Chapter 17 Jed
SEVENTEEN
JED
I somehow manage to get my shower in, snag some post-game grub, and sneak out of the clubhouse without running into Michaels. Aided by the fact that I’m avoiding him.
We’ve lost our last six games. It’s dark in that locker room right now.
The guys are either subdued or on edge. I’ve never seen Olander and Devereux so quiet.
I’d appreciate it if the reason for it didn’t suck so bad.
Even Araujo and Thompson have been sniping at each other, and those two are tight as fuck.
I throw my keys in the bowl on my kitchen island and head straight for the living area a few steps away.
It’s a small open-concept one-bedroom apartment with the bedroom and bathroom down the small hall at the back of the kitchen.
It’s in an old factory converted into living spaces—industrial and minimalistic with lots of brick.
Serves its purpose as a place to crash at night.
The Clippers provide furnished housing for us, but I wanted my own private space, and even though I make jack all shit as a minor league ballplayer…money’s something I won’t ever have to worry about because of Dad.
I fall back onto my couch and stare at the blank TV screen that takes up nearly the entire wall.
It’s been a shit fucking day. That was probably the worst baseball I’ve ever played in my life.
The skipper’s words slice through me. You think you’ll get the call-up playing like that? I definitely fucking won’t.
Everything was going so well with Henderson. I let out a strangled yell. God fucking dammit!
I know Dominguez said tonight, but if I were to see that sunshine smile, I have a feeling we’d be making the opposite of progress. The last thing I can handle is spending time with that ball of energy. Another time. Another day. When my anger has cooled and rationality has drifted back in.
He’s so damn infuriating. Is it really necessary to smile that much? Though he did snap at me at training on Monday. It was only a second before his life is full of sparkles and cupcakes expression was firmly back in place. Which only irked me more. I don’t even know why.
I bang my head against the back of the couch a couple times.
All I’ve got in me right now is the ability to be an asshole.
Maybe I should just go to bed. The if only’s are creeping in.
If only I hadn’t fallen for that curveball when I had bases loaded in front of me in the fourth.
If only my throw had been closer to the bag in the sixth when we had two outs and I could have ended the inning—before they went on to score three more runs.
Missed the out by inches. Less than that. That’s what this game comes down to.
If only Michaels and I could get on the same fucking page.
There’s a knock on my door, and I blink at it for what must be an entire minute. The knock sounds again. No one ever knocks on my door. I’m not sure how many people even have my address. On the third knock, I finally get myself off my ass and answer the door.
My shoulders slump.
“Sup, Pebbles.” Michaels throws me that mile-wide grin. His golden curls brush the collar of his black jacket, and he ruffles a hand through them, scattering the curls and my brain along with them.
I growl, and his grin widens. I really cannot handle him right now. I go to close the door in his face because I’m polite like that. He catches it with his foot and somehow slithers himself through the opening.
“What do you want, Surfer Boy?” I don’t hold back any of my displeasure in seeing him. Not that I think he’d take the hint anyway.
“I’m here to hang out, bestie.” He bounces his eyebrows. “Coach’s orders.”
“Absolutely not. I don’t have time for this. I need to get out of my fucking head and rest so I’m ready for when we get back on the field. Braiding each other’s hair and making friendship bracelets isn’t going to help our game.”
His blue eyes light up. They’re fucking incandescent. My heart stutters.
“Pebbles! That is a brilliant idea. I am definitely making us friendship bracelets.”
Oh no. No. Nopeeee. Abort. Because I wouldn’t put it past Surfer Boy. He’s already got enough bracelets on. He’d go home and make some with, like, Jed + Shane BF4E or some shit.
“I don’t do jewelry.”
He arches a brow, and his gaze drops to my pecs, then darts to my ear. Okay. Small lie.
“I don’t do bracelets.”
“Yet.” He smirks. “Maybe that’s exactly what you need. Mr. Grumpy Wumpy needs some bro-love.”
God help me. What did I do to deserve this? I need to find a way to get rid of this guy. Maybe a quick beer, then I can shake him. Except I have a feeling Michaels has sucker fish tendencies and would be nearly impossible to get rid of.
But… Maybe not a beer here. A beer out. At a place where he’ll want to leave quickly, maybe even right away. A grin spreads across my face and his fades. I hold back my snort. He’s probably in shock from never having seen me smile before.
