5. TIM
Chapter five
TIM
I poke the thermometer into the pork shoulder, hoping to see the magic number, one-ninety-five. Before I even look at the digital display, I know it’s perfect as the probe slides in and out like it’s going into softened butter. The glistening bark is perfect, and I gently lift the whole slab onto the board. I started this thing fourteen hours ago and left it to smoke mostly undisturbed on low heat until now. It smells amazing, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to cut off a strip of that delicious bark now. Fuck, I’m glad it worked because a few of the guys will be over in an hour, and I promised them my Aussie twist on American barbeque.
Do I get all the jokes about throwing a shrimp on there, hell, yes. Do I care? No fucking way because, A, it’s called a fucking prawn, and B, on a barbie, those fuckers are delicious.
I cover the pork in foil and move it to the coffee table in front of the outdoor lounge to rest until the guys arrive. The weather has been great today, and I’m not worried about rain, so we’ll eat up here.
I check on the ribs I added to the smoker over an hour ago. They still have about another hour to go before I can sauce them, but we’re right on track. The sun is already setting, so I flick on the string lights and head inside to get the last of what I need for the night.
The brioche buns from the bakery down the street are perfect for sliders, and I’m testing a new red cabbage slaw recipe that mixes apple cider vinegar with mayonnaise along with mustard and a few other things. The mix of red cabbage and grated carrot is the perfect medium crunch I love in a slaw, and alone it tastes amazing, so hopefully it will also be the perfect complement to the pulled pork. Ryan said he would take care of the dessert, so we’re all set for a great night of food, friends and fun. That is, as long as we don’t get too competitive with the games this time. Last time, we had a game night at Pat’s place, and I have no idea why he thought it would be a good idea to set up a mini golf course through his house, but it ended with more than one broken lamp and his dog hiding from him for two days.
Tonight will be fun. It’s a celebration, after all. Week one, neither of our teams beat the OG’s, but in Jacksonville last week, the Funky Monkeys pulled off a win against both the OG teams and Animal Control, so before we get our asses handed to us next week, we want to celebrate the double.
***
“I hope you’re ready to lose,” Duckie says on his way through the door of my loft.
“Does it always have to be a competition?” Ian asks, following him inside.
“That is the point of playing a game, you know, to win. What kind of sportswriter are you?”
“The best kind, and you can play just to play.”
“But if there isn’t a winner, how do you know when the game is over?”
I close the door behind them, but then the buzzer sounds, and I hit the button and pull it open again.
“Most games have clear winners. Take Jenga. The thing falls down, you lose, right?” I say, and Duckie nods, but Ian shakes his head.
“But that just identifies a loser, if you’re playing with a group, who wins?”
Pat walks in with his girlfriend, Chloe.
“Nice of you to invite us,” she says, looking around my entire loft in a sweep of her gaze. “Are we eating here?”
“On the roof, just take the window out and up,” I reply, and she nods and follows Duckie and Ian.
“Good thing I wore pants,” she laughs as she climbs through the open window onto the fire escape.
Ryan and Alan arrive next, and as Ryan hands over the covered dish, a waft of fruit and vanilla fills my nose.
“Ohh, what did you do for dessert?” I ask, putting the dish on the counter and moving to open the lid and get a look.
“Dick,” Alan replies with a laugh.
Ryan shoves him with his elbow. “Spotted dick. It’s a British thing.”
“I’ve heard of it,” I say as the timer on my phone chimes.
“I’m starving. Please tell me that alarm means food is ready?” Alan asks.
“It does,” I reply, placing the dessert dish on the stovetop. I coated my ribs in my homemade barbeque sauce twenty minutes ago, and if I don’t take them out now, I risk overdoing them. I want them to slip right off the bone. Please let them be perfect.
I’ve loved barbeque since I was a kid back home in Aus, but the barbeque here is off-the-charts amazing. I ordered some gum bark to add that Aussie smoke flavor to the pulled pork, as well as my secret spice rub that I hope the guys love. They thought I was joking when I said I wanted to open my own barbeque place, but our careers in baseball can’t be a forever job, and that is if you get to age through the game and retire. Fucking Nate was out before the end of our very first step into Banana Ball. He comments on my socials all the time but moved out of Savannah after he found out he was never going to play again, not for this level of a game anyway. He’s managing a hotel estate in Bellerelle Georgia, not far from Alan’s family ranch, actually. He says he loves it, especially since he started dating one of the chefs, a dessert guy, chocolate or something. I keep promising I’ll visit and stay in the hotel one weekend, but now that he’s all loved up, I don’t particularly want to be a third wheel.
