Night Games (5 page)

The waitress comes over, a tad flustered. Her blond hair is in two long braids and her big blue eyes look absolutely terrified. She’s probably never waited on someone like him in her life. “What can I get for you?” she asks, and her eyes are kind, like she feels bad about what just happened to us.

“A Mic Ultra,” Erin says without hesitation.

I really thought she was done drinking for the night, but I guess Chase’s outburst rattled her. I’ll let it go this time. I’m not about to get on her case after she was just publicly humiliated by one of the most recognizable sports figures of our generation.

“A Diet Coke for me, thanks,” I respond, returning the waitress’s smile. She scurries away, sticking to the opposite side of the room, away from Chase.

“Can you believe they’re replaying tonight’s Kings’ game at the bar and he’s not even watching it?” Erin huffs, tapping away on her phone.

“I thought you put that thing away.” I can’t believe she has it out where he can see her.

“I’m just posting on Facebook that we’re here and what a jerk he is. Everyone’s going to find out what he’s really like.”

“Erin, I don’t think that’s such a—”

“Oooh, Kristie already commented. She says she can’t believe it. She never thought he was like that.”

The chances of Chase friending Erin are slim to none, but it makes me feel weird knowing that she’s already bashing him online when he’s sitting practically ten feet away. I mean, shit like that spreads like wildfire. Sure, he’s acting like a dick, but does she have to let the entire world know?

“Don’t worry. I tagged you on it too.”

Wonderful. Now everyone will think we’re the two bitches who wouldn’t leave Chase Whitfield alone. Everybody’s going to be saying we’re just bitter because he didn’t give us an autograph or pose for a picture. People are automatically going to side with him, no matter what we say. No one wants to believe anything bad about a person they idolize. If I hadn’t experienced his behavior firsthand, I wouldn’t believe it either.

I glance down at the menu and notice the hours of operation printed on the front, and quickly look at my watch.

“They must have stayed open past closing for him.”

“Figures.”

It’s funny, but when I saw him sitting there, he didn’t seem like anyone important. He looked like just a guy in a polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers, eating a salad and chatting with two friends—nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t look like a multi-millionaire, even if he acts like one. I don’t think I’ve ever been in the presence of someone that rich before.

Yet it’s like he trying to have his cake and eat it too. Wanting to blend in with the public while still retaining all of the perks that go along with his celebrity status. One day, he’s going to come to the realization that he can’t have it both ways. He can’t be a regular guy, no matter how hard he tries. He’s different from the rest of us working-class schmucks. He has a mansion in Florida and the most expensive penthouse in Manhattan. I live in a trailer and Erin’s crammed into a tiny garage apartment with two kids. Yet, for one brief moment, we’re breathing the same air in the same place at the same time. Erin and I know everything there is to know about him, and he knows absolutely nothing about us. Except that we’ve been hot on his tail the entire evening.

“Here you go.” The waitress is back, depositing our drinks in front of us, leaving before I can stop her. I was actually kind of hungry and wanted to order some food, but I guess the kitchen is closed for everyone except for those at Chase’s table.

“He looks so paranoid,” Erin remarks. “He’s eating, but his head is moving back and forth constantly. He’s looking around like someone’s gonna jump out and get him.”

There’s a tremendous crash behind me, and I can’t resist turning around to look. Our waitress has dropped an entire tray of silverware on the floor in front of Chase’s table. She stands there, momentarily stunned, before dropping to her knees to pick everything up.

I start to rise from my seat, feeling sorry for her, but a guy who was standing at the bar goes out of his way to offer some assistance. At least there’s one gentleman in the room.

“Grey, do you know who that is?” Erin whispers.

“No, who?”

“Brody Hernandez’s brother. Oh my God, and there’s Brody over at the bar. I didn’t even notice him until now.”

We both went to high school with Brody. Erin was a grade ahead of us, but it didn’t matter. Our school district was small and everybody knew everybody. Brody was the standout pitcher on the varsity team, nabbing a full scholarship from at least three different universities. If I remember correctly, the car he used to drive had a Kings bumper sticker on the back. So I’m not surprised that he’s here stalking Chase Whitfield too.

