Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
And I’m still here.
When my drink comes, I hold it, stare at it, and don’t take the first sip.
Not yet.
I was never a drinker. Not before college and all its parties. Not before that joke of a frat full of popped collars and parents’ credit cards. Not before hitting the minor leagues and meeting some great guys and some not so great ones—like the green-eyed, redheaded Adam, who I’m sure is happy as fuck now that I’m out of the picture and he can take the lead.
The fucker made it into the major leagues, by the way. He got seen by the scouts that would have seen me, took my spotlight, and seized the opportunity I had been working toward my whole damned life.
Fucking redheaded half-Irish Adam with the cocky smirk.
He was exactly like the teenaged me who didn’t have a trace of humility in him yet. It was like my cocky childhood self had become an adult—an adult with red hair, a dumb face, and greedy eyes that prayed for my failure.
Well, you got it, punk.
I don’t even know how long it’s been before the bartender eyes me and asks, “Something wrong with your drink, sir?”
“No.”
“You alright?” He leans against the counter.
“Clearly.”
He gives me a short nod. “Let me know if you need anything else, sir. I’m here for you. Even if you need an ear.” Then he slings a towel over his shoulder and moves to clean some glasses.
I press my hands to my face and sigh into them. Somewhere between the noise of a stadium roaring on the TV and the cheesy lobby music that’s playing at my back, I get a flash of last night—a game on the TV at BeeBee’s, a giant man near me who kept talking too loud and boasting about something, and me turning back into my old cocky self who couldn’t hold his tongue. Suddenly, I recall the first swing. It was mine, and it was as effective as fighting a cement wall with a balloon animal.
When I pull my hands away, I stare at my warped reflection in the side of my glass of … whatever I ordered.
Then I ditch the untouched glass, leave a twenty, and go.
When I get back to my room, I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling with the TV softly playing some cartoon or whatever was left on from the previous sad soul who stayed in this room before me. I don’t need a drink to console me. I need something that will actually give a shit about me.
Someone.
Suddenly, I’m thumbing through the contacts on my phone. The screen shines down at my eyes as all of the names flutter past me, names and names and names, until I stop abruptly at his, still in there from however long ago. If it’s even the same number.
I look like I’m ready for the last resort. I am still wearing the red polo he lent me. I guess that’s a decent excuse to call him. Other than my clearly needing him to come to the rescue for me.
Yet again. Fuck.
08
RYAN
His cocky smirk and the cute dimples that happen when he twists his full, plump lips.
The way he struts around like he knows he’s got everyone’s attention no matter where he goes—and it’s all on his ass.
That beautiful, filled-out, muscular double-bubble ass that my eyes, hands, and face could fall into for a week.
How my poor red polo is being stretched to the max by Stefan Baker’s thick shoulders, big wide pecs, and baseball biceps …
Fuck. That’s it. I can’t stand another minute of this torture. All day, I’ve been obsessed with him. I’m almost in tears with how much of a vacuum his departure has left in my house, at my dining table, through my core.
I need to do something about it.
And it’s going to get weird.
Just a normal jerk-off session isn’t enough. I could sit in front of my computer, google hot baseball players for the rest of the afternoon, and still feel empty inside after I come. Nothing will fill the chasm inside of me.
Which is why I need to transport myself.
To a time when everything was new, scary, and exciting. To a place when I lost something I didn’t even know I had.
Stefan Baker. Baseball. My first team. My first companion.
Yes. Prepare yourself. I’m about to “go there”.
After ditching my laptop and all the hours of work I still have to complete before Monday—and the TV which still hums with the white noise of some afternoon game show—I plunge into the closet in my hallway and pull down a large plastic lidded bin of old clothes and miscellaneous memorabilia that I have literally not touched or opened in so many years, including my graduation caps from both college and high school.
As well as a few … other things.