I step onto the roof just in time to spot Duckie about to lift the foil on the pork.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Come on, man, we’re hungry,” he whines.
“You can wait one minute. I want to get the ribs out.”
“Ohhh, there are ribs, okay, I’ll wait,” he says, plonking down on the seat next to Ian and cuddling in at his side. Just then, I notice the little yellow spots around the roof. Ducks, and fucking hell, there are a lot of them.
“When did you have time to duckify my roof? There must be twenty up here.”
“Try one hundred,” Duckie laughs. “You’re welcome, now come on, feed me before I go down to the car and grab the other hundred.”
“You’re kidding?”
Ian shakes his head, and I open the smoker, filling the roof space with the sweet scent.
***
The ribs were perfect, and when I threw on gloves to shred the pork shoulder in the tray, everyone gathered in close with their brioche buns at the ready.
I pull out my phone and take a photo of the guys all enjoying the meal, then turn around and get myself in the shot, too.
“Smile,” I call out, and they all cheer, mouths half stuffed with food. It’s a great shot, the fairy lights strung around the roof glisten behind them like bright stars and cover them in a warm glow.
I open up my socials, and before I get lost in checking in on the feed, I upload the photo and caption it, Game night and BBQ. My second favorite double of this week.
I’m hardly scrolling a minute when the notifications of likes and shares start coming through, and my heart picks up a little when I see a comment from Kittyball100.
“Have a great night killing it on and off the field,” Kittybal100 writes, and I quickly reply.
“I don’t know if we’re more competitive on the field or off these days.”
“Whatever you’re doing is working, just take on game night like you take on a fly ball and you’ll get the win. But most importantly, have fun.”
Kittyball100 is right. I didn’t start having game nights because I wanted another way to win. I did it to hang with the guys and have some fun. I scroll back up my feed at earlier posts to see if there are any comments there, too. I know I shouldn’t care so much about what other people think, about having likes and building followers but I do. I care that people like me. I care that people see me. I care. And it’s because I care that I get so lost in scrolling and commenting that I don’t see that everyone else is finished eating and is sitting waiting for me.
Duckie grabs the top of my phone, pulling it free from my hands.
“Okay, food’s done, time’s up,” he says.
“I was just replying to some posts,” I say, and he scrolls through my feed. Then pauses and tilts his head to one side.
“Is this the guy from the other night?” he asks, swiping his fingers on the screen to zoom in.
He turns the phone, and on the screen is Lion, the guy we met picking up dinner the other night, and who I’m eighty-five percent sure is Kittyball100. He’s in a crowd shot cheering at our last game.
“Maybe, so what? He said he’s a fan, our fans come to games.”
“And eat at the same restaurants,” Duckie adds.
“It’s got the best ribs in Savannah, lots of people eat there.”
Ryan reaches for the phone. “What’s the issue?”
Duckie hands it to him, and Ian whispers for him to stop, but Duckie isn’t one to listen to anyone when he gets going.
“This guy loves Tim. Like, loooves Tim. He sounded a bit obsessed the other night.”
“He did not.”
“I think I know this guy,” Ryan says, and he leans the phone toward Alan. “Doesn’t he look familiar?”
“Fuck, he’s big,” Alan replies, then holds the phone closer to his face. “I mean, there are a lot of buff guys around Savannah. I might have seen him before.”
“I’m sure I’ve met him before. I just can’t put my finger on it,” Ryan adds, and I grab my phone back and look at the zoomed-in picture of Lion that Duckie found through my feed. It’s a shot posted by the media after our win against the OG’s, and I’m actually pretty surprised Duckie spotted him in the crowd of people in the shot, though, he’s a foot taller than most of them and twice as wide, so he does kind of stand out. He looks so happy in the photo. He’s got one arm raised above his head, and he’s cheering.
Ryan relaxes back against Alan. “I dated a fan once,” he says, and Alan turns toward him.
“You did?” Alan asks.
“Yep, it was only one date, but it was fun.”
“No one is saying Tim’s going to date this guy,” Chloe says.
“From the way Tim is still staring at his phone, I’d say he’d want to.”
“Shut up, he’s… nice looking, alright.” I say, and I get a few raised eyebrows.
“He’s better than nice looking, he’s large enough to throw you over his shoulder and carry you off to be ravaged,” Alan replies, and now all I can picture is Lion doing exactly that.
