9. Callaway
9
CALLAWAY
King: Fuck. I can’t feel my legs. Who pissed Leggins off yesterday and made him go ape shit on us?
Bodhi: Go away.
Cal: You know he’s grumpy in the morning if he doesn’t have his chamomile tea first thing. Isn’t that right, Kingston baby?
King: I’m very in tune with my manhood. My legs hurt, and I didn’t sleep a lick. Gus’s side piece was fake moaning like a dying cat all night.
Gus: Rumor has it there’s a new girl in the mix. No idea who, but I overheard Tenley going off on someone in the bullpen over the new girl’s office being trashed. No idea why Leggins would care tho.
Gus: Wait, bro. That’s creepy.
King : hahahahahahaha
Bodhi: Children. That makes no sense. What’s with the early wake-up? And what are you doing spying on Tenley, Gus?
Mack: It’s Friday, ladies. Clean up your vaginas and hit the weights in thirty.
Gus: I was gonna ask her to rate my dimples on a scale of 1-10. Making her blush gets my dick hard .
Bodhi: Eating a brick sounds better than this conversation.
Bodhi has left the chat.
King: In that case, I can’t wait to see what Navy’s got on today. Happy Friday, boys.
Cal: Better swing with both eyes open, King.
You’d think they’d save the dick whipping for the clubhouse, but trash talk knows no limits in baseball. Family is a hard limit. You don’t shit where you eat. There’s plenty of fish in the sea and all that.
Kingston must be ready to meet his maker.
Without a doubt, that was the most random way to wake up. Their actions are usually questionable, but they’re the best dudes I know. After being drafted to the Major Leagues at twenty-four—still young in most cases to be drafted, it was the first time in my life I had a sense of community other than the three who helped piece me back together. We’re a tight-knit team, the Atlanta Boys. A fan created the name for my guys and me, and it’s stuck ever since. They've been my constant Day Ones. We stay out late, train, celebrate, and rage together. We're teammates always. But we couldn’t be more different if we tried.
Today was actual hell.
We’re all strung out, reeling from the brutality of practice. After King’s early morning wake-up call, thirty minutes was all we had before hitting two hours of weight training and a three-hour practice—all fielding drills.
And, lucky for me, an extra hour of pitching to end the day.
I can’t forget to stop at the grocery store sometime this week. The guys sent over the most random list of things they need. That’s one of the unfortunate disadvantages of having roommates. My only need is a bag of ice to soothe my sore elbow.
King was spot on about Leggins’s mood lately.
Something is going on with him, and it’s not something as simple as a new hire. I know that much is true.
My gut is telling me to check on him. His wife, Taylor, is at the front of my worrying thoughts.
This is the moment after practice when the team is beaten down and ready for hot showers. Except it almost feels similar to when you get home after a long drive, your legs need to be stretched, and you’ve got to piss really bad, but you can’t get yourself to get out of the car because it feels like too much effort. That’s this moment right now.
Our bodies are dragging like dead weights.
One glance over at Mack, and I roll my eyes.
The dude is beyond predictable. He’s got his nose shoved in our stats spreadsheets, doing what I know to be his after-practice ritual. Mack Manning is our team captain and first baseman. He’s carefully constructed and always wears an angry face that only enhances the veins straining against his forehead. He’s known for saving face, yet we all know he loves big.
My eyes drift over to Bodhi.
He’s seated on the wooden bench of his locker with his All-Star jersey displayed above his head. He’s sheltering himself with his head hanging between his legs, thick headphones over his ears and a fidget spinner circling his thumbs. Bodhi thrives on constant motion. It’s evident his mind demonizes his thoughts. He’s been in the game as long as I have and is probably the closest thing to a brother I’ve got. He’s also the best damn catcher Atlanta has ever contracted.
Heavy grunting steals my attention when I find Gus plowing through muscle-ups on the pull-up bar. His name serves him well because August Graves should probably be knee-deep in the grave by now. As our team's third baseman, “Gus” is a dedicated machine. The cannon that is his arm is incredibly impressive, and the cocky fucker knows it.
