1. A Good Tool is Hard to Find
1
A GOOD TOOL IS HARD TO FIND
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A Few Weeks Prior
Repeat after me—dating doesn’t suck.
That mantra plays on a loop in my head as I finish getting ready to meet up with a cute guy for a beer.
I put on a splash of woodsy aftershave, a stylish button-down that hugs my guns, and the clincher—a change in my tune.
There.
I’m dressed and all set to flip the script in my head. The one that used to say tonight will turn into another date that I hate.
Hell, I’ll willpower the opposite into existence. Tonight will end a string of outings that qualify for a clickbait headline of You won’t believe the things that happened to this pro athlete on a date!
I head to the door of my penthouse, then check my reflection in the mirror by the exit.
I even smile.
I am a new man.
Out in the hall, I press the button for the elevator and boom. It’s already here. I’ll take that as a good sign, thank you very much.
On the ride down from the twentieth floor, I shut out every negative thought about how hard it is to connect with someone these days. Really, these years .
As the elevator slows at the seventh floor, I’m imagining nothing but good vibes tonight when the doors open on Luke Remington.
Oh, shit.
Normally, I’m all for seeing my friends. They’re my family in a lot of ways. But lately, my longtime buddy who’s also my neighbor has been getting under my skin. If I’m not careful, he’ll knock me out of my positive-attitude zone by pushing my buttons too hard.
I better bat first before he can throw a zinger my way.
Luke looks like he wants some action tonight. His black shirt is tight. His blue jeans are tighter. There. I’ll use those obvious clues. “I guess you’re off to chess club,” I say dryly.
“Sex is like chess. You gotta know how to take a king,” he quips, and damn, he’s fast on his feet. Faster still when he eyes my attire, then says, “But I didn’t know you went to church.”
He’s setting me up. Of course he’s setting me up. That’s what we do. I try to keep my cool as the doors close. “Not dressed for the lord, Luke.”
“Are you sure?”
“Unless you count ending the night with a long string of oh gods , then I’m positive.”
“Huh. Just seems you’re clearly praying for a miracle.”
Don’t play in his trash-talk sandbox. It only winds you up.
But I’m not a quitter. I gesture to his jeans. They make me feel like I already know him carnally. “And you’ll clearly be praying to find a crowbar under the bed to peel those off you tonight.”
Smirking, Luke plucks at the waistband. “Are you offering, Sloan?”
I scoff. “You wish, Remington.”
“Yes, that’s my wish. I’ll be wishing that you’d finally come knocking on my door with your crowbar to help me out of my clothes. Then, I could shut you up with my …crowbar,” he taunts, gesturing to his pelvis.
Whoa. That is a very specific retort, and I wasn’t expecting it. I’m not usually surprised off the baseball field, but I’m knocked out of the zone now, entertaining images I shouldn’t, just like I did that time at Rapture.
Maybe I’m quiet too long since Luke flashes me his widest grin, then says, “Guess I won.”
I blink, trying to clear my head. “What were we even playing?” I ask, since I’m still trying to eradicate thoughts of…tools.
“The game we always play,” he says as he claps my shoulder, gripping me hard. Borderline rough. And that doesn’t help slow the onslaught of images either. “Besting my bud.”
And…I needed that reminder. A lot .
We’re playing the game we’ve played since we met one random morning in Central Park a couple years ago. We were out for a run, two athletes in the city, bonding over what it took to get the best job ever done. We support each other through the ups and downs, then trash talk the fuck out of each other.
Trouble is, these casual touches and fiery zingers are putting me in the wrong mood for my date.
Once we reach the lobby and exit the building together, I give him a curt chin nod, eager to leave him in the dust. “Good luck with the crowbar search. There’s a hardware store on Lexington that’s open late,” I say, then flip him the bird—in a friendly way, of course—and walk in the other direction up Madison Avenue on a scorching July evening.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shrug off that interaction with a friend—an interaction that shouldn’t leave me feeling so…frustrated.
Maybe it’s just the summer heat. My shirt is already sticking to me. That has to be what’s irking me. But it was hotter than the equator when we played the San Diego Devils this afternoon, and the heat didn’t bug me as much then.
A few seconds later, Luke catches up to me and sets that hand on my shoulder again. That’s not fair. Not fair at all. “Hey, seriously, Sloan. Good luck tonight,” he says, dropping his brash act.
I do the same, offering a friendly smile. “Yeah. You too.”
“Who’s the guy? I’m getting a beer with some dude I met at the gym,” he continues, a little sheepishly, letting down his guard some more. “You?”
“Some guy I met at my gym,” I say with a laugh over our parallel lives.
“When did dating stop being exciting?” he asks.
Maybe somewhere between my last heartbreak and the string of terrible dates I’ve been on recently?
“I ask myself that question far too often,” I admit. “But I’ve got to improve my attitude if I’m going to have any chance of getting laid.”