“Psst…Erin…”

It’s Debbie’s husband. He’s up against the outside wall, peeking in through the slat.

“Hey, man!” Erin gets out of her chair and bends down to talk to him.

Now, for sure, our cover is blown. If Chase thought we were two stupid girls acting on our own, his worst suspicions are now confirmed. No, we’re really in cahoots with some kind of autograph smuggling ring. Perfect.

“There are a lot more people out there now,” Erin informs me, coming back to the table. “Word must’ve spread that he’s in here.”

“I don’t get why none of them have the balls to come in.”

“Well, here we go. Someone’s approaching Chase now. I’ll give you the play-by-play.”

This will be the ultimate test. Is he rude just to us…or all his fans?

“It’s a guy around our age and his son who looks to be about five or six. They have a poster that they’re showing him.”

“Nope, sorry guys. I’m not signing anything,” Chase’s voice booms out, dashing their hopes.

“But they’re not leaving,” Erin continues. “They’re still talking to him. The father is shaking Chase’s hand. The kid has his head down like he’s disappointed. Okay, now they’re walking away.”

Chase’s table erupts into laughter the minute the door closes behind them.

“I get this wherever I go.” I can make out snatches of what Chase is saying above the hilarity. “It sucks, man. Why can’t people just leave me alone?” He starts talking in a high-pitched voice. “Can you please sign this for me?”

“Oh man, he’s making fun of them,” Erin groans. “He’s making fun of that poor little kid. What a bastard. Oh no. Here comes someone else. Some teenage skater punk.”

“Not tonight.” The firmness in Chase’s voice cuts through again and this time the guys with him don’t even wait for the boy to leave before they start to laugh.

“He is so awful,” Erin moans, her eyes darting back and forth as she takes it all in. “But is it wrong that I still want my picture taken with him?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, looking at her like she’s out of her mind. “He thinks we’re all in cahoots with Debbie’s husband to make a killing on his signature. There’s no way he’s going to do anything for us.”

“Did you see all the pictures that guy has on his phone?”

I shake my head.

“He has a shot with, like, every player on the Kings, rappers, actresses—you name it. He must’ve met every famous person in existence,” she says in admiration, even though it’s obvious the guy’s a creep. “Oh wait, Chase is getting up. Shit, I think he’s walking out.”

My heart skips a beat. Relieved that Chase is leaving, yet sad this might be it. What little time we’ve had in his presence is running out.

“But the assholes at his table are still there. So he might be back. Now Brody is leaving the bar too. It looks like he’s following him.”

“Wow, Brody has more guts than I gave him credit for.”

“Yeah, you ain’t kidding.”

There’s a bit of commotion outside, and we catch a glimpse of Debbie’s husband sprinting through the front door.

“Seems like he finally grew a pair, too,” I remark, rolling my eyes.

“Shit, if there was ever a moment I wish I were a guy,” Erin sighs, chugging down nearly half her beer in one gulp.

“What the hell for?”

“Because they all must be cornering him in the men’s room…where he has nowhere to run.”

Chapter Eight

Chase

I’m doing my thing when a Latino guy who was sitting at the bar—not five seconds ago—appears at the urinal on my right.

He’s being all casual about it like he doesn’t know who I am, pretending I’m just some random stranger he could care less about. He keeps his eyes lowered and goes about his business. I’m grateful that he’s not trying to initiate any conversation. I step away and head for the sinks, expecting him to follow me, but he doesn’t. Just my presence alone must be intimidating the hell out of him, but tomorrow he’ll probably be bragging to all his friends about how he met Chase Whitfield in the men’s room at Buster’s Crab Shack. Too bad in reality he pussied out and couldn’t even make eye contact. Sucker.

Wow, maybe I’ll actually make it back to my table without someone asking me for something. That would be a first. But my hopes are dashed when ‘Crazy Jim’ storms through the door.

