“Exactly, and you sleep like the dead. Why are you in sweats?”

“I’m just going to hang here tonight. We’ve got warm-up early tomorrow.”

“So do we.”

“So maybe you should stay in, too?”

He scoffs and fiddles with his hair some more in the hall mirror, then grabs the keys to our shared green Honda Civic.

“I’ll drive myself tonight. Let you get your beauty sleep.”

“Be good.”

“Be evil,” he replies, closing the door behind him.

***

I kick the side of Tony’s bed; the naked ass of Mr. Number Four starts to roll, and I grab the sheet quickly and toss it over before I get an eyeful.

“Tony, I’m leaving in five minutes. Get your ass up,” I say, kicking the bed again.

He finally stirs, yawning and scrubbing his eyes with his hands.

“What time is it?”

“Seven. Come on, we’re due at the field in twenty.”

“Then I have fifteen more minutes,” Tony replies, hugging his pillow on his side with a grin.

Mr. Number Four rolls over to spoon him and then he spots me. He does a double take and leaps from the bed. I cover my eyes with one hand before I see too much.

“You’re…but you’re… what?”

“Kyle, meet my younger—”

“Older,” I immediately interject.

“Annoying,” Tony continues, “brother, Calvin. Calvin, this is Kyle.”

“Lyle,” he corrects, grabbing a pair of blue jeans on the floor and pulling them on. “Nice to meet you, umm, I should be going. Thanks for last night, it was…fun,” Lyle says, and then he’s out the door.

I kick the bed again.

“Four minutes.”

He reluctantly sits and pulls on my former underwear. “Do you have to be so loud?”

“Do you have to go out drinking the night before a game?”

“I had two drinks.”

I cock my eyebrows. “Bullshit, you look like death warmed up.”

“I feel like it, too. My head is splitting. Give me two minutes for an aspirin and a shower.”

I grab a towel hanging over his open drawer and toss it at him.

“Get in the shower, I’ll bring you the aspirin.”

After ten minutes, we’re finally out the door. Lucky for us, we live close to the field.

The loft apartment is one of twenty in the converted factory known as The Presses, after its original use one hundred years ago printing newspapers.

They didn’t do much to actually convert this place into apartments.

The floors are still concrete, except for the bathroom, three of the walls are exposed brick with peeling cream paint from fifty years ago, and the fourth wall is half covered in plaster that’s got a giant crack diagonally across.

Thankfully, it looks worse than it actually is.

I guess people pay good money to have this kind of grunge-chic living.

We pay moderate money to sub-let it from our cousin who’s travelling the world in what was supposed to be her leap year between high school and college, but she went viral online for one of her posts about a facial she had in Bangkok and now she’s travelling the world as a beauty influencer and paid ridiculously well for it, too.

She says it’s challenging work, but the photos she texts me of her cabana and tray of Mai Tai’s say different.

“Tony, you’re late,” my brother’s coach says before he spots my Funky Monkeys training shirt. “Sorry, Calvin, you’re late. Where’s Tony?”

“I know, sorry, Coach. Tony’s right behind me.

I’ll get out there,” I reply, dropping my bag at my locker and heading for the field.

I don’t bother addressing him, mistaking me for my brother, it happens too often to bother me now.

It’s game day, and we have warm-ups, a final run-through of the opening number, and then we have to shower and change for the meet and greet with the fans pregame.

“About time,” Duckie calls, tossing me a ball. “Pivot drills, let’s go.”

As a shortstop, I run through about five different drills every training session and lighter versions on warmup.

Pivot drills help my body get loosened up and flexible for when I have to pivot quickly to throw the ball.

I set myself up next to a pile of baseballs and plant my feet, arms in a ready position, then pivot and throw to Duckie.

“Again,” he calls, and I work through the pile before we move on to reaction drills and targets.

“Nice touch with the ducks,” I say, spotting the little yellow rubber duckies sitting on home, first, second, and third base.

“Now let’s see if you can hit any of them.” Duckie laughs, then tosses his first grounder. I catch it low and fire it off toward second base but miss the duck by a good foot.

“You can do better than that,” Duckie calls, and he throws another. It takes six more before I hit one of the ducks.