Truth be told, I’m not only interested in sex, though I am very interested in sex. But I’d like to meet someone I connect with for real. Someone who’s into the real me, not the guy who bats third and peddles fancy wristwatches on billboards. Too bad I haven’t met a guy in ages who meets those basic qualifications.
Hence, dating sucks.
“I can help with that. Your attitude, that is,” Luke says, and I’m halfway intrigued but then brace myself for more playful insults. Instead, Luke says earnestly, “Tomorrow night when we go out with the guys, whoever had a better date buys a round?”
That wasn’t what I’d expected, but I do like a good competition. “How will we determine who had a better date?”
“Sloan, my friend. There is only one metric of a better date.”
“Sex,” I say, right as he answers with, “A second date.”
Oh.
Well, there is that.
“Fair enough,” I say, then extend a hand to shake, making sure not to linger too long. “You’re on.”
Maybe a little dating contest will turn my dating fortune around.
I love being right.
Right about when to swing at a curveball and go long.
Right about snagging a scorcher up the middle of the infield.
And right about chemistry at the gym turning into chemistry at the bar here tonight.
I am so going to best Remington in our date contest, and I can’t wait for tomorrow to rub it in his face. Jamie, the cute guy from the gym who has a hell of a smile, is outgoing, flirty, and even easier on the eyes than I remembered from our chat by the cardio machines the other day.
He asked me out shortly after he stepped off the StairMaster, saying, “Gyms are good for working out, but bars are better for chatting. Can I take you out for a beer this week?”
I gave him points then for boldness, and tonight I’m awarding him points for convo skills. Here at the sleek silver counter, he lifts his beer, giving it a serious stare. “Confession: I googled fun facts about beer before our date.”
I smile, digging the direction of the conversation. “And what did you learn?”
“Beer dates back to 5000 BC, and if you spend too much time talking about hops on a date, you sound like a douche,” he says.
“Bet you didn’t need to google that last one,” I offer.
With his free hand, he taps his temple. “Figured that out all on my own.” He knocks the rest of his brew back, then sets down the glass. “How am I doing?”
Surprisingly good. “Hmm. I might need another before I render a verdict.”
His brown eyes twinkle, and he motions to the bartender. With a chin nod, the bartender indicates he’ll be on his way in a minute.
“My new goal? I want to end tonight with a ten out of ten from you,” Jamie says, then flashes me another delicious smile.
His smiles make me, well, smile. So that’s nice too. “And how do you think you’re doing so far?” I ask. Not gonna lie. I’m hoping this date turns into another one.
He strokes his jaw, then says, “Seven out of ten. But I like to give myself room to wow a date.”
Wow me. Please fucking wow me. I haven’t been wowed in a long time.
When the bartender swings by, Jamie asks for another round. We chat the whole way through our second drinks, talking mostly about hobbies. He likes to take photos. I like to play golf. I’m grateful we haven’t hit the inevitable what do you do question. I’m guessing Jamie might have figured out my job already. I’m not entirely low profile, playing shortstop for a World Series-winning team.
But it’s cool that he’s not harping on about it. Or asking me a gazillion questions about baseball and fame, or asking me to sign his shirt after I sign the check. That’d be a nightmare.
He’s so cool, in fact, that I’m gearing up at the end of this drink to ask him out again. Then I will get to collect my winnings in front of Luke Remington tomorrow night.
Speaking of Luke, how’s his date going?
Is he having as good a time as I am? Is he vibing with his guy? Will he take him home and shut up his mouth with his morecock?
I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly itchy for no reason. Don’t want to be scratching my skin like a dog with fleas.
As the date wraps up, I try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling and focus on the best way to ask out Jamie for round two. When the bill comes, I cover it, then we head outside. “So, Jamie are you fr?—”
But he’s faster. “Listen, I’ve been dying to ask you this all night.”
Oh, sweet. I don’t even have to do it. He’s there already. “Sure, go for it.”
Jamie whips out his phone, lines up next to me, shoulder to shoulder, and lifts his device. “My friends will never believe I scored a date with Number Twenty-One on the Comets unless I show them a pic.”
Jamie snaps the selfie so fast, I barely have time to think. It’s like an ambush executed by a double agent paparazzi. And I’d be an Athlete Behaving Badly if I grabbed his phone and deleted the image.
It’s harmless. It’s one photo. Let it go.
Once he’s done, I don’t give a flying fuck that I lost the bet with Remington.
“Can you wear your World Series ring next time?” he asks eagerly.
That’d be a hard no. I have no interest in a second date with a dude who only wants me for the number on my back.
“This was fun, Jamie. I’ll catch you another time,” I say, with the same smile I reserve for reporters shoving mics in my face after we lose a tough game.
I turn around and head home. So much for my attitude adjustment.
I’m thirty-three and at the top of my career, with more money than I know what to do with.
By most measures, I’m one of the luckiest guys in the world.
But I’m still fucking lonely.