“Hey, Whit! Long time no see, my man. How ya doin’?” He reaches out to shake my hand, but I don’t extend mine. I’ve had my fill of this guy and then some. I can’t believe he’s in Stockton. Talk about relentless. “Do ya think you can sign this lithograph for me? It’d mean the world to my kids. It really would.” His Kings cap is on backwards like he’s all gangsta and shit. He’s added to the number of gold chains around his neck since the last time I saw him down at spring training but he still reeks of cheap cologne. He’s been haggling me for years, like a whack-a-mole that keeps popping up no matter how many times I beat him down.

But sadly, his persistence pays off. I’ve probably signed more shit for him than I care to think about just to get him out of my face. He gets off on the thrill of the hunt, hounding all of the Kings players and making a hefty income off what he gets us to sign. Turns out, he has a broker in Queens who pays top dollar for everything he brings in because the guy knows his stuff is legit. He’s got quite a racket going, and it is because of people like him that I say no to everyone else because I don’t want fans making money off my generosity. Having people invade my personal time in the hope of making a quick buck on the side? I don’t think so. That’s where I draw the line.

“Listen, Jimmy. I’m not signing tonight. So back off.” I brush past him, but he has the audacity to tug on my shirt to prevent my escape.

“C’mon, man. You’re gonna be here all week. Sign it tonight and you won’t have to look at my ugly mug until you’re back in New York.”

The Latino guy behind me flushes the urinal and suddenly I feel like I’m being surrounded. It’s tight quarters in here, and if he gets in on the action too, I won’t have anywhere to move, wedged in between them like I am. I’m not used to the claustrophobia of small-town life and I’m already starting to feel suffocated. That drunken heckler chick from the stadium is out there along with the girl I’d rather forget. It’s like a freakin’ family reunion or something and I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours.

“Jimmy, I don’t know who you’re recruiting in Stockton to keep tabs on me, but you’d better back off. Hiring those local chicks to scope out the place is pretty low, even for you.”

“What are ya talkin’ about, Whit? They aren’t with me.”

I see the Latino guy wrinkle his brow in the mirror and shoot Jimmy a worried glance. What? Is he in on it too? Is Jimmy trying to double-team me in here or what?

“Yeah right, Jimmy. Whatever game you’re running, I’m not playing. Tell your little cronies to stay far away from me. You got that?” I push past Jimmy, more annoyed than ever. Since the minute my plane touched down, all I’ve wanted to do is get the fuck out of here, and it just keeps on getting worse. I should get Noah to take me back to the hotel. But I can’t…because she’s still here.

I don’t know if she’s working for Jimmy or just the bigmouth in the shiny top she’s with. I can’t be sure, and I hate to say it, but I don’t even care. I want her to come over and talk to me. I’m impressed that she even came in here after I went off on her at Beaver Field. When she came through the door, I thought I was seeing things. Of all the bars, in all the world…

But this isn’t some movie. I’m not sentimental when it comes to women. I hook up and check out. No strings, no baggage. I satisfy my raging hard-on and then move on to the next in line. They’re all the same. None of them stand out. They just want a chance to say they spent the night with Chase Whitfield, so I make it worth their while. Let’s just say that I’ve never had any complaints when it comes to my prowess in the bedroom. I know my way around a woman’s body. I make sure they get something out of it, too. I’m not that selfish.

But commitment—that’s where I draw the line. I have my celebrity girlfriends for show. The ones I take to awards shows and charity events when I have to make a public appearance with someone on my arm. My agent is an expert at drawing up these kinds of contracts. The non-disclosure agreement is especially binding. If they spill any details to the press after we ‘break up,’ they’re in for a world of hurt. Sure, I’ve banged them all. Why wouldn’t I? None of them particularly care for the fact that I sleep around when I’m on the road, but I’m careful when it comes to STDs and unwanted pregnancies. I always wear protection. I always pull out. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

One of my rules is that I never look them in the eye when I’m inside them. I focus on a scratch on the headboard or their dyed hair spread across the pillowcase. They’re just a means to an end for me. They’re willing to offer up their bodies, so I’m willing to take them. It’s not like I’m forcing them to have sex with me. Even if I did, they’d still be lining up outside my door. Every woman wants a chance to be with Chase Whitfield.

