Page 4 of Renegade Rift
And there are no presents.
No.
These assholes are bouncing on the balls of their feet over someone coming to clean my apartment.
My silence is drawn out as I rub the sleep from my eyes and try to process the shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. There’s no way they actually hired someone to clean my apartment. Right? Then again, it wouldn’t surprise me considering the way the guys give me shit about the state of my home. The running joke in the clubhouse is I should get that woman from the Internet to come and help me declutter my living space.
Fat chance of that happening. I remember reading somewhere she believes owning more than ten books is wrong. Who the hell chooses to live that way? I give a side glance at the filled bookshelves lining my living room wall. That woman would have to pry my collection out of my cold, dead hands.
Even if it is true, and I am the messiest guy on the team, it’s an organized mess.
Mostly.
To anyone else, the clutter on every surface might be overwhelming, but to me, it makes sense.
That pile of clothes on the foot of the bed? It’s clean—because dirty ones go straight in the hamper. But if I put the clean ones away, I forget what’s in the closet and drawers and end up buying new clothes.
It’s ass backwards, but object permanence is a real thing for me.
That pile of books that’s been sitting on the coffee table for a month? They’re the ones I want to read through before the next teamDungeons and Dragonssession.
That stack of mail? Letters from fans my agent thought I should read because he knows they keep me going.
The five blankets draped haphazardly over the couch? And the dining room chair? And the love seat in my bedroom? I’m a big guy and I’m perpetually cold.
Those dishes in the sink?
Okay, that was me being lazy last night after getting home late from our game. Dishes were the last thing on my mind after that embarrassing loss against Vegas. But I had every intention of cleaning them this morning before heading to the field.
What I didn’t have on my bingo card was being ambushed by my teammates at oh-dark-thirty with a plan to rectify my organized chaos.
“Are you going to let us in?” Smitty asks. The rookie back-up catcher isn’t one of the usual suspects when it comes to participating in our co-captain’s antics, but he’s got a wicked sense of humor, so I’d be foolish to think his presence makes this situation safe.
“That depends.” I shift my gaze between each of them, attempting to suss out all ulterior motives. “Are you seriously at my door before the sun has risen because you hired someone to clean my apartment?”
Carson Whitmore, the Renegade’s ace pitcher and co-captain in question, doesn’t bother to answer and instead slides past me.
“Sure, make yourself at home,” I huff, a little more snap to my tone than is probably merited. To drive my point home, I step back and sarcastically throw up my arm, inviting the other two in.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Carson chuckles, already heading straight for the coffeemaker. “And to answer your question, yes. We really are here at five a.m. for an apartment cleaning.”
“But why?” I complain more than ask, watching as he scoops way too much coffee into the metal filter. It’s going to be a bitch to clean later.
See, I can and do clean some things. Though I’m not sure pointing that out will get them to leave.
Carson moves methodically like he owns the place, filling the water reserve and starting the brew cycle. “Because between our upcoming road games, and the fact you’re at the field early every day with Smitty, this was the only time we knew you’d be here.”
The blank stare on my face should say it all: I hate you. Get the fuck out. Why would you think this is a good idea?
Unfortunately, it does nothing to deter the trio.
“We know you love your beauty rest, but I promise you’re going to thank us later.” Julio Espinoza, one of our relief pitchers and final member of the wake-up brigade, offers me a wicked smirk and plops down on the sofa, stretching his long arms over the back.
Carson holds up the half-and-half he must have pulled from the fridge. “Do you take cream in your coffee?”
“No.” I only keep it in the fridge for game night since Kiefer’s wife likes it in her coffee.
“Suit yourself,” Carson mutters and hands me the mug before doctoring up his own—more creamer than coffee.
