Page 174 of Scoring the Player
“Are we picking up Mr. Washington?” Jett asks.
“He’s already on his way to the house.” Sid nudges my shoulder. “You have to cover this on your album.”
I shake my head. “I told you, only Jimi can play like Jimi.”
“Yeah. Who else would think to mix ‘Little Drummer Boy,’ ‘Silent Night,’ and ‘Auld Lang Syne’?”
“Only the greatest ever. On late-night TV, all soft-spoken in his silk kimono and fro…”
Sid snorts, and then we both crack up.
“…toying with the thread on his pants, avoiding the camera like he wasn’t the rock god.”
“Yeah, but he was smooth with it.” Sid grins. “Witty.”
Word. The kinda cool you could never buy.
I reach into my pocket, and my stomach sinks as I check my phone—still nothing.
“Hey, I think I need to cop a plane.”
Sid looks at my phone and then smirks. “Yeah, I think you might.”
“Who put you on to Jimi? You never told me. Lily?”
He nods as he rubs lip balm across his lips. “Yeah. Didn’t appreciate it until I was older. You?” His face lights up as we pull into his driveway, and he catches Ty emerging from his Porsche.
He rolls down the window and catcalls him.
Ty grins.
“Good god. I’m the luckiest man alive,” he says, a raw scratch to his voice as he reaches for the door handle. He turns and daps me. “Call Salem. You’ll be the luckiest man alive, too.”
“Trying.” I reach up and climb through the sunroof.
“I can grab my whip in the morning?”
Ty nods. “We’ll text you the code to the gate.”
His eyes widen as Sid climbs out of the car and holds onto the door for support.
“Yeah...mezcal Negronis, a shot of tequila, and Jimi Hendrix Christmas album on repeat. Good luck,” I say. “Ooh. Don’t hurt ’em!” I call out as Sid starts slow grinding the air, making us burst out laughing. “Yoooo. Why ya boy trying to shake ass to Christmas music?”
Even Jett’s smiling, and he looks like he’d rather eat glass than do that.
Ty backs away, laughing, as Sid slams the car door and guns it toward him and tosses him over his shoulder.
He turns, and his hand raises in a salute, but a shrill yelp flies out of his mouth from something Ty’s doing to his back.
Slapping Ty’s ass, he salutes me and Jett before hauling him inside.
“Home, sir?” Jett asks.
I fight the urge to tell him to take me to LAX, but there’s not enough time to get to Brooklyn and back with tomorrow’s home game.
“Yep, home,” I answer.
At least I’ll see him in LA next week for our face-off.
