3. A Triple Win
3
A TRIPLE WIN
Tanner
I’ve never known Luke to back down from a dare. Not the time over poker last year when I dared him to put his whole fist in his mouth.
Nor the time in Los Angeles a couple summers ago when we went to an agency party, and I dared him to play valet. Well, that was practically a favor for him. Luke loves fast cars, so he snagged a valet jacket, and since he wasn’t a starter then or easily recognizable, he parked a few Jags, Beemers, and even a McLaren, dubbing the last one his hot new boyfriend.
“Someday, when I stop warming the bench, I’m going to get one of these bad boys and drive the fuck out of it,” he’d declared, after he’d stepped out of the sleek red ride.
“How do you make everything sound sexual?” I’d asked.
“It’s my special skill,” he’d replied.
Truer words.
But this dare? To bid on me at the auction?
It hits a little too close to home. Too close to the thoughts that swirled briefly through my head at Rapture.
That teased me last night too.
Thoughts I can’t allow.
Before Luke can even respond to Nate’s dare, I cut in with a big laugh that, I hope, defuses the possible tension. “Yeah, good one,” I say, then lift my beer glass and offer a toast. “To Nate the comedian.”
Luke’s nothing if not quick on his feet, so I don’t even have a second to read his reaction to Nate or to me, since he’s lifting his glass and following my lead. “Be sure to tip your waiter on the way out,” Luke says.
As we all clink, I yawn. Big and so wide, it becomes real. After I take a drink, I set down my half-empty glass. “Guys, I’m beat. Only one of us has a game tomorrow, so I’m calling it an early night.”
Baseball’s given me a lot of things in life. And right now, the punishing 162-game-a-year schedule is giving me the out I need.
This is not a conversation I want to have. I’m just not ready for it.
Luke pops up from the booth, giving me room to scoot out. “See you around,” he says, all casual, like Nate didn’t just suggest something that rattled him.
Because it didn’t. Hell, maybe it only rattled me.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do tonight,” I say to the guys, and I leave as Luke calls out, “That doesn’t leave much.”
“Always has to have the last word,” I mutter as I go but not at too low a volume.
“I heard that,” he calls again.
“You were supposed to hear it,” I reply with my back to him.
“Sleep well!”
Holy shit. His stamina is endless. “I will,” I shout, then round the corner.
Ha, I got the last word, so I take that victory in my endless last word game with Luke and clutch it close.
It’s a reminder that we’re friends, and that some dares you just ignore.
Two nights later, my team has finished its series with San Diego, with two losses in a row. Both were close games, especially today’s when I struck out on a deceptively enticing curveball. But I refuse to let the losses eat away at me. Ten years in the majors has taught me that you’ve got to leave each game behind you. No point dwelling on losses, or wins for that matter. There’s always another game to play the next day.
My dad played in the majors and taught me everything I know on the field, and everything I know mentally about the game.
Like how to breathe and move on to the next one, and the next, and the next.
Before you know it, all those nexts add up to a career.
Tonight, I do my best to apply those baseball skills to my personal life. Put Nate’s last dare behind me, and zoom in on the next thing, as in…the auction.
It’s another chance at the plate, and I really need to put my positive dating attitude on so I can take my swing. I should be better at this whole relationship thing by now. Lord knows I have enough examples of healthy marriages in front of me in my parents, my older sister, and soon my little brother. Zach gets hitched next month, and my sister wants to set me up with a friend of hers for the wedding.
I’m definitely not opposed, since the apps aren’t the way for me to meet someone who wants more.
But maybe I’ll meet the right guy at the auction. Men who attend those kind of things tend to be philanthropists, not star fuckers. And I give a lot to charities, in part because I can, but also because I want to. I’m not looking for a man who’ll give the same amount I do. I don’t need to compare dick lengths either. But I’d like a guy who’s not afraid to crack open his wallet and his heart to help others.
At my apartment, I shower even though I showered at the ballpark this afternoon. But that was for washing away the loss.
This is an I’m about to put on a hot suit and parade around on a stage kind of shower.
Once I’m dried off, I slap on some of my favorite aftershave, even though I didn’t shave. But this stuff smells good, and I might as well work it tonight. Just like I’m working the scruff look this summer.
I run a towel over my damp hair then comb my fingers through it. It used to be short, almost military style, but I let it grow a couple inches. Most guys like a little length on top. Something to hold on to. I guess that makes me a generous lover, giving a dude something soft to grip hard.
And on that note, I’m getting into the optimism zone once more. I try to stay there, riding that hopeful wave as best I can as I hang up the towel, then get dressed, finishing with a rich blue tie covered in illustrations of golf clubs.
I leave my home and head to the elevator. It whisks me down, and my pulse picks up as it slows near the seventh floor. Maybe Luke will get on with me.
But wait. Why am I thinking that? I brush off the thoughts as the doors open on Elsie Rubenstein, a gray-haired lady wearing a Comets T-shirt.
She narrows her eyes at me, wagging a finger. “What did I tell you about swinging at bad pitches?”
I hang my head. “ Don’t do it ,” I mutter, repeating her words.
“That was such a hanging curve. I could spot it a mile away.”