Except for this one, it seems. But I did screw up—twice now. I yelled at her friend. No wonder she’s not exactly running over to my table. Whatever courage she had walking in here was probably dashed the moment I started ragging on them. I don’t know what came over me. I was completely taken aback seeing her again. I got flustered, just like I did behind home plate. And I never get flustered. Ever.

For some reason, she’s messing up my game. She’s drawing me in, even if I seem to be pushing her away. I want her to fight with me. I like a good challenge. I’m curious to see what she’s made of.

Maybe it’s time to up the ante and make her jealous. There’s a table of scantily clad twentysomethings sitting next to us. Noah is a friend of the owner’s son, and he told him we were coming and that I was interested in meeting some of Stockton’s finest. Out of the five girls at the table, one of them looks halfway decent. I should invite her over and have some fun. It’s a move that’s worked in the past. Serve up a little competition and the girl I really want to talk to will come waltzing over to stake her claim. Happens all the time.

But damn, she’s still sitting with her back turned when I reenter the room. However, now she’s alone. Her friend is up at the bar. This would be the perfect opportunity to go over and talk to her. But I’m Chase Whitfield. I don’t approach women. They come to me. And for about the millionth time tonight, I wish I were just a regular guy who was able to hit on the girl I’m into instead of having to engage in these stupid games in order to get what I want.

Everyone’s eyes are always on me. All it would take is one tweet or an emailed photo of me bending down to talk to her and we’d be embroiled in a shitstorm even I couldn’t contain. Her world would be turned upside down as everyone Googles to find out who she is and what she’s all about. Her privacy would evaporate the second a hint of a rumor hit the web. It can’t look as if I’m pursuing her. The only way this works is if she throws herself at me. That’s the image people are used to seeing.

Sometimes it seems like the world is waiting with bated breath to see which girl I’m finally going to settle down with. Will it be Irina Portanova? Fat chance. No one expects me to date the girl-next-door type, especially one from Stockton. That would send a shockwave that would ripple across entertainment shows and gossip sites for months, if not years. And for some reason, I don’t want to do that to this girl. Why subject her to that level of scrutiny? I hate being in the spotlight, and I would never force her under its glare unless she went into it with her eyes open, aware of the consequences. Just because I wouldn’t mind her coming back to my hotel room with me doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.

I stand in the doorway, unable to make up my mind about how to proceed, when the Latino guy from the bathroom, accidentally bumps into me from behind.

“Oh sorry, man. My bad.” He looks up at me sheepishly.

“It’s all right, brother. No harm, no foul,” I respond, grateful that he made the decision for me. I can’t stand here all night, contemplating what I’m going to do. There’s no way I can make a move on her, and that’s that.

But the guy surprises me when he doesn’t go back to the bar. Instead, he heads directly toward her. No fucking way. I feel like tearing after him, but I hold myself back. She’s greeting him warmly, getting up out of her chair to give him a hug. As she wraps her arms around him, she gets a good look at me over his shoulder. Her eyes snap to mine and I can’t look away. What I wouldn’t give to be the one she’s clinging to right now.

She stands on her toes, prolonging the embrace. I don’t know if it’s to keep looking at me or if she’s trying to rub it in. Fuck that. I’m not going to watch their public display of affection. Besides, two can play at that game.

“Where were you, dude? You like disappeared on us.” Noah looks ridiculous with a tiny bib wrapped around his neck as he devours the plate of steamed clams in front of him.

“And my girl’s friends are dying to get to know you better.” Keith, the owner’s son, makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the expectant faces gazing over at me. Someone must have pushed the two tables together after I left, so the girl I was sort of attracted to is sitting in a chair right next to mine. Well, if this isn’t a stroke of luck, I don’t know what is. They’re making it almost too easy for me.

