Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

Wednesday? Fuck, that’s two days from now.

I’m itching to hold that card.

Me: Wednesday works. I can meet you around four if that’s cool. What spot isn’t going to weird you out?

555-4439: LOL How about…

555-4439: The parking lot of the police station down on 54th?

Great. They’re going to think we’re doing a drug deal in the parking lot. Or someone will see me and all hell will break loose and the last thing I want is to be photographed by fans in the parking lot of a cop shop. I don’t need my ugly mug plastered all over tabloids, television, or social media.

I mind, but my buddy won’t.

“Wallace, what are you doing Wednesday after practice?”

“Masturbating. Why?”

“I need you to do me a solid.”

My teammate sighs heavily, burdened by a task he’s not even privy to yet.

“Fine.”

Me: Sounds like you have a deal.

555-4439: What’s your name, so I know who to look for?

I glance over at Buzz.

Me: Friends call me Buzz. I’ll be driving an annoyingly clean black Beemer with creepy tinted windows and wearing a Chicago Steam cap.

555-4439: LOL are you being serious? You’re already skeeving me out. Tinted windows? Beemer, aka pimp car?

Me: Basically, yeah.

555-4439: Oh lord, I better let my friends know I’m meeting a random man in a random parking lot.

Me: It’s the police station—you’ll be fine.

And you won’t be alone—far from it—not once the cops take one look at the catcher for their hometown professional baseball team.

555-4439: My name is Miranda, by the way. You can call me Randi if you want.

Me: Randi?

I think I’ll stick to her actual name and call her Miranda. I create a new contact in my phone so I’m not confused the next time she texts me and to make it easier to find her when we’re negotiating.

Contact: Miranda Baseball Cards

Satisfied, I hit save, tapping on her incoming message.

Miranda Baseball Cards: Do you want me to bring the other cards along when we meet for this one, or…?

Me: No, no—we should work out the details first. You can do more research and tell me what you want for them. I don’t want you to feel rushed or taken advantage of. Come up with a number and we’ll talk.

Not to mention it’s not safe for her to be meeting dudes in parking lots with valuable merchandise. Granted, this is me we’re talking about, but she doesn’t know I’m not a creep. She doesn’t know I would never take advantage of her—or anyone else, for that matter.

I’ve paid my dues. I’m one lucky son of a bitch who prays every day and thanks the good Lord for blessing me.

Shit, listen to me getting sentimental.

What the fuck is my problem?

Wallace has his feet up on my coffee table and is stuffing part of the meat and cheese tray he brought into his mouth. Sure, he’s a mooch, but on occasion he remembers to contribute, like today with the snacks.

We don’t have practice today because we have a scrimmage tomorrow for spring training, so we’re chillin’. The rest of our buddies/teammates aren’t scheduled to arrive for a bit.

The plan is to watch another team—the team we play for the season opener—and study their game. Watch the pitcher, the shortstop, how they move and communicate with the coach and catcher.

Shit like that.

Also, we’ll drink.

Not shitfaced drunk, but Anderson Stevens is bringing a keg, so no man will leave here thirsty. Anderson’s wife also just had their third baby, so we’re celebrating too, kind of like a bachelor party but for babies?

A baby shower?

No, that’s not right either since she already popped the kid out.

Whatever.

“What the fuck are you still doing over there, Betty Crocker?”

“Ha ha.”

Caterers dropped off a few platters of appetizers, so I have nothing to do, but fuck around idly at the counter.

“I’m messaging the owner of the Archer card.”

Buzz grunts and I can see him shove a hand inside the waistband of his gray sweatpants and rest it there. Jesus, this guy has no class—it’s like he forgets he’s at someone else’s house.

Miranda Baseball Cards: You’re right, yes. Okay. That’s what I’ll do, figure out how much I want for the whole lot. In total there are twenty-four cards, twelve of which are heavy hitters.

Me: That’s fine.

Miranda Baseball Cards: You sound so sure, LOL. I haven’t even told you who the players are.

She’s told me enough.

Hank Archer. Dwight Pauers. Leroy Jenkins.

I’d buy the entire lot for a stab at owning those three cards alone. Six figures don’t put a dent in my paycheck; I’ll give her whatever price she wants.

Even so, I put my game face on and flex my proverbial haggling muscles.

Me: True. Send me some pictures when you have a chance?

Miranda Baseball Cards: Yeah. I need to do it soon—would that be cool with you? The sooner the better, actually. I thought it would take me longer to find a buyer, but if you’re interested in them all then I’d love to get this done.