Page 6 of Strike Zone

“Yeah, and she made you a kickass dinner that’s now in the trash, and I’m over here instead of inside her because you can’t get your act together. I’m going to get you one of those emergency buttons that old people who live alone have. Then if you’re choking on your own vomit, you can yank it, and I’ll try to get over before you croak.”

“You’re a heartless motherfucker sometimes.”

“What am I being heartless about? You’ve been partying for days. Am I wrong? Do I even want to know who you’ve been fucking?”

“Legs eleven. Candy. God, she’s got a mouth on her like a vacuum cleaner. She can suck like…”

“Please, for the love of God, stop talking. And for Christ’s sake, pull the fucking sheet up more. You’re still showing your one-eyed rooster.” I fumble around for my sweats on the floor.

“And Candy, really? She’s a bunny boiler in the making.”

“No, she’s not. She detests the idea of commitment. She’s the perfect lay.”

“If you believe that for a second, you’re a bigger idiot than I know you to be. I’m telling you, you’re going to pull back the shower curtain one day, and she’s going to go all Psycho on you with the knife.”

“But the sex, bro. The sex.” I shrug into my sweats and go in search of a hoodie in my closet. He said I missed dinner.

“I’m not going home empty-handed. You’re coming over, if only to show Brooke that you’re alive and well, even if you’ve lost your mind. Then you can drink and fuck all night long, having satisfied my wife’s requirements.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize that’s what you meant. If Brooke wants to drink and fuck me…”

“Finish that sentence, and you die.”

“I’m just messing with you, bro.”

“Yeah, and if you finish that sentence… You. Die.”

“Geez. You used to have more of a sense of humor about women.”

“None of them were my wife. Brooke is a no-go when it comes to any form of jokes or jibes or info on our sex life.”

“Buzzkill.”

“Just grab your keys.”

“What day is it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. And when did we arrange dinner? I thought it was morning. Fuck. What time is it?”

“Jesus, you’ve completely lost the plot. It’s Sunday. It’s nine o’clock. When I left the club after we won, I told you to come for dinner tonight. I texted you yesterday to come over at six. Have you seriously been with Candy all that time?”

“What better way to celebrate?”

“I don’t know, maybe with your teammates and friends.”

“You’re just jealous that your meaningless sex days are behind you.”

“Hell, no. I’m done and happy about it.”

“Fine, then mind your business and let me enjoy a few days of fucking Candy.”

“Why her? You had the entire women’s baseball team eating out the palm of your hand, grinding on your junk, and you went home with her. I didn’t even think she was there.”

“She wasn’t. It’s a story.”

“What the fuck, bro? You couldn’t seal the deal? One-hit wonder that day.” He amuses himself, and as much as I want to keep it to myself, knowing he’ll give me shit for it, I tell him about my drunken radar misfiring, leaving me with the only women in the room who didn’t want to sleep with me.

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