He does that thing where he blinks quickly, and I know he’s either lying or trying to think of a lie. “I had a meeting at another bank in the city.” The lie rolls off his tongue easily. He straightens his posture and breathes in, his eyes darting around the shop filled with my creativity.
I raise an eyebrow, drop my paintbrush on the tray, and turn to face him. “Then how come your secretary didn’t know where you were?”
He towers above me, an analogy so fitting to our relationship. I will never be as successful or hardworking as him. Squinting, he chews on the corner of his lip. “She’s mistaken. I told her.”
Sighing, I don’t want to argue with him. It’s exhausting for me. I pick the paintbrush back up. “So, why are our cell phones shut off, and why did my credit card get declined this morning?”
That one takes him by surprise, though I’m not entirely sure why. He blinks slowly. “I was able to call out. What are you talking about?”
I slide my cell phone across the counter separating us. “Try it. Mine doesn’t work.”
He picks up my cell phone, dials his, I assume, and stares at me while he waits. I watch his face, remembering the day I fell in love with him. He was calculating batting averages for my dad. We’d been dating a month, and somewhere between sharing popcorn and a hot dog that afternoon, I fell madly in love with Collin Greyson.
Do you notice the tightness in his jaw and the crease of his brow? Or the way his eyes squint as the operator comes on?
He draws in a heavy breath. “I’ll call the phone company,” he notes, handing me my cell phone back.
Our fingertips brush in the exchange, and I’m reminded of my interaction with the college kid this morning. “My credit card isn’t working.”
Collin pulls his hand away, his eyes downcast. “I’ll call the bank and find out why.”
“Okay.” What else am I going to say to him? I think you’re lying? I… wouldn’t say that because I fear this man in many ways. I don’t entirely understand the fear either. They say you pick your battles, and with him, I pick them carefully. He’s not abusive, physically or emotionally, just… quick-tempered. And older doesn’t always equal wisdom. But it doesn’t stop the artist in me, who will always find people with the A-type personality intimidating because they’re not WTF-ing their way through life like me.
Clearing his throat, he loosens his tie. “I’ll be late tonight.”
“Why?
“Meeting.” He tosses two hundred-dollar bills on the counter.
“What’s that for?” At least he has money. And I know what I’m doing for dinner. Thai food, and he can’t complain. Who hates Thai food? Nobody that I’m friends with.
“You need money, right? I won’t be home for dinner. Get you and Tatum something.” His eyes drift to my easel, curiously examining my painting, but I know where his focus lands, and it’s not on my work. The Starbucks cup I’ve been nursing and trying to make last longer than necessary.
“You said your card wasn’t working.”
“It wasn’t.” Our eyes meet, and this is where I know the conversation might get dicey. Remember narcissist?
“How’d you get coffee then?” he questions, sliding his wallet into the pocket of his suit.
“The kid behind me in line bought it.”
Collin’s features harden. It’s a switch that’s been flipped when I tell him someone bought the coffee for me. He turns to stone. “You can’t be serious.”
I’ll pause here. If you’re thinking he’s jealous, that has nothing to do with it. I could kiss a man in front of him and I’m not sure he’d care. Okay, yes, he’d care, but him thinking I took a handout is far more degrading to him than me flirting. I’m certainly not going to offer up the fact that yes, I did flirt with the college kid today, but the anger swooshing in my head like water holds that fun fact at bay.
“It’s not that big of a deal.” I pick up the paintbrush in my hand. “He offered, and I didn’t want to be rude.”
“I’m sure,” he grunts, stepping back. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He leaves as abruptly as he entered my shop. Why is it that men can totally ruin your day with one conversation? As my granny Gina used to tell me: Marriage between a husband and wife is psychological. One is psycho and the other is logical.
I’m not pointing, because that’s rude, but you and I both know who the psycho is here.
A sticky substance most commonly used by batters to improve their grip on the bat.
CASON
“You know in that movie Major League when he ate the crow in the locker room before the game?”
I stare blankly at Ez and Forest, our first baseman deep in conversation over superstitions.
“No, wasn’t it a snake?” Forest’s eyes drop to the rattlesnake’s tail in his hand. Knowing Forest, I’m pretty sure he obtained that himself, and the snake is somewhere in here. Wouldn’t be the first time. He once brought a scorpion in and left it in Ez’s locker.
When I lean forward, the ice pack on my shoulder falls off. “I think you guys missed big chunks of that movie. It was a chicken.” I’ve seen the movie enough to know every detail.
“Right, yes, it was.” Ez points at me, smiling as he adjusts his shin guards. “He’s right. It was a chicken.” He lifts his head. “Who’s got a chicken? I need to bite its head off.”
No one answers him. At least not with where a chicken is at. It’s ten minutes before game time, and we’re not in the mood to get amped up. That’s the difference between any other locker room before a game and the ones of baseball players. We play worse if we’re amped up.
And, if you haven’t guessed it yet, baseball players are highly superstitious. Don’t believe me? You don’t know anything about baseball players then.
Playing on Friday the thirteenth? Not great. Triskaidekaphobia. Don’t ask me how to pronounce that one, but from what Ez tells me during warm-ups, it’s the fear of the number thirteen. And he has it. Which explains his I-don’t-trust-you attitude toward our left fielder.
Superstitions are a part of baseball. Kissing a rosary before a bat, fixing gloves and hats before a pitch, hitting home plate… all things ballplayers do to avoid any amount of bad luck. And then there’s the general ones. Leave the pitcher alone on game day. Don’t step on the chalk line. Never mention a no-hitter.
AS WE OPEN our three-game set against Long Beach, we’re all on edge. The weather cleared up and allowed us to get the game in but we’re struggling at the plate.
I’m pitching a good game. It’s the thirty-second pitch of the game. Fourth inning. One out. A strike count 1-2, but that’s when I’m shaken, mentally.
Throw a strike. Keep it in the park. Don’t think about who’s up.
Though I need my mind to be on the game, it’s not. It’s on the one in the stands, two rows back watching me with intention. It’s Brie Beckett, my ex-girlfriend. Why we broke up isn’t all that complicated, but has everything to do with maturity and the demands of a college baseball player, hell, college athlete.