28. Reid
TWENTY-EIGHT
REID
“The last time I threw a baseball, I was eight,” I say, fixing the brim of my hat. “I’m going to go ahead and apologize for the shit show that’s about to happen.”
“It’s for a good cause.” Maverick tucks in his jersey and bends down to lace up his cleats. “Who doesn’t love helping charity?”
“I’m all for helping charity, but making a fool of myself in front of five thousand people is going to be fucking embarrassing.” I take a sip of my Gatorade, like it’s going to make me an athlete. “When I’m slow around the bases, you guys can’t make fun of me.”
“Dallas isn’t fast,” Maverick says, clasping my shoulder. “He looks like a baby deer learning to walk when he starts running.”
“I heard that,” Dallas yells from around the corner. “And I run just fine, you asshole.”
“Dad said a bad word.” June looks up from her book and grins. “He has to put money in the swear jar.”
“You’re going to be rich, kid.” Maverick lifts her off the couch and spins her around. “I’m going to contribute a hundred bucks to the jar too. Just so you can really earn some dough.”
She grins and gives him a hug. “Thanks, Uncle Mav.”
“Sorry, JB,” I tell her. “I’m not rich like Mavvy, so he’ll put in an extra hundred on my behalf. Won’t you, Miller?”
Maverick rolls his eyes and digs out his wallet, handing June two crisp bills. “I swear people like to take advantage of me,” he grumbles.
“Is Avery coming today?” June asks, pocketing the money. “I liked her a lot and she’s very fun. I helped her wrap your office in the preseason. Mom says you could use someone like that in your life, Uncle Reid, so you should hang out with her some more.”
My office and the preseason game.
Fucking her on the couch.
Starting this friends with benefits arrangement that’s been the best thing of my fucking life.
I never thought I’d be thankful for cellophane, but I might have to buy some stock in their company as a thank you for ensuring I’m perpetually satisfied.
“You little devil. I don’t know if she’s coming,” I say. “It’s not her team, so she doesn’t have a reason to come.”
“Did you invite her?” Maverick asks.
“No. I mean, I guess I did? I told her it was happening and where to buy tickets. But we don’t do that sort of thing. We just—” I clear my throat and choose my next words carefully. “Hang out.”
He smirks. “Yeah? And how is the hanging out going?”
Fucking amazingly.
It’s simple and easy, full of mindless need.
Our hands are on each other the second she walks through the door and it feels like we’ve been doing this for years.
I’m living in a daze or some alternate reality.
It’s the only logical explanation for why my three-year slump of only having my hand to get me off is broken by having nonstop sex with a woman so far out of my league.
Avery sent me a photo a few days ago when the Thunderhawks were away in Pittsburgh. It was a half-lit shot from her hotel room, her fingers between her legs and her shirt riding up her chest.
I jerked off to it, some rare bout of spontaneity telling me to record myself and send it to her, and I was rewarded with another photo, closer up, with the words wish you were here written under it.
It works , and I don’t know why we didn’t start doing this earlier.
“The hanging out is going very well,” I say to Maverick. “We’ve settled into a groove.”
“And how are your feelings for her?”
“You like Avery?” June asks. “Like like her?”
“It’s not like that, kiddo. We’re… friends. Ah, friendly, I guess is the right way to describe it. She’s nice and all, but I don’t have feelings for her.”
“You need a girlfriend,” June says. “Everyone else has someone. Don’t you feel lonely?”
Kids and their lack of filters.
“I’m not lonely. I have plenty of things that make me happy. You. Your dad and mom. Mav and Emmy. My job. My LEGO collection and plants. Happiness isn’t defined by having a partner, June Bug,” I say.
“I know that. Mom tells me I can live alone with ten cats if I want to.” June wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want cats, though. I want dogs.”
“It’s a real shame your parents haven’t gotten you a dog yet,” Maverick says, raising his voice so Dallas can hear him from the bedroom. “You’ve only been asking for years .”
“I can’t wait until you become a father so I can give you a hard time,” Dallas says, appearing in the living room. He drops some money in the swear jar and kisses the top of June’s head. “Go get your backpack, sweetheart. We’re heading out in a minute.”
June takes off down the hall. When we’re alone, Maverick clears his throat. He avoids our gazes and looks at the ground.
“About, ah, the father thing,” he says, and we both stare at him.
“No fucking way,” I say.
“You’re fucking joking,” Dallas adds.
“Emmy and I had a long conversation the other night. We’ve both been back and forth on if we want kids for a long time, and, truly, life with her is enough. I don’t need anything else. I wake up every day, happy as shit, and I know I’m going to be happy for the rest of my life. But lately… I don’t know.” Maverick laughs. He runs a hand through his dark hair, and his palm shakes. “We agree that something is missing. With only two years left on her contract with Baltimore, we’re going to start trying for a baby next summer. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, we’ll keep playing and keep trying.”
