“Something came up. I’m really sorry, Teddy. I promise to be there next game. Knock ‘em dead, champ.”
I press play and listen to her bullshit message again for the third time. She is fucking lying. Her voice cracks at the end of “something,” which means she’s nervous. If there is one person I know, it’s McCallister. I know the girl like the back of my hand and I know a lie when it spews from that beautiful, plump mouth of hers. Although the lie sounds sweet, it irritates me like an itch under my jockstrap.
I play it one more time for good measure. What the fuck is she up to?
She acted strange last week when I called, too.
Thinking she missed me, I secured her airline tickets to come hang out with me for the weekend and watch a couple games. She hesitated at first, but ultimately agreed when I pushed her for an answer.
Now, something came up? I call bullshit.
I sling my phone into my locker, so pissed that I don’t give a shit if it breaks. I yank my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair and start to pace. Pacing grooves in the floor always helps me think. And keeps me calm.
Is she fucking dating someone? Is that it?
No way. It can’t be. Anniston believes all the guys in our Podunk town are imbeciles. But… she has been distant lately. She wanted to return home instead of joining me for spring training.
Dread takes root in my stomach. It can’t be. She can’t just back out of this. Not now, not after seven years.
The stress ratchets up my ADHD. I need to run, but I just finished a game. I need to clear my head, and feeling like I want to hop on a plane and camp outside Anniston’s front door isn’t helping matters.
I jog down the corridor to our weight room. The sweat smell lingers even after it’s been wiped down with antiseptic. It doesn’t bother me. After seven years in this business, I’ve grown nearly immune to the smell.
The room is empty, as everyone is showering and headed home after we got spanked by the opposing team.
Good. I need the silence.
I step on the treadmill, set the speed to nine and fucking run. I run every bit of nerves out until I feel the endorphins start to kick in. Sweat begins to pour down my chest as my legs quiver on each impact.
My favorite part about cardio is the jellylike feeling that creeps up and relaxes you when you feel like you can’t possibly do any more. Your lungs burn, your heart pounds, and then… bliss. Pure silence takes up every bit of space in your head. It’s that calmness that relaxes my hypersensitivity.
I always knew I could focus better when I played ball, but I never understood why until Anniston figured it out. I went to the doctor after her revelation, decided against medicine unless absolutely necessary. It was essential when I was in college studying for a test, but now that I can control my symptoms with physical activity, I haven’t had to take it for the past several years.
I slow to a walk, having chased away the nerves. Anniston and I don’t label what we have. Granted, that was my fuck-up years ago. I was bastard enough to take her virginity. I knew she wanted to take our relationship to the next level and I did too, in a way. But once I slid into her, those whimpers she made as I tore through her barrier… fuck, I was scared. I didn’t want to fuck up my friendship with the only person who ever cared about me. I didn’t want to let her down, but I did. I made a terrible decision in the heat of the moment.
One that I have tried to remedy over the years, but Ans… nope, keeps my ass in the friend zone. Friend zone isn’t quite accurate, either. More like friends with benefits but with stipulations.
After the night I took her virginity, we didn’t speak much. I went off to AAA ball, and she went on to med school, like planned. We stayed in contact via text. Our relationship was strained, to say the least.
I decided that I wasn’t going to lose my oldest friend just because of one night that shouldn’t have happened. I should have told her no. I wasn’t thinking clearly because, well…it was Anniston. And I have wanted her for as long as I can remember.
I flew back home during the off-season her freshman year of med school. Surprising her at school had seemed like the best idea ever.
I missed her with all the traveling I had been doing as of late. The Major Leagues have been quite a change from AAA ball. Let’s just say, I have seen more of my bed in the past few weeks than I did all throughout college. And not in a good way. I’ve been getting my ass kicked in practice, Coach running me like I’m some kind of Olympian. After, all I can manage is to crawl into the hard-ass hotel bed for a few hours of terrible sleep. You would think this would be good for an ADHD person like me, and I guess it is. But what kind of life have I gotten myself into? I sleep when I’m told. I eat when I’m told. Hell, I even get up when I’m told.
One thing is for certain. This career of mine sucks ass.
It still doesn’t suck as much as working for my father in the insurance business, but some days, I might be convinced to give it a shot.
UGA is bustling with overachievers just like Ans, sporting stupid smiles as they clutch their Starbucks, talking animatedly with the highly educated person next to them. Couldn’t Anniston have picked somewhere else a little less pretentious? Like, anywhere in Washington? Shit, she could have picked an uppity school there and I would have liked it better than this.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little jealous. Adulting has not been kind to me. Getting up, working my ass off for a home I never see much guts me a little bit more every day. But I have no fallback. My measly business degree will do nothing for me at this point.
I take that back. It will. I could live a mediocre life working in some big corporation with that degree but I’ve grown accustomed to the finer things in life and now…it just won’t do.
Pocketing my keys, I casually weave through the mass of giggly girls, catching side-looks and disguised whispers. I doubt the girls know who I am but the guys…maybe. I’ve never been shy with fans, so signing a few autographs won’t be a big deal, but this is a football town. They probably think baseball players are beneath them.
I round the corner, headed toward the School of Medicine, when a girly squeal pulls me to a halt. I know that squeal. That squeal is only unleashed when I squeeze her thighs, tickling them to open for me when she plays hard to get. I wait like a stalker as she comes into view, batting away a surfer-looking dude.