“I shouldn’t have swung at it.”
She clucks her tongue. “I should have been a hitting coach. What are they teaching you these days?”
“Not enough, evidently,” I say.
She eyes me up and down. “Hot date? Is he cute?”
“Nah. Well, maybe. It’s a players’ auction.”
Her dark eyes brighten. “Ooh. Perhaps I’ll crash it and bid on my neighbor. Luke is such a cutie, isn’t he?”
I grit my teeth, biting back a reply. I don’t want to give her an answer.
When the elevator reaches the lobby, I wish her goodnight, then go on my way, leaving her question behind me too.
Once I reach The Luxe Hotel, it’s easier to stop wondering about tonight, and dares, and bids since Reese Kingsley marches up to me in the lobby. While she’s the publicist for the San Francisco Hawks, these auctions have become a passion project of hers. They raise good money for charity, and she’s been shepherding them around the country for years, not only in her hometown.
She greets me with a smile, then says, “You look good. And I’m sure you’ll bring down the house like you always do.”
“That’s the goal,” I say, turning the focus where it belongs. “Raise the most for the kids and animals.”
I’d be a cocky bastard if I bragged too hard. But the reality is, I’ve cleaned up at these auctions. I like to use my high profile for good, and being a franchise player on a popular team helps raise lots of dough for charity. I enter as many as I can, and I’m grateful for the donations, and the Comets are grateful for the publicity my participation in the auctions afford them.
Win. Win.
But maybe it’d be a triple win if I met a generous dude along the way.
Reese sets a hand on my arm, steering me through the Friday evening hotel crowds and toward the ballroom. “So, I have a little favor to ask. Trish is here from Trish’s Morning News Show .”
I shoot a teasing smile her way. “That’s on in the morning, isn’t it? Just a guess.”
“So smart,” she says, then continues. “And yes, I know ballplayers are never up that early, but it’s a fun show, and they like to spotlight positive things teams are doing. But Trish also does happen to like her gossip.”
Translation: she’ll be hungry for the who-won-who details. Well, that’s just understandable. It’s a public auction. Not a private one.
“So she’ll want to highlight some of the guys?”
“Yes, she already asked to talk to you before and after. And since you’re so good with the press, I was hoping you could do it.”
Well, stroke my ego a little more. “Sure, I’d be happy to.”
Reese presses her slender hands together in a thank you. “You’re the best,” she says, then we reach the back of the ballroom and I head into the greenroom. Instantly, I survey the space where guys are mingling and shooting the shit with their buddies.
Pro sports is a small club, and I know most of these dudes already so I give chin nods and smiles to the likes of North Rhodes, a cornerback from the New York Rebels, José Vargas, a left fielder from our cross-town rivals, and then fist bumps to Jack Cohen, one of the pitchers on my team.
“You’re up past your bedtime, Cohen,” I say, since I’m required to rib the younger guys.
“It’s cool. I took a nap this afternoon at the game. Like you did at the plate,” he fires back.
A low whistle comes from behind me. And I’d recognize that whistle anywhere since it belongs to the guy with the big mouth.
“Sweet burn,” he says, entering the room, and when I turn my attention to Luke, my pulse skitters.
Like it did the other night in the elevator.
Like it did last week at Rapture.
Fuck.
I’d better not feel this way all night long.
But I barely have time to linger on shit like feelings or annoying things like thoughts, since another voice floats past my ear, warm and professional. “Hi Tanner! Any chance I could have a quick word with you?”
I turn around to find a woman wearing a black silky blouse and sporting a straight blunt blonde cut. She’s in the hallway next to Reese, so the woman must be Trish.
Saved by the reporter.
What a weird thought.
“Of course,” I say, then Reese officially introduces her and we head a few paces away from the greenroom. There’s a woman in a hoodie with her, angled behind a tripod with a camera perched on top.
As Trish sets up next to the woman in the hoodie, Luke emerges from the greenroom, looking my way. Trish directs me on where to stand, and then it’s on.
With the camera rolling, the news host jumps right in, waggling her phone. “So, enquiring minds want to know—will this guy be bidding on you tonight?”
Does she know about the dare? Was she at Gin Joint?
Out of the corner of my eye, I steal a glance at Luke, who’s obviously listening in from several feet away. Looks like he’d be ready to pounce if he had to. Like he did with Finn when he learned about the slimeball’s tactics.
“Who do you mean, Trish?” I ask innocently, since I’m not going to give her a bone she hasn’t already dug up.
Her phone’s in her hand, so she spins it around to show me a social feed.
Jamie. Fucking Jamie.
He posted the selfie from the other night with the caption. Scored a date with Twenty-One and he is fine!
On the one hand, it’s a compliment. On the other, he’s a dick.
I want to roll my eyes, but the camera’s on me, so I keep my cool. Flashing a smile I don’t feel at Trish, I shake my head. “I don’t think so, Trish. He has some selfies to shoot tonight.”
Luke snort-laughs, then turns away.
But I still wish I knew what to expect from my friend tonight. I have zero idea if Luke will take Nate’s dare. Or if he’ll pretend Nate never threw it down.
I don’t know what I want him to do either.