“Holy shit .” Dallas wraps him in a tight hug. “Maverick Miller. A fucking dad . I never thought I’d see the day.”
“That’s Daddy to you,” he jokes.
“This is awesome, man.” I hug him too. “Look at you growing up.”
“When is it going to be your turn?” Maverick asks. “It feels weird I’m going through all these life changes while you’re single. You’re never single.”
“You had a phase in your life where you had fun with people without caring about the labels. I’ve never gone through that phase, and maybe now it’s my turn. To not think about five, ten years down the road, but just what I’m doing tomorrow.”
“Does Avery want kids?”
“No clue. That’s not really relevant to our situation,” I say.
“When you were dating Sheila, you had that conversation by your fifth date,” Maverick says.
“And I ended up with a broken engagement and a canceled wedding. Can you two stop meddling and let me be? I know this isn’t who I usually am. I know this isn’t who I’m going to be the rest of my life, but I’m having fun right now. We’re two consenting adults who know what we want. Who know the rules and the boundaries we’ve set up, and rely on honest and open communication to keep having fun. Let me fuck in peace. I didn’t give you shit when you were going through your playboy lifestyle before you met Emmy.”
“Fine.” Maverick holds up his hands. “I’ll drop it.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Now let’s get the hell out of here so I can embarrass myself.”
I hate playing sports.
I always have, ever since my dad taught me how to hold a tee ball bat when I was four years old.
All the other boys are signed up for baseball , he told me when I was in elementary school.
You can’t sit inside all day like a fucking pansy , he yelled at me when I locked my bedroom door and pulled out my laptop in middle school.
No woman is ever going to take you seriously if you don’t have some sort of athletic accolade under your belt, you goddamn fucking loser , he snarled when I begrudgingly decided to try out for my high school team and got cut the first day.
I tried.
I tried and I tried and I fucking tried to be an athlete, but I’m not. I’m uncoordinated and slow and so far from fucking graceful, it’s hysterical.
I hate standing in the sun.
I hate people watching me.
I hate swinging a bat and missing the ball and being embarrassed when I’m at the plate.
I hate it all, and even though I keep telling myself this is all for a good cause, my skin is prickly. My motivation is declining with every inning, and I can’t get out of here fast enough.
“You good, Plant Daddy?” Maverick calls out as he jogs to first base at the top of the fifth.
I start my trek to the outfield after three strikes and squint into the sun. “Fucking dandy.”
We set up FedEx Field with a baseball diamond, and Titans fans are out in full force today. They’ve filled the seats we opened up so they could get a glimpse of their favorite players. There’s a signing line scheduled for after the game, and I’ve already assigned one of the interns to be in charge of filming content for it.
I know they put me out here because I can’t catch to save my life, but standing alone and in the heat is not my idea of a good time.
I’m miserable, and I pull off my hat and wipe my forehead.
“Having fun?” someone yells from behind me.
I turn around and find Avery sitting in the row closest to the field. She has on a big sun hat that covers her head and a strappy little tank top that shows off her shoulders.
My throat goes dry at the sight of her.
“Have you been here the whole time?” I ask, jogging her way.
“Yup.”
“You aren’t melting? You should move to the section in the shade.”
“I can’t make fun of you from all the way over there.”
I snort and put my glove on my hip. “You haven’t talked any shit yet.”
“Because you haven’t done anything impressive. You could at least try to catch the ball, Duncan.”
“Want to come down here and show me how it’s done, Sinclair?”
Her grin is sly, and I hate that my dick twitches. “Don’t tempt me with a good time. I’m a fast learner.”
I flip her off and turn back to the field, trying to focus my attention to the game. Dallas strikes out, and Maverick cheers when he’s sent back to the dugout.
“Your ass looks nice in those pants,” Avery calls out.
“Stop distracting me,” I yell at her. “Do you have money on this game or something?”
“On the charity softball game?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nah. I like seeing you riled up. Is this how you look when you’re responding to me online? Red-faced with wrinkled eyebrows?”
I huff and crouch low, watching the next player take the mound. He swings and misses the first pitch, and I sigh.
“I hate playing sports,” I admit, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her scoot to the edge of her seat. “I’d much rather be inside playing my kind of games. This is my idea of hell.”
“You’d make a good athlete, though. You have very nice shoulders,” she blurts out, and I turn to look at her again. “And you’re strong.”
“Keep your tongue in your mouth,” I joke, and it’s her turn to throw a middle finger my way. “You don’t?—”
“Duncan!” Maverick screams. “The ball!”
I look at the infield, trying to figure out what’s going on. The batter, a running back from the Titans, is making his way to second base with a surprising amount of speed.
“Reid, the?—”
“I see it.” I lift my arm above my head and wait for the ball to drop in my glove.
Except, it doesn’t.
By the time I realize I’m too far left, the ball is six inches away from my face, and then everything goes black.