“Tim, dude, come on, phones down,” Duckie says, and I shake away the delicious thought and slip my phone into my back pocket. “You don’t want seconds?” I ask, but my gaze then lands on the tray of pulled pork and the miniscule scraps left over. “Okay, so you already had seconds.”
“And thirds,” Ryan replies, leaning back and rubbing his belly. “You sure know how to barbeque. Sorry we ever doubted, man. You open up that restaurant one day, and we’ll be there every night of the week.”
“I don’t want a restaurant. I want a food truck. Then I can travel, too.”
Duckie sweeps his finger through the sauce left on the rib plate and pops it into his mouth. “You don’t want to move back to kangaroo country when you’re done playing ball?”
“Why? There’s nothing left there for me, my parents are traveling all over the world. They’re in Greece right now, I think.”
Pat sighs. “I can see myself staying in Savannah, even when Banana Ball is over, but I hope it’s not over for a long time. How shit was it last year, wondering if we’d be kept on for another year?”
“It was horrible,” Chloe says, snuggling into Pat’s side. “You got so stressed.” She peers up at him with worry and love in her eyes, and as my gaze moves over them all, I’m reminded again how much of a seventh wheel I am tonight. Fuck you, Calvin and Dave for bailing on me.
“Okay, game time, it’s Uno or Hues and Cues,” I declare, grabbing them from behind the lounge and dropping both on the coffee table. Ryan, Alan, Duckie and Ian are on the lounge, while Pat and Chloe are on the floor cushions with me. I’m the odd one out tonight, and it’s hard not to feel like the host to some couples’ game show.
“You choose,” Ian says, and I slide Hues and Cues to the floor, and Ian picks up the two decks of Uno cards.
“Terrible choice, I rule this game,” Duckie sneers, rubbing his hands together like he’s some evil genius figuring out his master plan.
“You say that about every game,” Ryan says.
“Because I am the best at all of them.”
“Except Chutes and Ladders,” Pat laughs, and Duckie throws him a glare.
“Fuck off, that game was totally rigged.”
“How was it? You rolled the dice yourself.”
“The board was rigged, no way is it possible for anyone to hit every fucking shoot on the board.”
“You did,” Pat replies, and Ian squeezes Duckie’s hand.
“Okay, let’s deal. Who’s going first and what direction are we headed?” Ian asks, shuffling the cards together in a giant stack before smacking half in a pile in the middle of the table and dealing out the others to us.
“Clockwise, and I’ll go first,” I say and quickly follow up with, “cause I’m hosting. That means, you’re next, Pat, then Chloe.”
“Okay, and rules, are we going with unlimited drops?” Ian asks.
This one gets mixed replies. I know what it’s like to be on the losing end of a ten-draw-two-card drop, so I vote to limit it to four cards, but I’m overruled. Fingers crossed I don’t have the same bad luck as that night again.
Pat wins the first round, and Duckie the next two. He’s strategic for sure, waiting until a reverse to then throw down his draw four so that it doesn’t hit Ian. I don’t even come close to winning, but I don’t come dead last either, and as Chloe throws down a blue two, she calls “Uno,” and when Alan throws down a blue reverse sending the turn back to her, she laughs and tosses down her final card, a blue four.
“Yes! Winner!” she cheers.
“You came sixth,” Duckie laughs, standing and rubbing his belly. “I’m hungry again. Can we have dessert now?”
Ryan jumps to his feet. “Yes, it should be ready. I’ll go grab it,” he says, rushing to head downstairs. He popped down after he put down his last card five minutes ago to warm up the puddings. I pop the cards away and give the table a wipe over before placing down some slightly deeper than normal plates Ryan brought with him.
“Okay, guys… and girl,” Ryan says, coming up the stairs, his covered dish steaming in his hands and a jug looped over one finger. Alan grabs the jug before it can spill, and Ryan places the dish on the table between us. “It’s time to eat dick.”
He lifts off the lid and, lined up in the tray, is the traditional English pudding, spotted dick, looking not so traditional. Instead, they’re shaped like ten little actual dicks.
He slips a spatula under one and lays it onto a plate, then grabs the jug from Alan.
“And let’s not forget the special sauce.” He grins, pouring over the thick white custard.
Chloe giggles beside Pat, who’s shaking his head.
“Dude, really? How did you even get them to look like that?”
“I bought a mold online.”
Pat laughs as Ryan passes the completed plate off to Chloe, who’s blushing bright.
“I’m fairly sure that’s not what it’s supposed to look like,” she says.
Ryan nods. “True, mine is much bigger.”