Page 7 of Through the Water

Before Gabrielle, there was Elliana, Carlos Cabrera’s wife. I hadn’t escaped that one unscathed either. I got a broken nose, and Cabrera got traded to Seattle.

Coming up to the majors was like being invited to an all-you-can-eat buffet. I had access to all the willing women I could ever want. Still, it had become increasingly evident my dick was only interested in the unavailable ones.

It was around that same time that I got the wake-up call I needed. Sports Illustrated had rated me number one in baseball. I could’ve waxed poetic about the subtle differences between a screwball and a circle changeup, but when it came to women, I was utterly lost. As I wasn’t willing to throw away my entire career on another instance of bad judgment, I was left with one option.

Self-imposed celibacy.

It was only supposed to be for a month, something that had initially seemed impossible. If I wasn’t dodging rabid female fans after the game, I was forced to endure heated looks from women almost everywhere else. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gotten a cup of coffee that didn’t have a phone number hastily scrawled on the side of it.

In my infinite wisdom, I’d let it slip that my dick was on hiatus. Something Bailey, my teammate and best friend, found equal parts amusing and disappointing.

“Delayed gratification is for the poor schmucks who can’t do any better. Not us.”

He was right, of course. With the kind of money we made, the world was at our fingertips. But, instead of giving up my vow and going back to business as usual, his words had the opposite effect. I began to consider the possibility women weren’t throwing themselves at Killian Reed.

They wanted the player.

The money.

The fame.

Late one night, after a few too many beers, I made the decision not to take another woman to bed unless:

A) I could testify under oath that she wasn’t married, engaged, or otherwise spoken for.

B) I clearly saw a future with her.

Twenty-one-year-old me would have promptly choked on his beer and told me I didn’t deserve to own a penis.

Still, I held steady as one month stretched into two, taking matters into my own hands when the going got tough. That was over a year ago, and I’d still yet to meet a woman who didn’t see dollar signs or a tabloid story when she looked at me.

But, I was still on top where it counted.

My first love had always been the game, and we had a long life ahead of us. The rest was just details.

The ancient PA system crackled to life as the announcer informed the stadium I was up. The Hurricanes’ playoff chances rested in my hands. Completely in my element, I swaggered up to the plate with “Walk on Water” by Thirty Seconds to Mars blasting through the ballpark speakers.

This was it.

We were down by a run with Jimenez on second, and, thanks to Chris Harms chasing three straight pitches into the dirt, we now had two outs.

This was game seven against the Kansas City Bears—at home, for crying out loud. We’d dragged it out long enough. It was time to give the fans what they wanted.

Me.

I cut my eyes over to the dugout and got the sign from the manager to take the first pitch.

Dammit.

The Bears’ pitcher, Adam Coley, wound up and sent a fastball in on the inside corner. It was a good pitch, but I knew I could’ve turned on it and at least pulled it into the outfield.

Behind in the count, I had to watch for his curve. He had a good fastball with a bit of movement on it, but his curve was downright nasty.

Coley knew I could hit and, just as I expected after the first pitch, threw a curve way outside. The catcher kept it in front of him, preventing Jimenez from advancing to third. His next one was more garbage outside.

Another ball.

I was given another sign to take the pitch but decided to disregard anything other than a sign to swing away. My hunch paid off when Coley threw a hanging slider. I was already moving when I realized my error.

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