Page 113 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
I push away the memory as the heavy metal door to the clubhouse swings shut behind me, leaving only the emergency lights from the parking lot to help me see my way to my car. She’s my one indulgence, and currently my only love affair, a bright red Audi R8.
She screams excess, not: I have seven figures in my hometown bank and trust, and I live off the interest. Renting furniture and sharing an apartment isn’t a hardship. If the major leagues don’t work out, finding a way to make a decent living without a college education could be.
But I couldn’t resist the ride.
I slide into the leather bucket seat and start to shut the door. That’s when I realize Liza’s parked three spaces over, and she’s sitting in her car.
Liza
MY CAR BATTERY is as dead as a doornail.
What does that mean, anyway? What’s so dead about a doornail? I’ll Google it when I get home. I could Google it now, except my phone’s dead as . . . dead. I don’t like using phrases unless I’m certain what they mean.
I can’t get back into the office. My stupid roommate left my car key on the kitchen counter with a note, but borrowed the rest of the ring. I could knock on the clubhouse door, but Jumbo is probably hip deep in uniforms and jockstraps and won’t be able to hear me over the whir of all the machines. There are a couple of cars in the parking lot. Maybe someone will come out and . . . oh no. No no no. Three spaces down sits an Audi R8. A blatant display of douche, if you ask me, even if it does have a V10 engine and a seven-speed dual clutch transmission. The problem is that it’s owned by a certain ballplayer.
Jackson Bullock, dumbest name ever, is the quintessential example of everything I hate. Ripped body, blinding smile, thick, blond hair, eyes the exact same color as a green forest crayon. Sarcasm veiled in thin wit. Cockiness that comes off as confidence. Not one redeeming quality.
Except that isn’t exactly true, and I know it. I just don’t like to admit that I know it.
“He was covering part of his each of his roommate’s rent,” Ernie had said. “You’ll see it in payroll, and since you notice everything, I wanted to give you a heads-up that it’s not a mistake.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked. “Did he lose a bet?”
“He and Taye have been friends for a long time. Ben got a better signing bonus. And Gonzales sends a chunk of money home, a lot of little brothers and sisters. Ben wants to help without making it look like a handout. He doesn’t want it acknowledged either.”
“Oh.”
“You know, Liza, you can’t put all ballplayers in the same bucket. You’d be pissed if they did that to you.”
“But they already do, Ernie. Because I have a vagina.”
Ernie blushed eggplant. Ernie has known me since I was born, and is more of a dad to me than the loser who’d cut and run when my mom told him she was expecting.
“Maybe one day they’ll see past it, but in the prime of their sexual lives, that’s as far as they get.” I held up one finger. “Redaction. Their gaze might wander up to my breasts.”
Ernie’s eyes went blind as he groped around on his desk for his coffee cup. I should’ve warned him that it had gone cold three hours ago, but I gave him his moment.
“I can’t believe you’d encourage me to date a player,” I said, as he’d gone fish-mouthed and swallowed the coffee anyway. “After thirty years in the business? After everything you know about me?”
“I’m not telling you to date anyone. I’m trying to teach you that not all people are the same.”
“Is he throwing money at you, too?”
We’d argued about it a couple more times, then a couple dozen more times, until I accused Ernie of having an u
lterior motive and threatened to tell my mom what he was up to. He’d dropped it after that, and I’d stuck with my original assessment. Tried to bury my knowledge of Ben’s kindnesses, even the ones I’d witnessed firsthand.
To ignore the way he kneels to their eye level when kids talk to him. How he’s ordered pizza for the entire clubhouse and the staff more than once. He’s refused payment for the day camps we’ve done, asking instead that the money be donated to the Boys and Girls Clubs. He engages with fans when they ask him to sign baseballs, smiles for photos, and is unfailingly polite with everyone. My gut instinct is that he might really be different.
Plus, I’ve never once seen him leave the park with a girl.
I hear the crunch of gravel and look up.
Tonight might change that.
“Eliza?”
I resist the urge to slam my head against the steering wheel. “Ben.”