Laughter in the middle of an exhausted locker room is the last thing you’d expect to hear after the beating we endured. I turn to find King sprawled out on the massage table near our therapy offices. There’s a reason he’s got the best attitude on the team; he doesn’t take life too seriously and does whatever he wants without apologizing. Kingston “King” Baylor stands tall as the Striker’s shortstop. The guy has got to be six-seven on an off day; he’s not only a giant in the physical sense. He’s also a giant in matters of the heart.
The energy in the dugout was low last season after a devastating loss against the Titans. Leggins was even silent, and that says everything if even he isn’t feeling hot-headed. Surprising us all, King sprinted out of the dugout, tugging his soaked-in-sweat undershirt off, and stripped down to nothing but his boxers and cleats. All heads in the dugout shot up instantaneously as “Get Your Freak On” by Missy Elliot started blasting out of the overhead stadium speakers.
Thankfully, the stands were cleared out already.
My body couldn't help but fling forward into overwhelming laughter at the sight of King running the bases in his Calvin Klein underwear, dropping to each base as he passed and humping the bags.
Pissy attitudes were long forgotten because the entire team was fleeing the dugout in their underwear and tackling the insane savage to the ground. The loss was nothing but a blip in the past. King’s ability to bring light to such a shitty night has now become a tradition for the team.
We are the Atlanta Boys, the ones to beat, on and off the field.
Tomorrow is Thursday, and our favorite club in Atlanta, Delta, features Ladies Night.
Clubbing is not my scene, but it gives me a chance to let loose, have fun with the guys, and possibly meet someone. I say meet someone because I don’t have time for fucking and forgetting. I’m a thirty-year-old bachelor who lives with his buddies and travels for work. Not that I see the traveling for work part changing anytime soon, I love my job, but I’d like the bachelor and roommate part to change sooner rather than later.
I may be in the minority for my age if Gus plays as an example, but I want to build a life with someone. I want the kids, the house, the dogs; I want it all. It’s not much to ask.
I’m being selective, and I won’t apologize for that.
If meeting Dakota the other day made me realize anything, it’s that my body is a live wire around that woman. It recognizes her and wants to get close to her. I’ve never had my dick ache so painfully from seeing her full and curvy bottom stretched thin in those jeans—men like me feed off attraction and it’s no secret that woman has it going on. But that’s the thing; when I’m around her, all I want to do is talk to her and ask mundane questions I shouldn’t care about, but I do.
Dakota is the entire package. She’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s smart and witty, traits similar to the ones my mother has. I guess it’s true that men are oftentimes drawn to women similar to their mothers. In this case, I’m not mad about it. I wish our situations were different, that’s all.
I can’t let myself go there, though. Attempting to start anything with her is bound to kill me. She’s still finding herself after surviving something , and that can’t end well for a man ready to meet a woman and give her his all.
Yet, she’s bitter with an edge, and I find it oddly captivating. However, she’s got a lot to figure out within herself. As much as I’d love to throw caution to the wind and base my decisions on my personal intrigue, she isn’t ready for that.
It’s in my best interest not to lose sight under her alluring spell.
Meeting someone and getting this raging set of blue balls taken care of could set me straight and get the stubborn little vixen out of my head—but, unfortunately, that’s no longer my style. My playboy ways are in my past.
I’ve got plans. And I’m not willing to change them.
But a fun night with the guys sounds like a good time.
I send a text to confirm we’re still on.
Cal: Ladies' Night at Club Delta tomorrow. 8 PM. You in?
King: Say less, brother.
Bodhi: Fine. I’m only staying an hour tho. Don’t push me on it.
Gus: Time to get hammered! Tequila and titties boys. It's a lethal combination.
Mack: I’ll be DD for you girls. Don’t trust you to tuck yourselves into bed at a decent hour. Friday’s scrimmage is a big deal. See u tomorrow at 8.