“You said you wanted to get laid tonight, didn’t you?” Noah says in a mock whisper and everyone laughs, including me.

Ah, screw it. I’m not going to get caught up over this. It’s simple. These girls know what I’m after. And I think it’s fair to say that any one of them would be willing to give it to me. I just have to choose which one I want. Same as always—have them chase me as I sit back and decide. No effort required.

Until I hear the girl I really want giggle across the room. Her friend is back, showing the Latino guy something on her phone. They all start to crack up as she replays what appears to be a video over and over. It better not be of me.

“Hey, you okay?” The curvaceous brunette I was admiring tilts her head in my direction. I unclench my jaw and give her a tight smile. Her eyes are brown, too, but nothing like the ones I keep getting lost in.

“Yeah,” I respond, sitting down and moving my chair closer to hers. “I am now.” I don’t waste any time. I lower my head, burying my face against her curls. She smells like a combination of cK One and cigarettes, a blend I’m actually quite familiar with. I move my lips closer to her ear, not caring who sees me. I nibble at her neck as she lets out a gasp. “Do you wanna get out of here?” I ask, boldly running my hand up her thigh.

“Uh huh,” she manages to whisper, closing her eyes.

“Let’s go.” I don’t hesitate, slipping her hand in mine.

“Um, excuse me. Do you have a minute?”

Shit. It’s her.

I did it. I got her to come over and talk to me. This feels even better than winning the World Series, and I didn’t think such a thing was possible. I knew my ploy would work.

I drop the brunette’s hand and turn around in my seat, trying to suppress my grin. But when I look up, I’m taken aback. She’s standing there with two kids. What? Where did they come from? She has her hands on their shoulders like she feels the need to protect them from me. They’re two boys, probably around seven or eight, and they’re staring at me in wide-eyed amazement. They shouldn’t be in a bar. They should be home in bed. Not holding out their Little League caps to me with Sharpies clipped to the brims.

“What is it?” I come off as annoyed, even though I’m not—far from it, actually.

“Would you be able to sign these for them?” She scrunches up her forehead and looks so cute doing it. She thinks I’m going to shoot her down. Again, I can’t take my eyes off her. I’d do anything for her, but not this. If I sign for these kids, word will get out. And people will start to speculate why I singled her out and refused everyone else who had approached me. That first little boy was nearly in tears when he left with his father. But it’s a rule of mine that I need to stick to. I don’t sign in restaurants. I never did, and I never will.

Then another terrible thought shoots through my head. Are these her kids? Is she married? I let my gaze drop to her fingers, but I don’t see any rings. What if that guy from the men’s room is her boyfriend? All of these different scenarios flow through my mind. Up until now, I never even considered that she might already be taken.

Everyone at the table has fallen silent. They’re waiting to see what I’m going to do. Noah coughs, no doubt encouraging me to make it quick and put them out of their misery. I never really look at the kids I turn down. It’s too hard. But I can’t help studying their faces, searching for any resemblance to her. I see none. They’re skin tone is much deeper than hers. She’s as white as porcelain, her flawless complexion contrasting beautifully with the rich ebony shade of her hair. These kids look nothing like her, and I sigh in relief.

I break the news as gently as possible, knowing I’m letting her down too. “Sorry, fellas. I’m not signing tonight.”

She starts backing away almost immediately, and I wish I could take it back and get her to pull up a chair and sit down next to me. I think rapidly for some excuse to get her to stay, but I’m distracted when the brunette behind me starts rubbing her hand up and down my arm, reminding me of what I suggested before we were interrupted.

“Oh, okay. Thanks anyway.” I can’t believe she’s being so meek about the whole thing. The fire I saw in her eyes back at Beaver Field is gone. Now they only reflect sorrow. Like she knew I was going to reject her and expected nothing less. And that makes me angry because she truly is special, whether she realizes it or not.