Part of me wanted to kill him. Part of me wondered what had just happened. I was still wrestling with wanting to wring out that little bitch, and I was watching myself act like a fucking animal.
I was pulled into the showers. Dropped on a wood bench.
“All right, all right!” Youder shouted, arms out, body between me and the guys who had dragged me off that asshole. “Everyone out!”
Grumbling. Hand-slapping.
Randy’s a dick.
First day. Always fucked up.
See you out there.
When it was just him and me, Youder sat next to me.
“I lost control,” I said. “I’ll write him a fucking note.”
“He’s a moron.”
“I’m going to get fined.”
“Yup. And you’ll pay it.”
“Do my penance.”
“You got a real control problem, Shortie.”
I faced him. I was in a towel, and he looked spit-shined.
“Winnie was born in March,” he continued, mentioning his daughter. “I had this adjustment period. A full fucking season with my head in my ass.”
“That was three years ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Man, I practically had to play the bag for you.”
“I know. And fuck you. Because we cover for each other. I had a new baby, shithead. I wasn’t sleeping. Dana wasn’t taking care of her usual because she had the baby. I wasn’t eating what I usually did. Wasn’t working out at the regular time. I wasn’t doing any shit I was supposed to. Worst batting average in my career. And the errors? Well, you know about those.”
Every word he said wound me up. My heart was inside a wire coil, and he was twisting it.
“I’m not changing anything, all right?” I said.
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Everything is the same.” I wasn’t shouting, but my voice couldn’t have been more definite. He had to believe me. Had to. “I’m not doing anything different than any good year I’ve had.”
“How long can you keep that up?”
I stood. This was the shittiest day on record. “Forever, all right? Until I retire. Whichever comes first.”
I went out to the dressing room, snapping off my towel.
Fuck him and his shitty story.
Fuck Randy and his mouth.
Fuck Vivian’s sweet cunt and that laugh and her goddamned kindness.
I wrestled myself into my clothes. I had a date tonight. The same date I always had. And I had to replace the girls I’d lost in Oakland and New York because change was an error. It was a swing and a miss. It was a failure of effort.
I didn’t have room to fail.
thirty-three
Dash
The Westin was nice. It was always nice. They’d changed a couple of the couches, but otherwise it was the same lobby I’d crossed at 6:58 p.m. on the first day of spring training every year since year two of my pro career. That was when everything had clicked into place. When being celibate stopped working and having * on me made me play better.
Pussy was the antidote to miscalculation.
Suite #19. My number. The door was ajar. That was part of Janice’s turn-on. She was on the bed with her legs spread, wearing nothing but a smile. Someone could come in and see her naked.
I locked the door and turned the corner of the suite. I made sure she could hear me. I whistled as I dropped my stuff, took off my jacket. I made sure my buckle clacked when I undid it. Opened my fly and untucked my shirt on the way to the bedroom.
A single yellow nightstand light was on.
She was there, all smiles. Legs spread. Tits pointing up. Hands grasping the headboard. I slipped my belt out of the loops and threw it on the end of the bed. I’d use that later.
“Hi,” she said. Her knees dropped another quarter inch as she relaxed.
I could see how wet she was, and I had a raging boner to match. “Hey.”
“Wanna fuck?” she purred.
I approached the side of the bed.
The answer was yes. Yes, I wanted to fuck. Yes, I wanted to have another .400. Yes, I wanted to lead the league in double plays, and yes, I wanted to come inside and all over her.
But not really.
She turned and made a pouty duckface, and the first thought that came to mind wasn’t anything like, “I’m going to put my cock right between those lips,” but, “Vivian doesn’t make stupid fake faces like that.”
And when she said, “Feed my *,” and bit her lip, I didn’t want to come back with more dirty talk. I wanted to laugh.
Janice and I didn’t laugh.
If Vivian ever told me to feed her *, I’d laugh. She’d laugh. We’d fuck. I’d feed her * all night, laughing.
If I fucked Janice, there was no more laughing with Vivian. I couldn’t go back to her with or without an apology.
If I fucked Janice or anyone else, the door back to Vivian was closed.
Everyone’s going to laugh at you.
They’re going to talk about you.
Feel sorry for you.
Are you ready to bat .200?
Are you ready to fuck up?
Are you ready for the slump?
I seized. I wasn’t ready for that. I reached for Janice’s knee to open her legs and stopped before I touched her, leaving my hand hovering.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Not yet, baby.”
“Thank you for all the good years. We had some great times.”