Page 6 of Wait For It

When I was twenty, I was brought up to play for the Hurricanes thanks to center fielder, Austin Pineda’s injured wrist. I made my debut and snagged my first career Major League hit in the bottom of the fourth. After that infield single, I was convinced they were going to bring me up permanently.

Instead, they sent me back down—not to Double-A. No, I was promoted to Triple-A. It was frustrating—ESPNhad ranked me number one in the top one hundred prospects. Everyone knew Pineda was done, but Houston hadn’t budged. Christ, I’d even been named Minor League Player of the Year but was stuck earning peanuts until my rookie contract ran out.

I’d started the next season in Fresno until, once again, Houston brought me up; this time to replace Tony Mack. He’d been slumping badly at the plate, and it was a huge opportunity for me. From there, I’d recorded my first career four-hit game and was named American League co-player of the week. I began breaking, not only theHurricanes’franchise records, but American League rookie records as well. I even managed to snag the AL Rookie of the Year award.

After that, I was in.

And when this season ended, I fully expected to be smashing some records off-field. With all the free-agent chatter, the Hurricanes were going to have to step up their offer if they wanted to keep me in cobalt blue and white. I was looking forward to watching the bidding war unfold.

“You ready, Red? It’s all you, baby!” Chavez slapped my back, and I fought back a grimace before nodding.

He’d been calling me Red since the day we met, said my name reminded him of the Irish beer. I’d almost slipped up and called himLimp Dicka couple of times, a lovely term of endearment I’d overheard his wife use when she thought no one was listening.

“Tie it up, and get us into the playoffs, man,” Chavez pleaded as he looked up into the stands, no doubt searching for Gabrielle. To my extreme regret, I followed his gaze and found her almost immediately.

I tried looking away, but not before she caught me staring. She winked and ran a hand down her chest as if brushing away invisible crumbs. I rubbed at the back of my neck and avoided making eye contact with Chavez, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

As her husband’s teammate, I shouldn’t have known her tits were as fake as a Nigerian prince offering up half his fortune via email. I should have been ignorant about the sounds she made when she was coming.

And the award for Biggest Douchebag of the Year goes to…

Killian Reed, ladies and gentlemen.

In my defense, I never set out to sleep with my teammate’s wife. At the time, I hadn’t even known she was married. Gabrielle approached me at a team after-party a year ago, and we fucked in a bathroom.

End of story.

When she’d shown up at the next practice, I’d chalked it up to another cleat chaser gone stage 5 clinger. I’d known exactly what she thought as I watched her saunter across the field house. It had been written all over her face. She’d convinced herself that out of all the women in the world, she’d be the one to tame me.

Convinced I’d known where things were headed, I actually opened my mouth, prepared to rattle off a speech I’d perfected over the years:“It’s not who I am… I thought you understood… don’t cry.”

Instead, she’d stalked past me, without so much as afuck you very much, leaving a cloud of Chanel in her wake. I’d watched in utter confusion as she embraced Chavez before putting two and two together.

Only then did I realize just how badly I’d screwed up. If it had been the first time, I would have chalked it up to a minor mistake and moved on.

But it wasn’t the first time.

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 Illustratedhad 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.

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