“Shouldn’t the targets be more like mid-height?” I ask, and Duckie scoffs.

“If you can hit the duck, you can hit the glove. Come on, I want a win today.”

“So do I. Okay, your turn,” I say as I throw Duckie a grounder. He grabs it quickly and sends it flying toward home plate and knocks the duck over in his first go.

“Yesss! See? It’s not that hard.”

“Okay, third base, ready, go.”

I throw the ball, he picks it up, pivots, and sends it down to third. It skims the top of the plate and takes the duck out with it. Fuck.

“Keep that up and we’ll win today for sure. You think you can knock the one off first, too?”

“Only one way to find out. Give it to me,” he says, bouncing on his toes. I throw the ball, and he grabs it, spins around, and throws it right toward first base.

“Yooooo,” he’s cheering before it even lands, but his celebration is short-lived when it hits the edge of the base and bounces clean over the duck.

“That should still count, I hit the base.”

“Did you hit the duck?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t count. Come on, my turn.”

He throws me a grounder, and I mirror his trick play, catching the ball and spinning in place before sending the ball toward first base. It’s a perfect shot, and it connects with the duck, sending it back flipping to the grass.

Coach claps, and I feel my face grow warm.

“Nice work, Calvin, let’s see if you can pull that off in the game. The crowd would love it,” he says with a nod, and Duckie slams into my side.

“Hey, Coach, what about me?” Duckie asks.

“Your spin needs work.” He laughs and walks over to Ryan, who’s pitching into the nets at the side.

Tim jogs my way. “Don’t listen to him, mate. Your spin was spot on, just need to work on the release. Lift your elbow up a tiny bit before release, and you’ll have it. I set him back up, go on, give it a go.”

Listening to Tim talk is like talking to a drunk Scotsman, with slang words only he knows, like arvo and knackered, and he swears in the middle of sentences for no other reason than to emphasize importance.

I don’t hate the accent, though. It reminds me of when we’d sit and watch Crocodile Dundee movies with dad.

He’d be throwing out the “That’s not a knife” line for days afterward.

Always makes Mom smile. Tim is the only Aussie on the team, and last year on our real-world tour, he got to show us around Sydney during Mardi Gras.

That was an experience, let me tell you.

I still pinch myself when I think about how many countries I’ve been to and the things I’ve seen.

Sure, a lot of the places we were short for time and got to see little more than the baseball field and airport, but a few places, like Australia, we had time to really explore.

Tim’s partner, Lion, organized for us to go on this big boat party for Mardi Gras, and it was incredible.

Duckie jogs back to where he was, and when he’s ready, I throw him the ball. He catches it, spins, and sends it down, and just like Tim suggested, with his elbow raised just a touch, the ball stays high enough to knock the duck right off home plate.

“Woooo,” Tim and I cheer, and Duckie runs toward us, launching himself into a hug like we’ve just won the whole game.

“Nice one, Grant,” Ian, Duckie’s boyfriend and press reporter for Unlaced, calls, and Duckie can’t hide his joy, ditching us and running over to thank him with a quick kiss.

Warm-ups are usually closed to anyone but players, but it’s game one, so the press are here watching, seeing who’s ready and who’s slacked off over break.

“Tony, pick up the pace,” one of the coaches calls, and I glance toward my brother. He’s running at half speed and still looks like shit. He really should have stayed in last night. I grab an energy drink from the cooler and take it over.

“You look like crap, brother,” I say, handing him the bottle.

“I’ll be fine. Just need to warm up.”

“You look pretty warm already,” I say, holding my hand against his head. “You’re burning up.”

“I was just jogging, I’m fine,” he replies, swatting my hand away. I don’t know if it’s a twin thing or a brother thing in general, but I know he’s lying.

“You’re sick. You can’t play today.”

“I’m not sick. You’re being overprotective. Just leave it.”

“Fine. I’ll leave it,” I say, turning and walking back over to Duckie and Tim.

“What’s his problem?” Tim asks as they glance behind me.

“Hungover,” I lie, and they nod and get back to warming up. Tony wants to pretend like he’s totally fine. I can do that. For now.