“Fine, Surfer Boy. You want to become besties? Let’s go grab some beers.” He eyes me warily as I grab my keys off the kitchen island counter. “Or are you having second thoughts?”
That puppy grin slides back into place. “Nah, no second thoughts. Just thought you maybe got possessed for a minute there. You, like, smiled.” He does a ta-da motion with his hands, like something magical happened. “I hadn’t realized you knew how to do that.”
I know how to smile. The world just hasn’t given me any reason to in a long time.
I brush past him into the hall. “Follow me.”
“Am I driving or you?” He hurries to my side.
“Me. I know the perfect place for us to go. It’s one of my favorite bars.”
I bite back another smile. Pretty Boy has no idea what he’s in for.
It really is one of my favorite bars. It just so happens to be a gay bar.
If he doesn’t go running when we get to the door, one beer and getting hit on by Alfonso should do the trick.
Alf is the bartender and picks up half the people he serves.
Me included. Been there, done that. I don’t like to do repeats if I can help it.
That and you don’t piss where you eat, you know?
Would get messy if I kept hooking up with the bartender at the place I like to pick up other guys.
I park my Range Rover in the parking garage, and we head down the block to the bar.
The city lights are bright in the night, life rumbling all around us.
The thrum of vehicles, an occasional honk of an angry driver, and chatter spill onto the block as doors open and close.
It’s finally feeling more like spring now.
I wear a light leather jacket, but the bite has gone from the air.
“So, why’s this one of your favorite bars?”
Hmmm. What to admit. “The atmosphere,” I go with. Which isn’t a lie.
The staff are awesome, and the bar itself is this eclectic mix of decor that shouldn’t go together yet does. It’s like it’s taken all things that shouldn’t belong and made a home for them, and somehow it fits. Suppose there might be a message there.
We pause before Cox and Company, the rainbow neon sign that says “Gay Bar” making it impossible to miss what clientele this place serves.
“Here we are,” I say chipperly.
The lights of the bar reflect off his impossibly wide eyes. I smile to myself. Got him—
Michaels bounds forward and, before I can blink, disappears inside. I gape. Or…don’t got him.
I shake off my stupor and follow him. He’s mid planting his ass in a seat at the bar. Alf is already bee-lining for Michaels like a hound on a fox. Fresh blood—or so he thinks. And Shane Michaels is p-fucking-retty.
I amble toward the bar, passing tables, stools, and chairs of all different designs: from wood to leather to fabric. I’m pretty sure they’re sourced from a resale furniture shop in Providence where part of the proceeds go to charity. It’s cozy and charming, and some of the bad of today fades.
The ceiling is covered in rainbow streamers and glow lights and pinatas. Yes, pinatas. And every Friday they set one up to kick off the weekend with a bang. The pinatas are filled with condoms and lube packets. Go figure. The floor above the bar is the club area.
I suppose I shouldn’t be all that surprised the gay bar didn’t scare Michaels off. He is the love is love type, and he’s friends with Nebiolo, who is clearly an ally…or more.
Well, if the gay bar itself didn’t do it, Alfonso will.
It’s all fun and games, even for straight boys who believe love is love, until they’re actually hit on.
Alf slides a beer over to Surfer Boy—who is still all smiles.
His fingers linger on Michaels’s. But that pretty smile doesn’t slip.
Alf leans forward and whispers something.
Michaels throws his head back and laughs.
And the look Alf rakes over him is downright hungry. I scowl. What the literal fuck?
I stomp over. Surfer Boy is eating up the attention.
Tossing his hair back, flashing his dimples.
I should have known better. I should have known this man couldn’t care less who is giving him attention; as long as he’s the center of it, he’s happy.
And that makes it all worse. Because he’s the kind of guy who leads other men on just to drop the I’m straight card later, leaving you with nothing but disappointment and blue balls.
That’s the only reason I let out a growl when I sit down next to him at the bar. It has nothing to do with the green-eyed monster taking up residence in my gut. Because that would be absurd.
Alfonso’s violet gaze snaps to mine, and it’s awfully knowing. Those violet contacts pop against his dark hair that’s currently tied up in a messy bun. I glare at him, and he laughs before disappearing, then quickly reappears with my usual—a double IPA, Sip of Sunshine to be exact.