1. A Good Surprise
1
A GOOD SURPRISE
Zane Archer
I love baseball almost as much as I love my dick.
And first base is the perfect position for me on the field— I’m a talker and it’s Grand Central here.
Talking both keeps my visitors distracted and makes the time go faster. Like tonight, when I’ve been counting the minutes until I meet with my agent after the game.
Home stretch now, top of the ninth in a May night game. The Chicago batter slams a single to center and rolls up to first base.
“Hey, Santiago,” I say as he tags up. “Good to see you off the injured list.”
The opposing team’s shortstop gives me a baffled look as he pulls off his batting glove. “You’re thinking of someone else, man.”
“Huh,” I say, my eyes glued to the next batter taking a practice swing in the box. “I figured that was why I hadn’t seen you on base yet this series.”
He sighs, annoyed. “Fuck you, Archer.”
I grin, but I’ll have to picture the look on his face since the go-ahead run is up and I’m concentrating on the game action.
There’s the wind-up and whoosh , our closer fires a fastball that paints the corner of the plate. The batter lunges for it and sends a pop fly my way. I trot under the ball and let it drop home into my glove. Come to Papa.
That’s the final out. I pump my fist—we just swept the series and I am out of here.
I jog down the baseline, where Santiago is trudging along, head hanging. I tap him with my glove. “Hey, man. I was going to send you a get-well present. How about I make it a ‘thank you for helping us win’ gift?”
“Fuck you harder.”
“You wish,” I say with a grin, shifting gears. “How’s Emily and Rosie? Did your kiddo get her cast off?”
The Shark flashes a smile. “She did. Elbow is as good as new. Thanks for asking. You’re only a half-hole now.”
“Goals,” I deadpan, leaving him in the dust as I jog to the dugout where I high-five my teammates, finishing with my friend Gunnar.
“Great series, Gun,” I say. He racked up four RBIs, a couple shy of my total for this series.
“Same to you, bro. Imagine how amazing your game would be if you had to, you know, defend when you were in the field,” he says, straight-faced.
I grab my lucky water bottle from the bench. Other infielders are such assholes. “Good thing my bat is better.”
“That’s not what he said,” Gunnar retorts.
“That’s what they all say,” I reply. As we turn toward the steps to the locker room, I glance at the time on the giant scoreboard in the outfield. Seven-thirty.
The welcome distraction from my personal countdown ended with the game.
“Any movement on a new deal?” Gunnar asks.
“Nope.” I stretch my neck from side to side. During spring training, my agent was this close to nabbing a sponsorship deal with a video game company, but it fell apart at the last minute when the company reported lower revenue than expected. Now, the energy drink manufacturer he’s pursuing is getting cold feet. It’s enough to make a guy wonder if he’s damaged goods.
I’ve been on edge since my agent texted me this morning. “I have dinner with Vance in forty-five minutes,” I tell Gunnar. “He said he has news to share. An endorsement would be sweet.”
That’s an understatement. A good deal could set me up for a long time—and I need the money. Badly.
“I hear you,” the third baseman says as we descend into the tunnel under the ballpark. Gunnar gets my impatience. We’re both only a few years into our service time and hunting for partnerships that will make a difference.
He has his reasons. I have mine.
And as soon as I grab a shower, I can get the hell out of here and deal with them.
One shower later, I stand at my stall, buttoning a crisp purple shirt and tucking it into charcoal slacks. Turning to Gunnar, I hold out my arms wide. “So, do I look good or holy-fuck good?” A man should always look sharp for his agent—a sign of respect for the hard work they do.
My friend gives me a serious once-over, then shrugs. “Eh, I’ve seen better.”
I cup my ear. “What was that? Hotter than hell, you say? Thank you.”
Rolling his eyes, he laughs. “Get out of here. Go enjoy the news .”
I shudder. “News can be bad. It’s driving me crazy. I just want to know what it is.”
“Why do you play baseball if you hate surprises?” Gunnar asks.
