* * *
Ransom: Be sure to bring blankets to sop up your waterworks tonight, dickhead, when I win all your money.
* * *
Martinez: A few too many hits on the ice has made your head too big, North. Or is it that your dick is small, since you play a sport less popular?
* * *
Ransom: My dick is double digits. And my contract has plenty of zeros. Case in point: I do believe that’s my face I walked past earlier today in Times Square, advertising watches. Take that.
* * *
Martinez: Was it beneath my underwear ad?
* * *
I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. I forgot about his billboard too. His fucking billboard, which is right above mine. Dammit.
My sister snaps her fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me your Martinez was Adrian Alejandro Martinez from the Gigante underwear ad in Times Square?”
I hang my head. “I should never have mentioned his name,” I mutter.
“Oh, you should have. Believe me, you should have. God bless you, big brother. I didn’t connect the dots. But now I’d like to play connect the dots on him. And Battleship. And Chutes and Ladders. I mean, look at those abs,” she says, spinning her laptop around and shoving it at me. It’s open to a full-screen image of the Yankees closer dressed only in a pair of royal-blue briefs and a smirk. “I have no interest in athletes, but I think I might make this my new wallpaper.”
I stare at the ceiling. “What have I done?”
“You’ve introduced me to my new eye candy, so thank you very much.” She eyes my phone. “Is he the one you’re trash-talking to?”
“No,” I scoff.
Setting her computer down, she rises and makes grabby hands. “Liar.”
I raise my phone above my head. She’s not short, but I’m six foot three, so lifting the device out of her reach is no sweat. “How do you know I was trash-talking?”
She rolls her eyes as she tries to snag the phone, a futile but amusing attempt. “It’s only your favorite hobby of all time,” she says, finally giving up and lowering her arms. Returning to the couch, she closes her computer and slides it into her black messenger bag. She’s a financial whiz and a brilliant writer, so she pens columns for various money magazines, as well as authoring personal finance books, a gig that frees her up to do what she truly loves—interpreting Broadway shows and other performances for the deaf and hard of hearing.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and finish with my bow tie, conceding she’s right. “Look. I only trash-talk Carnale and Martinez because they deserve it. That’s why I have to take them down tonight.”
“Why do they deserve trash talk and a takedown?” she asks with a furrowed brow.
“Duh. Because they’re Yankees,” I say. Isn’t it obvious?
“And that’s the only reason?” She slings her bag across her chest as I grab my keys, tossing them high in the air and catching them easily.
“What other reason do I need?”
She arches a brow. “Is it because of the lists they’re on?”
“What lists?” I ask, like I have no clue what she means.
She shakes her head as she rolls her eyes. “You’re so see-through. You’re like a cellophane brother,” she says as we exit my corner apartment.
“And what do you see when you look through the Saran Wrap of me, Temp?”
She frames her eyes with her hands. “You’re jealous because those two guys are jockeying for one and two on the hot lists and you’re a consistent three.”
I dismiss that crazy notion. “As if I care about those lists.”
“You always care, and I know why.” Her tone is a little softer, a little gentler.
“Because they care,” I blurt. But that’s not all of it, and she does know the rest.
“Ransom.”
“Whatever. It’s just a game.”
As we wait for the elevator, she sets a hand on my arm. “It’s because of Edie.”
I cringe. “No.”
“Ransom.”
I sigh heavily. “Whatever. I don’t care about her.”
“You didn’t care about those lists until she left.”
“Because I wasn’t on them when I was with her. Because I was involved,” I bite out.
“I know,” she says softly. “But really, what difference does it make if you’re one, two, or three? Any woman with her head on straight would be thrilled to have you, regardless of the number. Edie didn’t see what was in front of her, and she lost out.”
“Well, I don’t want to be had,” I say as the elevator arrives, the doors sliding open. “This guy is happy to be single.”
“Maybe someday you’ll want a relationship again.”
“Maybe never. And until then, it’s way more fun to bust my buddies’ chops on these single-in-the-city lists, because being single means I can do whatever I want.”
It also means no one can ever again hurt me like Edie did the night I proposed to her two years ago.
