“Of course it is,”I mumbled under my breath.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Sinclair.” He leaned forward and threaded his fingers together. The inch or so of ink creeping beyond his Rose City Roasters hoodie surprised me; his steel, stoic demeanor did not. “You’re one hell of a player.”
“Um, thank you?” I stuttered. Every previous coach and teammate would say I wasn’t typically one without words. But considering the way I’d been unceremoniously pulled out of the locker room, I’d been mentally preparing for one hell of an ass-handing. And not the good kind.
“Seriously, it’s a wonder you were available, let alone for the price we got you for. Thirty-one home runs last season, seventy RBIs. Not to mention your .360 career batting average.” My knee—the good one—twitched as he rattled off my stats. “And you’re what, thirty-three?”
“Thirty-four.” I smirked. “Getting up there.” I had to joke. It was either that or cry if I thought too long about the fact that most of my new teammates were still in diapers during Y2K.
“You’ve still got time.”
What the fuck is going on here?
There was no way the head coach of the Rose City Roasters, the latest edition to Major League Baseball's American League West, had taken time out of his busy day just to sing my praises.
“And yet . . .”
There it is.
“. . . nine teams in twelve years. And only two games in the big league.” His eyes darkened before shifting to my knee, the one that was bouncing full-on, as if controlled by an evil entity. “Care to explain?”
“I have a hard time sitting still.”
The pinch of his lips told me he was neither convinced nor amused. “Not your leg, Sinclair. Your record.”
I shrugged. What was there to explain? My stats spoke for themselves. I was a fan-fucking-tastic player. Plus, judging by his demeanor, he already had the answer. Ward didn’t strike me as someone who entered a fight unless he already knew he’d win.
He dropped a folder on his desk before turning it around to face me. Scrawled across the top in thick black ink was my name. The name I loathed but pretended to love.Sin.
And just like that, I was seventeen again. Back in Principal Kim’s office, my mother on one side of me, my grandmother on the other, both seething over whatever nuisance I’d caused that week. For two years, I’d gotten to know that office well. I’d counted every ceiling tile in Principal Kim’s office (thirty-two), cataloged the knickknacks that decorated the room (from the handmade paperweight crafted by her goddaughter to the collection of miniature chairs—what the fuck?—adorning the bookcase), and learned every office aide’s name, astrological sign, and cup size (Lara Schmidt, the Gemini with 38 Ds, took my virginity after Junior Prom).
Much like my high school permanent record, the folder on Ward’s desk was thick. And though I often turned to my two older sisters when it came to dating advice—because who else did a guy raised by all women turn to?—I didn’t need them to tell me that bigger was not always better.
“Let’s start with these,” Ward said as he flipped open the folder, exposing the good, bad, and ugliest moments from my past. As I'd said already, I was a fan-fucking-tastic player.
Onandoff the field.
At least, that was what they'd written about me.
I thumbed through the contents of Ward’s folder of pictures, articles, and a few not-so-flattering dick pics from my early twenties. I’d upped my dick pic game in the last few years after a few helpful tips from teammates, and yes, my sisters, but naturally,thosewere not the photos circulating the internet.This was what I had to show for my decade-long career. As it turned out, the only stat anybody cared about was my cock size.
“This,” he said, drawing my attention to a newspaper clipping dated two days ago, “is not a good look for the team. And I’d bet my left nut it’soneof the reasons why you’re still playing at AAA level.”
“What about the right nut?”
“The left one’s bigger,” he said without missing a beat. Call me crazy, but in another time and place, one where Ward didn’t control my livelihood, we could’ve been friends.
I looked at the paper in his hands, wincing when I noticed last week’s headline.
POP PRINCESS TAINTED BY "SIN."
What an original play on words.
I'd thought things with Monica might be different. Boy, had I been wrong. Again. The ill timing of our breakup couldn’t have been worse.
“Don’t believe everything you read,” I told him. He tossed the paper back onto his desk.
“Look,” Ward said, scrubbing a hand across his well-trimmed beard. “I don’t care what you do in your personal life. I don’t care if you’ve got a different partner on standby in every state. The point is, I don’t want to hear about it. And I sure as shit don’t want to read about it. It doesn’t look good for the franchise. Especially in our very first year.”