“I like good surprises,” I say, stuffing my phone in my pocket. “Like when I homer off a tough lefty, or when the next season of my favorite comedian’s podcast releases early.”
And when a guy likes to fuck the same way I do. That’s the most welcome surprise of all.
Gunnar offers a fist for knocking. “Then may all your dreams come true tonight, man.”
I knock back, then grab my water bottle, and head out for my meeting at the Luxe Hotel. I snag a parking spot on the lower level and take the stairs to the black and white lobby.
Vance, the man who’s repped me well during my year in the minors and my first three years in the majors, is easy to spot, parked on a ruby-red velvet couch, tapping away on his phone. Would it be rude if I flopped down next to him and demanded he tell me everything now?
Probably.
Better to ease into it. I don’t want to be a pushy jackass. Too many athletes are.
When I reach the pro football player turned sports agent, I clap him on the shoulder. “Let me guess. You’re ready to make us rich tonight. Or, in your case, richer,” I say with a grin.
Vance’s logged more than a decade in the business and has made quite a name for himself at CTM. I’m lucky to work with him, and especially lucky to work with the biggest agency in the world. CTM reps everyone—actors, writers, athletes, rock stars. Hell, if God needed an agent, God would call CTM.
Vance glances up, looking slick and polished in his sky-blue shirt, no tie. “That’s always my goal.” He stands and hauls me in for one of his signature hugs. “Good game tonight,” he says when he steps back.
I flick some nonexistent lint off my shoulder. “I try to knock in a few runs now and then.”
“Keep that up and we will get you a fat contract next year in addition to these deals,” he says.
“I’ll have to call you Santa Vance.” I laugh, trying to keep it light, maybe trying too hard not to let on how I want to set myself up for the future. Baseball is merciless and gives no guarantees. One bad break and my career could be over before it’s really begun.
“So, did the deal with Energize Drinks officially fall apart?” I aimed for nonchalance about the energy drink sponsorship, but, yeah, that sounded pessimistic as fuck.
Vance tilts his head, curious. “Why would you think that, Zane?”
It’s what I do when it comes to work .
“Oh, you know,” I say. “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”
He smiles. “Let’s save that talk for dinner,” he says, all warm encouragement. My tension doesn’t retreat. “But tonight, we’re going to have dinner with the rest of the team at CTM and make sure everyone’s on the same page so we can hit these deals hard. How does that sound?”
Sounds like shorthand for Energize Drinks still has cold feet . Only, I don’t say that to Vance. Doubting your agent isn’t a good look on a client. “Works for me if it works for you,” I say, gathering the enthusiasm and support I should show as a team player.
“It does. I am an agent of good. And I told you I have good news?—”
“Dude, you said news . Next time, include the adjective,” I tease, but I feel ten times lighter.
Vance laughs. “Here’s the deal,” he begins. But his phone interrupts with a Stone Zenith tune. He waggles the device at me. “That’s Brea. Gotta say goodnight to the wife and kids. You go upstairs to Sushi Ko, and I’ll be there shortly. Get a drink on me.”
I scoff. “As if it’d be anything but on you.”
But it’s a damn good idea—a drink and a couple of minutes to shake off this lingering tension and put on my game face for dinner.
In the elevator, I punch the button for the restaurant in the sky. As I climb, I undo the cuffs on my dress shirt, then roll them up once, twice. I’ve never met a night that wasn’t improved with a little forearm reveal.
The elevator delivers me to the twentieth floor, and I make my way to the elegant sushi spot then head straight for the bar, where I order a scotch.
“Coming right up,” the bartender says.
As he grabs a bottle, I check out the crowd and… hello.
The sexiest suit I’ve seen in ages sits next to me, wearing a silk burgundy tie. I have such a thing for a sharp-dressed man, and nothing says see you later to work woes like flirting with a hot-ass guy.
Deals can take a timeout for a few more minutes. My dick’s at bat.