Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
FOR SALE: Major League Baseball card from 1928. Hank “The Tank” Archer. Most home runs in MLB history, career spanned 22 seasons. Mint condition, independently appraised. $25,000 FIRM. Text Randi at 555-4439, serious inquiries only. Act fast and don’t end up in a bidding war.
Twenty-five grand. I let out a low whistle, reading and rereading what I’ve written, eyes continuing to flit back to that dollar amount.
Twenty. Five. Grand.
That is absolutely insane to me. Who can afford that?
The card is worth shit tons more than I’m asking, but since I’m not selling it through a reputable auction house, I feel forced to lower the asking price, swallowing my pride and more than a few dollars. A Babe Ruth card went for six figures a few years ago, so I know this card could command serious dough.
Still.
Twenty-five grand is more money than I make at work in three months, and I need cash like, yesterday. The money in the bank is a safety net I cannot relinquish—what if the business fails? What if it takes longer then I hope to turn a profit? What if, what if, what if…
I have other baseball cards and the total of what they’ll go for is more than enough to get me on my feet.
I rub my hands, finally getting excited, and hit POST.
1
Noah
“Holy shit, Buzz—come look at this. Someone is selling a Hank Archer card from 1928 on ListIt.”
My teammate, Buzz Wallace, looks over from his spot on the couch, yelling “It’s fake!” over his shoulder before going back to whatever nonsense he’s watching on my TV as we wait for my other guests to arrive. “What are you doing shopping for shit, anyway? Guys will be here in like 20!”
Yeah, everyone is arriving soon, but that didn’t stop Wallace from getting here way too early to use the sauna to relieve his sore muscles then claiming his spot on the sofa by sprawling out. Right now he’s watching some reality show about couples meeting blindly in pods then getting married. Or not.
“Just come look at it.”
“It’s as fake as Beth’s titties.” He cackles, eyes glued to the television.
Jesus, he’s such an asshole. Wallace is a great teammate, but the kind of dude who likes to gossip and overshare personal shit, like the fact that his ex-girlfriend had a boob job—one he paid for—as well as how they felt, how big they were.
He doesn’t know when to shut up and doesn’t understand that all that shit is none of my damn business.
My eyes go back to the computer screen, and I scroll through photos of the Archer card, zooming in to see it better. There are 12 pictures—the max ListIt allows you to upload—and I scrutinize each and every one.
Mint condition.
My dick tingles a little at the sight of it, if I’m being honest. I’ve been salivating over this baseball card since I bought my first one at 11 years old when I spent my entire five-dollar allowance on a pack of trading cards adding an Archer to my dream list. I’ve wanted to own one since I picked up a bat and began to love the game—except there aren’t many of them around, because back in the day? No one knew they’d be worth anything. Moms cleaning out their teenagers’ rooms tossed them, given away, or recycled. Not to mention they weren’t mass-producing them in the 1920’s. Baseball might have been America’s pastime, but it wasn’t the money machine it is today.
It’s my passion.
My career.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’m famous.
Shit, that sounded vain, and that wasn’t my intention—I’m just stating the facts. I would never brag about something like that; it’s not my style. Never has been. No matter how much money I rake in from playing ball or how long I’ve been in the league, I’ll never be an asshole about it. Even though the fact is, as a teenager, I had college baseball scouts parked on the bleachers during my games, watching me. As a sophomore, 15 universities wanted to sign me early. Fifteen. ONE. FIVE.
I wasn’t ready to commit, so I waited. Signed to a smaller Division 1 school. Not as many students, but a great program, on the East Coast, not far from home. I had my pick of the best; everyone wanted me.
It was overwhelming.
All I wanted was to play baseball, not be the poster child for douchebag athletes.
So I went where it felt familiar, kept my nose to the glove and the ball in my hand, and when the big leagues came knocking, I answered their call.
Hesitantly, but surely.
Who wouldn’t? I live for baseball. Nothing else has been there for me, if you don’t count my folks.
Turning a blind eye to everything, but the game, I became famous—and became infamous for being reclusive, too. I’m on the field to do a job with no interest in what comes with it: the fans, the gold digging women, the paparazzi.