Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Too bad he’s not available. Or he probably isn’t, though his finger doesn’t have the glint of a ring. It doesn’t matter. Doubt he’s down to bang.
He’s apparently here to make everyone play nice, since he makes two neat piles—the fake and the real money—then leaves the latter on the table.
“Here you go.” He turns to Bautista and Travis. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Bautista grumbles something that sounds a lot like hall monitor. Travis scoffs, then adds a one-dollar bill.
“Generous,” Chason deadpans. He pulls out his wallet, withdraws a fifty, then stuffs it in the jar. Then, he turns to me. Shrugs. Smiles. Travis and Bautista roll their eyes and leave.
“Sorry,” Chason says, once they’re gone. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes.”
“Better they’re pissed off at you than me.”
“True. Some guys forget they’re not in a clubhouse…” He trails off, shaking his head.
The pile of real money is still sitting on the table. I scoop it up and stuff it in the jar. “Thanks, man.”
A slight grin. A glimpse of even white teeth. Chason taps the pile of fake money with a knuckle. He’s quiet, like he’s working through something. Like why he came over here. Though his broadening smile might hint at his real reason.
I’m usually pretty good at reading people. I have to be to spot the tilt of a base runner’s shoulders before he takes off. To navigate all the personalities in a clubhouse. To sense an argument before it happens like an oncoming storm.
Or in this case, hearing an…undercurrent.
So I ask, “You want in?”
2
Adam Chason
Things I just learned about fundraisers: if you show up to one without your girlfriend, because she’s now your ex-girlfriend, people invariably ask where she is.
Even though it’s the first week of spring training. Even though she lives in Houston. But a year ago, she was here with me. At this event. So now, I’ve been fending off questions about Talia all night.
So fun.
What happened? A story in three parts: We were together. Then we weren’t. Then I had to leave for spring training. What did it? A great question. Not one I want to answer while surrounded by a bunch of ballplayers sweating in suits. So I’ve been shrugging it off.
As fundraisers go, this one is fine. I was hoping there’d be dogs here, because one of the best ways to conceal that I’m shy at parties is to find and pet the nearest dog. Dogs don’t want anything from you other than some attention; you can’t say the wrong thing to a dog as long as you’re scratching between its ears.
People, though—people are more complicated. Which is why I busied myself with a glass of champagne, a quick rotation, patting a few guys in greeting, returning to the same script most people use when reuniting at spring training. Wow, man, looking thick.
Now, here I am, about to put fake money down at craps, standing next to Derek. In my five years in the league, I’ve always thought he was good-looking, but, distantly, like a celebrity. Mostly, he is one—an almost-superstar on a team that’s defied everyone’s expectations.
It’s easy to forget about my relationship woes as Derek gives me a slow once-over that starts with my shoes and works its way upward. Which, damn. It’s been a while since anyone’s looked at me like that. (My recent relationship? Let’s not talk about that. This is a night for two D things: dogs and denial. If Derek keeps looking at me like that, maybe three D things.)
His hungry stare is about as subtle as a thunderstorm; it sends sparks down the back of my neck. It’s been a long time. Too long.
So I check him out right back.
It’s not exactly a hardship. The man looks…good. Really good. Perfectly messed up dirty blond hair, bright blue eyes, a suit that looks like he poured himself into it, rippling slightly in the shoulders. With that attitude, a slight aloof edge like he’s too cool to be having a conversation with me. Which he probably is.
Except, he just asked me a question.
One my brain stalled on, but now restarts. I repeat it: “Do I want in?”
A slight eye roll. “Yes, Chason”—he says my name the way most people do, like chasing, but dropping the g and not Haz-on with an H that starts in your throat—“you want in? It’s a game. You bet money.”
That snaps me out of my ogling, which might have gone on too long. I recover quickly. “You mean Bark Bucks?”
He holds up a wad of them. “Sounds like you’re just scared to lose.”
A challenge said teasingly. Though, players compete over everything—batting stats, bubble gum-blowing contests, apparently Bark Bucks. “Well, then I’ll have to get in.”
“Let’s do it,” he says with a glint in his eyes.
For the first time all night I’m okay without having a dog to talk to.