No way. Nope. This was none of Colby’s business. And I wasn’t going to admit to her that I couldn’t remember the last time I had sex.
Colby: Come on, Hawk. It’s okay if it’s been a while.
Colby: Hawk?
I left her on read. It was the only way to get a point across to Colby. That, and she knew I hated it when she called me Hawk. Yes, it was how I was known to the general public, but sheonlycalled me Hawk when she was trying to annoy me.
I inherited Granddad’s files and spent every night for the last month poring through the documents he’d left behind. There were at least forty years of team history in those cabinets, and in the years before computers, he had documented it through copious notes. It was like I had the secret history of one of the most famous baseball teams in the country at my fingertips.
I hadn’t told anyone yet, but I eventually planned to make this history public, or at least anything that wouldn’t sacrifice a winning strategy, not that the team had won anything lately.
The contract with Drummond had been a great first step, and last year, we had done well in the draft, but there were some noticeable holes in our infield, and our catcher had been pushing for a long-term, high-dollar contract.
For the last 10 years, our GM, Trace Cooper, has been given strict instructions to keep payroll below the luxury tax thresholds. This led to the team underspending on talent, and the fanbase that got sick of coming in second to the Bronx. When I met with him two weeks before, he had come to me with a plan for talent acquisition, and I gave him the go-ahead to pursue big names. We had one of the best pitchers in baseball, and the second best, but if we couldn’t hit and our fielding sucked, these guys would requesttrades to get onto winning teams. Yeah, they loved money, but rings talked almost as loud.
Trace had been tapped to assemble a file of the current roster and include any red flags. At the moment, our biggest issue was Elijah Griffen. Our third baseman appeared to be a family man, and his wife, Lindy, and their three children made the perfect Hallmark card. Unfortunately, the man was a filthy pig on the road. He’d been on the list to trade, but his reputation had carried far and wide, and his stats for the last two seasons weren’t worth the headache.
I locked up for the night after 10:00 pm. I ignored my growling stomach long enough and stopped at one of my favorite restaurants on the way home.
“Hawk, the usual?”
I nodded, and a Coors Light bottle landed on the counter before me. God, I loved Boston. I could show up at a casual sports bar and interact with the customers there; no one cared what I did for a living. I was no different from anyone else who bellied up to the bar.
“I’ll have a Caesar salad with grilled chicken, too.”
I scrolled through my phone while I sipped my beer, attempting to catch up on the news from the day. A few bar patrons complained about the Bears, the hockey team, and expressed their hope that this would be the year for the Minutemen.
Yeah, me too.
While I usually tried my best to ignore the bitches and moans of all the locals, this guy seemed to have some good thoughts. For every ten fans who talked out of their ass, there was at least one of them who should have gone into a career in sports management. So yeah, we got into a lengthydebate, and when he saw the team make the move, he’d be able to tell his buddies that he was right. If this guy hadn’t looked like the only beverage he drank had fermented hops, I probably would have hired him on the spot.
I was about to ask for my bill when a certain Assistant Director of Operations sat across from me at the bar. She ordered a glass of Chardonnay and then buried her head in her phone, not noticing me. I signaled to the bartender that I was ready for another round and watched from the corner.
My penthouse apartment no longer seemed that interesting.
THREE
kendra
Shit.
Me: No, we aren’t seeing each other again.
Douchebag: Why not?
Me: I told you it was only a onetime thing.
Douchebag: Onetime?
Fuck. I needed to be more creative when I named these guys. It turned out I had four saved contacts with the nameDouchebag,and I had deleted all traces of text conversations with them that might help me identify who was texting. Regardless, if I’d named them douchebag, I wouldn’t go back on that decision.
After leaving this guy on read, I opened my dating app and scrolled through the messages to confirm that I was in the right place at the right time. Tyler, 32, from Quincy, was late.Of course,he was late. I scrolled through his photos,desperate to remind myself what about him got me to agree to meet.
When he strolled in the door, his appearance loosely resembled the photos on his profile. It was clear that he’d used pictures at least five years old, and a good fifteen pounds ago. No, I wasn’t down for fat shaming, but when he described himself as a fitness enthusiast, I expected him to look like he would make it up more than a short flight of stairs.
He spotted me before I could run. Damn you, bar tabs. I created a mental reminder to immediately cash out the next time I arrived first and ordered a drink.
“Kendra,” he said as he slid onto the bar stool beside me. Well, he didn’t actually slide onto the stool; it was more of an awkward stumble. The bartender immediately approached, and Tyler ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. I caught myself rolling my eyes. Who ordered the most potent cocktail on the menu on a first date?
