Page 27 of Bad Call

“Bailey?”

Grabbing the four pieces of mail in my cubby, I turned sharply and gave each of them a pointed look. “Are you all on paid leave? Or do you have jobs to get back to?”

Great, now I sounded like an asshole. Fucking Baylor.

“Good to see you, Coach,” Mark said, walking back to his office.

I wished I could say the same.

My blood pressure remained elevated as I walked over to the clubhouse at the field. My assistant coach, Marley, was taking inventory of the equipment. He caught one look at my expression and asked, “What’s up, Coach?”

“Nothing,” I replied tersely.

He didn’t look like he was buying that. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Sorry, I’m just fed up with nosy people who like to gossip.”And Baylor.

Marley laughed. “You just described pretty much everybody on the planet.”

He had a point. I was being ridiculous. But then I started to think, how often did Baylor get hit on? Did he like the attention? I bet he loved it. Was he sleeping with anyone? Jesus Christ, why was I even entertaining those thoughts?

I was kicking myself for agreeing to have dinner with him tomorrow night. The more I thought about it, which was plenty, the more nervous I became. And once I figured out what the nerves were from, I was just pissed with myself and him. In short, I was afraid of my attraction to Baylor. Afraid that if he suggested we sleep together again, I wouldn’t say no.

Ireallyneeded to say no.

The guys began filing into the locker room for practice, and I did my best to shake off my thoughts of Baylor for the next two hours. Yelling at my team was a great way to work out my frustration. Putting them through their paces settled some of my anxiety. And by the time I made it home, I was in a much better mood as I knelt to get my face licked by Rawlings.

For dinner, I heated some leftover beef stroganoff and made a quick side salad to go with it. I ate in front of the TV as I watched SportsCenter with Rawlings beside me, giving me her best puppy dog eyes as she silently begged for scraps. She reminded me of one of those neglected shelter dogs in theASPCAcommercials, pretending like she hadn’t been fed in months.

I gave her a cherry tomato from my salad and laughed because she actually looked disappointed with the offering, although she licked it greedily from my hand. “You are nothing but a beggar, little girl.”

Baylor was right. Eating alone sucked. I did it way too often, practically every night. Rawlings didn’t count for company. I pretended like she did, but when I reallystopped to think about it, I realized how quiet it was, and just how lonely.

At least we were having dinner together tomorrow night, not that I was looking forward to it. And on Saturday, Marcus and I had tickets to a baseball game. Thinking of my coming plans eased some of the loneliness I felt as I finished dinner.

Afterward, I cleaned up the kitchen and headed outside to work on my project. I now had three little wooden libraries lined up in a row, each painted a different color. Next weekend, I would deliver them around town and install them in front of the bank, the daycare, and the church on Easton Ave.

I loved the work. Loved keeping my hands busy, my mind occupied, and sweating from the physical effort. There was nothing else, not even coaching, that brought me this kind of satisfaction. The smell of sawdust and fresh paint was headier than any cologne. I could have become a carpenter or handyman, but they say the best way to kill your passion for something is to do it as a paid job. I wasn’t sure if that was true because I still loved baseball with all my heart, but I was glad that with woodworking as a hobby and not a career, I was able to pick and choose my projects and finish them at my own pace.

I worked until the sun began setting and the sky turned a dusky navy blue before going inside to shower. When I crawled into bed, I reached for my tablet, scrolling through social media to catch up. I came across the university’s account and paused when I saw my face on the screen. It was that reporter kid, Sean, from thejournalism class interviewing the team before the last game.

“Coach Collins, I’m going to ask you the same question I asked each of your players. If you had a sister or a daughter, which player on your team would you allow her to date?”

“None of them,” I smirked.

“Okay,” he laughed. “That’s fair. Let me ask you another question. Describe the perfect date.”

My expression was blank, and you could tell I had been caught off guard by the question. I really needed to do a better job of schooling my features when this kid interviewed me. God, how many people saw these videos? It already had ten thousand likes. Jesus Christ, ten thousand people had listened to me describe the perfect date.

“That’s easy. Tickets to a good game, followed by burgers at Dixon’s Diner, and then we would…” It was a good thing I didn’t finish that sentence on camera.

“What’s that, Coach?”

“Sorry, kid. I’ve got a game to go coach.”

… and then we would go back to my house and fuck in the shower. And then again on my bed.That was the rest of the sentence I didn’t speak out loud. Nothing fancy, no wine or candles, I didn’t care for the movie theater or dinner and a show. Just give me a good game and simple food followed by great sex and I was a happy man.

That was enough internet for tonight. So I checked my messages, just to make sure I hadn’t missed one from Baylor, not that I expected him to reach out or anything.Usually, it was me that started the conversation. Was he waiting for me to do it again? Did he even want to talk to me?

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