“Late?” David García, my center fielder, chuckles. “Do you not know how time zones work, Papi? It’s three p.m. west coast time. Which means if we leave now, we can get you the early bird special and have you back and in your jammies before six.” The team starts to gather in a half circle, laughing. They’re gonna be assholes tonight. I can already sense that ditching them won’t be easy.
Torres leans his forearm on my shoulder, which makes him look ridiculous, since I’m at least half a foot taller than him. “Look, man, they’re just looking to blow off a little steam. Even I agreed to go, and you know Denise would have my balls in a vise if I went out and made a fool of myself,” he assures. “Mateo, we’ve got a good crew here. They mean well. And besides, we all agreed to a two-drink maximum. None of us here are rookies, and we know how to get the job done. So what do you say to taking the stick out your ass and having some real fun with us?”
I give him a blank stare.
“Besides,” he continues. “It’d probably be best to dispel those rumors about you once and for all.” He pointedly looks at me. Ever the jokester, I know he’s about to say some stupid shit. But I’ve been listening to Anthony’s stupid shit for years, so why stop now?
“Do I even want to know what these rumors are that you are alluding to?” I ask with a deep sigh.
At that moment, our first baseman, Tommy Henderson, walks past me while chewing on a questionable burrito. “That you stayholed up in your room because you’re able to jerk off with both hands, bro,” he casually explains. Loudly.
The full team now surrounds me and bursts into uncontrollable laughter.
Fucking children. All of them.
Ace puts his hands up, “Listen, man, if I were ambidextrous, I’d probably be doing double-handed crisscross applesauce, too.” More roars of laughter follow.
I wipe an exasperated hand over my face.
This shit again.
Because let’s forget that I’ve been ranked best in the league five years in a row. And let’s also ignore the fact that I’m able to perfectly pitch upward of ninety-six miles per hour with either arm. And while we’re at it, let’s not discuss my strategic ability to swap throwing arms mid inning to best attack a batter’s weak spot.
Yeah, all that is pretty bogus to my team, apparently, when all they interpret when they hear the wordambidextrousis the fact that I can probably masturbate efficiently with both hands.
I can. But that’s beside the point.
“C’mon, man. One drink,” Delgado pleads. “If you don’t come, could imagine how many bottles of lube these guys will prank you with. An alarming number that I bet will leak to the press, and I’m sure you don’t want that kind of media attention—”
“Fine,” I relent, and the team goes silent.
“Did he just fucking agree to go out with us?” Sánchez whispers out the side of his mouth.
Torres’s smile could not be more blinding if the annoying fucker tried. “You heard the man. The team is going out tonight!” The guys cheer, causing a crowd of bystanders to start gathering around us, blocking the hotel’s reception area.
“All right, all right. Let’s go upstairs, clean up a bit, and meet back down here in thirty. Sound like a plan?” I don’t wait fora response and instead turn on my heel and head toward the elevators.
But I should have known they wouldn’t let me get the last word in.
“Yes, Daddy!” they shout in unison.
Oh yeah. I forgot they liked to call me that too.
An hour later, we’ve pulled up to a popular LA hotspot.
With our level of fame and recognition, it’s virtually impossible to simply wander into a normal neighborhood sports bar together. We stick to preapproved places in every city we play in.
It’s usually the same song and dance. We enter through a back entrance that the paparazzi absolutely know about. Hell, they’re probably tipped off by the club’s owner to get good press for their establishment.
Then we head through back hallways that are never meant to be seen by the average patron and quickly slip into a VIP section. There, we’re usually greeted by an owner or manager who drones on about getting us whatever we may need, followed by a parade of bottle service girls who act like they’ve hit the jackpot by being assigned to our section.
And I, being theGolden Boyof the league, make sure to look over our private section and wave at party goers, maybe even give a thumbs-up, as if I’m some kind of crummy politician, andsign at least a few jerseys. Usually that’s enough to keep my PR team happy and keep potential “Mateo is actually an asshole” chatter at bay.
I sit back on the low-rise couch, picking the spot farthest from prying eyes, and take a deep breath. Torres comes to sit next to me. “C’mon, it’s not that bad.” He nudges me with my elbow.
He’s not wrong. Instead of a club, we ended up in a high-end sport bar with an old-school arcade built for adults. The music isn’t too loud, more like restaurant level, and there are screens everywhere, so I can see multiple games playing from where I’m sitting.
Fuck, I’m assessing music levels in public places. Does this mean I’m getting old?
