Page 4 of His Big Bad Stick

“What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“There was a story about some famous guy who would have women over,” Turner says. “He’d made them sign paperwork and shit. Then the next morning he’d give them a basket of stuff. Soaps. Fancy chocolates. Perfume. A robe or something. A care package.”

“Like a thank you basket for fucking him?” I ask.

“Basically,” Turner says.

“I’m thinking about doing that,” Dax says.

“You pay women by the hour,” Ben says. “They don’t need anything extra.”

Dax steps closer to me. “We owe you, Colver. Our lucky thirteen.”

“I’m out of here,” I say. “Don’t get into any trouble.”

I push my way through the guys and they say shit to me but I ignore them.

I leave the arena and toss my bag into the back of my truck.

I hear a voice call out, “Colver! Dude!”

When I look back I see a young kid standing outside the gates, pulling on his jersey, showing me. He turns and I see the number thirteen and then my name.

CASPIAN

I strut my way over.

The closer I get, the more this kid seems afraid of me.

He slinks back behind his mother a little.

I stand there and look down at him.

“Say hello to him,” the kid’s mother says. “It’s okay. He doesn’t bite.”

“Only when provoked,” I say.

The mother lets out a nervous laugh.

Hey, cut me some slack here. My social skills blow.

“You have to ask him,” the kid’s mother says.

“Look, little man, not to be a jerk, but I’ve got plans,” I say. “Speak your mind right now. Deal?”

“Will you sign my jersey?”

You would swear the kid asked me to give him a million dollars.

“Got a marker?” I ask.

Sure enough, the kid has a marker.

He gets close to the gate and I reach down through.

I sign the back of his jersey, right near my name.

His mother takes a few pictures.

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