“Will do.” I turn to Eric as Gabriel moves off. “You didn’t give me a chance to share the love. I was going to say you look like a cool cat too. We both look good.”
“Thanks, that was heartfelt,” Eric says dryly.
“That’s what the best man is for. Moral support and the occasional compliment.”
“Everything I could ever want.”
I adjust my cuff links in the mirror, catching Eric’s gaze more seriously. I need to tell him I’ve decided to hand over the keys to the dating car for the next stretch of road. That I need a designated driver because I can’t be trusted behind the wheel.
“Speaking of moral support . . .” I clear my throat. “Remember that time in eleventh grade when I vowed not to send Avery Forrester a bouquet of flowers from a secret admirer, aka me?”
Eric laughs, shaking his head as he fiddles with his sleeves. “Knew she was bad news when she claimed you copied her F. Scott Fitzgerald essay to cover for copying yours. And yet you still wanted to bone her.”
I narrow my eyes as he serves up my teenage woes. But, fact is, I need the reminder. “So you do remember.”
“You’ve been the king of bad judgment for ages when it comes to women.” Eric knots his bow tie. “Just like I remember that time last fall when you told me to take your phone away for the day so you’d abstain from calling Camille Hawthorne.”
I wince at the cruel memory. “She stole my best socks. The ones with the giraffes. Those were my lucky socks. I needed them back.”
“Dude, all your socks are lucky. At least that’s what you tell me.” Eric adopts a lower tone, imitating me. “I wore the hedgehog socks when I won the ESPY. I wore the wolf socks when I won MVP. I wore the penguin socks when I hit my fortieth homer of the season.”
I smile, cocky bastard that I am, as he rattles off my accomplishments. “Thank you, Almanac of Crosby Cash.”
“I’m the protector of your socks too. If I hadn’t kept you from caving and calling Camille, surely she would have stolen the penguin ones next.”
I bring a hand to my heart. “And I love you for looking out for my weak ass when it comes to the ladies.” I tug up the hem of my blue tux pants, showing him my footwear. “By the way, I got the giraffes back. Wearing them today as my Eric-is-getting-hitched good luck socks.”
He peers at the long-necked animals on my feet. “How did you retrieve them?” He holds up a stop-sign hand. “Wait. Do I want to know? Does it involve you and Holden breaking into Camille’s apartment for an elaborate heist?”
“Ha.” Holden is also a good friend, despite the fact that he was just traded from Los Angeles to San Francisco to play second base for the city’s other major league team. The enemy team, so to speak. But rivals can be buds. “O ye of little faith.” I wiggle a brow at Eric. “It involves your sister.”
He hums doubtfully. “How did Nadia get involved? She’s not here in San Francisco yet.”
“Got ’em back right before Christmas. Camille was in Vegas then, and she loves magic, so I arranged for a trade. And Nadia had a good laugh when I asked her to score a pair of tickets for a new magic act in the city for Camille—the ransom price for my favorite socks.”
Eric shakes his head, laughing. “Two tickets to a magic show for the woman who held your socks hostage? You could have bought another pair, you know. There’s this thing called the internet—you say, ‘Google, find me purple socks with giraffes on them.’”
I scoff. “I wore these when we went to the playoffs two years ago. Don’t you remember my walk-off homer in game two? These are irreplaceable.”
Eric rolls his eyes. “You are a special kind of superstitious. Also, you’re aware that you have the worst taste in women?”
“Well aware. That’s my point, man. I can’t risk losing my lucky socks—or worse, my sanity—by getting involved with the wrong woman again. Camille was bad news. Daria was worse. They are all bad news, and I am drawn to bad-news ladies.” I punch his arm. “So, just like you asked me to stand up for you and be your best man, I need you to be my best bud and keep me far away from women. All women.”
He strokes his chin, nodding thoughtfully. “So you need an accountability partner again? This is bigger than holding your phone for the day. You need me to be your sponsor?”
A reel of images flickers before my eyes—my personal BuzzFeed list of my top dating woes. The stolen socks, the contraband dick pic, the missing car, the disappearing dough, and the Cabo vacation that nearly got me tossed into a Mexican jail.
It’s the easiest answer I’ve ever given. “I do, man. I really do. I’m swearing off women for the next several weeks. Through spring training.”
Eric lets out a loud, barking laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”
I square my shoulders. “I can do it.”
“I doubt it,” Eric says.
“I have to do something. Women are my kryptonite, man.”
He nods. “And you’re toxic right now.” His dark eyes hold my gaze, like he’s weighing whether I’m serious. “No take backs? No excuses?”
I hold up my right hand and avow, “I am nuclear, and I need to change.”
“Then I’ll be the rubber band on your wrist, and I’ll snap like a son of a bitch if you get near anyone.”
“So I’m entering Ladies’ Men Anonymous through spring training,” I announce grandly.
Staring in the mirror, I consider that challenge. I do like women.
Scratch that. I love women.
Serial monogamy is kind of my thing. I dig dating when I’m in town and when I’m out of town, dating during the season and during the off-season. I relish the company of women, and I’m a people person who loves getting to know someone.
Can I seriously go a whole two months without a date?
I draw a fortifying breath, staring at my reflection like I’m staring at the pitcher’s mound.
Patience.
I am the king of patience at the plate, and I know how to wait for my pitch.
Fuck yes, I can do this.
I’m a goddamn athlete. I’ve spent my whole life as a devotee of self-discipline—early morning workouts, diet regimens, training, training, and more training.
If I can resist an outside pitch, I can resist women.
“I can do it,” I tell Eric emphatically as Gabriel heads our way. “From now through spring training. I can’t risk losing another pair of socks, or someone snapping a shot of my prized baseball bat,” I say, gesturing to my crotch.
“I’m holding you to it, bro.” Eric holds up a palm for me to smack, and I do.
The shop owner reaches us, his lips twitching like he’s holding in a laugh, then he clears his throat. “Everything good?”
I give him a suspicious stare. “You were laughing at me too,” I accuse, wagging a finger at him. “You don’t think I can do it either.”
Gabriel adopts an expression as serious as a priest’s. “Every man has his Achilles’ heel.”
Eric’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he chimes in, “Crosby, even Gabriel knows of your weakness.”
“Seriously? How do you know this is my Achilles’ heel?” I ask Gabriel, indignant.