Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

I cock my head incredulously. “Your mother named you Baseman?”

“It’s a nickname, dollface. Calm your ti—” He stops himself from telling me to Calm my tits. “Calm yourself.”

Wow. Classy.

“Doing anything tonight? Beer? Wine?” he wants to know. “Blowing me?”

God no, gross—he did not just proposition me to blow him, did he? Did I hear him right? Who the hell does this douche think he is?

“What did you just say to me?” The tone of my voice is scathing, the kind my mom would use when I popped off to her thinking she couldn’t hear me and she wanted me to know she knew I’d told her off.

“I said beer, wine, or me?”

Liar! That is not what he said!

“I’m working tonight, so some other lady will have to do the honors.” I turn my back and start for the car, this whole transaction making me want to take a scalding shower and cleanse myself.

I cannot wait to text Claire about this.

Shit—Claire! It’s been way longer than five minutes and she’s probably assuming I’ve been robbed. Or killed.

“Working? At night?” He’s speaking to my back now. “What do you do work at Target?”

I squint back at him. He knows I don’t have a job; I told him why I need this money when we were texting and that I’m starting my own business—not that he’s giving off an ‘I’m a great listener’ vibe. Quite the contrary now that I’ve met him in person.

What. A. Dick.

“Peace out.” I flip him the universal sign for peace, hopping up into my Tahoe. “Now move your damn car.”

* * *

“I just don’t understand the whole thing—it was so weird,” I’m telling Claire from my living room floor, sitting cross-legged as I sift through Grandpa’s box, stacking the remainder of his cards on my carpet.

My friend is in the process of making dinner at her place and has her phone resting on her countertop as we video call, so putting me at eye level with the frying pan on her stove as she steams vegetables and boils noodles.

Meanwhile, I’m sorting baseball cards so I can sell the rest to Buzz—or Baseman, whichever godawful name he wants to go by—though the last thing I want to do is see him again. Ugh, he was pervy and rude, but I’m going to have to suck it up since I know he’s a willing buyer.

And has the money.

“How was it weird? Was he old and creepy?”

“Not old, just creepy. Young and super hot.” Okay, so maybe perverted isn’t the right way to describe him. I try again. “You know those guys on the football team in college who walked around like they were God’s gift to women? That was this guy.”

Claire makes a yuck sound. “Ugh, I couldn’t stand the student athletes. Remember how they used to stroll through the cafeteria? Like what were they even doing in our cafeteria—don’t they have one of their own?”

“Showboating, that’s what they were doing, strutting like peacocks, and that’s what this guy was doing. I’m surprised he didn’t ‘baseman’ his muscles at me, he was so vain.”

Baseman—what an accurate description of him. I’m sure that womanizer gets to first, second, and all the way to home on the first date. What a horrid nickname.

Ew.

My phone is propped on my coffee table so I can see it as I work. “I honestly almost expected him to give me his autograph.” I glance up to find her watching me through the phone. “He hit on me…I think?”

She pauses, wooden spoon hovering above her silver cooking pot. “How do you not know if he was hitting on you?”

“He asked what I was doing later. Then he goes, ‘Beer, wine—or me.’” I feign a gag, fake vomiting theatrically.

“Um, that’s gross.”

“I know! I can’t believe guys still say shit like that, as if there weren’t a thousand better ways to ask someone out—not that that’s what he was doing. It sounded more like a proposition.”

“Yeah, a proposition for you to do all the work. He probably thought you’d suck his dick if he asked.”

“I’m sure he’ll have no problems finding a replacement set of lips.” I laugh.

Claire snorts. “Jesus Miranda!”

My shoulders shrug up and down. “What? It’s true!”

Also true: men aren’t the only ones who are perverts. I think they’d be surprised to find out that women—especially when surrounded by other women—talk dirty about sex just as often, in just as vulgar of terms as they do.

It can be our dirty little secret, I muse to myself, smiling as I put the cards into three little stacks in order of value, most to least.

“What else are you gonna do tonight?” my best friend asks. “Do you want to go out or anything? Monica texted and they’re all going for dinner at The Grainery.”

I shake my head. “I can’t. I have to figure all this out then give that guy a call. I just don’t know about selling him the entire collection—he was such a sleaze.”