Page 23 of Houston, We Have a Problem
The red splotches are back on his cheeks, which hasmeblushing too. There is no way he’s blushing because I smiled at him, but that’s what my heart wants me to think. Why myheart is suddenly in charge, I don’t know, but I do know that’s a terrible idea.
So I turn and start dumping my clothes into the washer, grateful when he disappears into his room and closes the door.
He hasn’t come out yet by the time I make it down the stairs, so I use this limited opportunity to start digging. There’s so little in this front room that it doesn’t take me long to figure out there’s not much to learn about the guy from his stuff. His short bookshelf in the corner is mostly full of baseball books, with a couple of paperback classics that look like they haven’t even been cracked open because their spines are pristine. The cactus on top of it next to the modern record player is alive and well, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he is good at keeping things alive; it’s a cactus. He probably has to water it once a month. He has a pretty decent taste in music; half of his records are classic rock and the other half a mixture of mainstream and indie rock. Other than the TV on the wall opposite the couch, there’s not much else going on in this room.
“Who are you, Houston Briggs?” I whisper. I’m dying to know every detail.
“I could probably order a washer and dryer for you guys,” Houston says, coming down the stairs before I can peek in the pantry. He’s in jeans and a t-shirt now and looking a lot more human. As human as a blond-haired, blue-eyed Adonis can get, anyway. He never looked this good on TV, and I don’t think I can blame it all on the camera adding ten pounds. There’s something about seeing him away from the pressure of his job. “The last tenants didn’t believe in machinery, or so they said, so they did all their washing by hand and hung it out to dry in the back.”
“They sound eccentric.”
“I guess. I didn’t see them much.” He scratches his chin as an awkward silence stretches between us. I could easily go back over to my side and have him let me know when the washer isdone, but he’s the one who said I could hang out here while I wait, and I’m not about to waste that hospitality. “Uh, wanna sit?”
Since he’s only got the one couch in this room and it’s almost small enough to be a loveseat, when we both sit, we’re close enough that I get a whiff of his fantastic soap or body wash, whatever it is. He hasn’t shaved today, so he’s got some delicious dirty blonde scruff going on.
I like seeing this laid-back version of him. Before my one and only interview with him, I’d only seen the guy on TV and the internet, when he’s on guard and careful about what he says or does. He’s never had a bad interview, which says a lot about him but also nothing at the same time because it’s all just a mask. He’s got some good control and isn’t quick to give anything away.
I have to wonder if he is always that closed off or if the people closest to him get to see the real Houston. Do his girlfriends get more than the pro pitcher who can do no wrong? A small part of me hopes they don’t, which is ridiculous. I’m not allowed to be jealous of women who had every right to date the man, unlike me.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “You’re a baseball player, right?”
That makes him chuckle, probably because he’s so used to people knowing exactly who he is. “Yeah. The Red-tails are a pro team here in Sun City.”
I widen my eyes appropriately. “Oh, I’ve heard of them! Didn’t you guys just win a tournament or something?” I don’t like playing dumb, but I also know how beneficial it can be to stroke someone’s ego in the right way. Houston has never been one to take someone else’s credit, so appealing to his vanity probably won’t get me very far. But giving him the chance to feel like an expert?
He fights his grin as he shifts his body to face me a little more. “The World Series.”
“Whoa, you’re the best in the world?”
Hello, dimples! “No, just the country, but they call it the World Series. Though, there’s a team in Canada, so I guess that counts?”
I’m impressed he didn’t make me feel stupid for that one, and my estimation of the guy goes up. Maybe I could play that up, see where his limits are. “Are you on your downseason, then?”
“Yep.” Wow, he didn’t even try to correct me by casually saying offseason. “It’s nice to have a little break before spring training.”
“What do you do when you’re not playing games and stuff?”
He shrugs, and this answer doesn’t come as easily, like he’s trying to decide what he actually wants to say. His hesitation makes me wonder if he’s telling the truth when he says, “I co-own a few businesses, so I check on them every once in a while.”
That is not even close to what I expected, and I lose the act, genuinely interested now. “What kind of businesses?” And better yet, how has he had time to run multiple businesses while being a starting pitcher for a champion team? Jordan told me the other day that Houston does other stuff for work on top of baseball, but he didn’t elaborate. I wouldn’t have guessed it would be something like this.
Houston must not have expected me to latch on to this topic because he turns a brighter red than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe no one has ever taken an interest in this side of him before, or maybe I just have crazy eyes. But his lips slowly twist into an amused smile as he probably realizes that I’m not kidding about wanting to know.
“Jordan has a landscaping business,” he says.
“Yeah, he told me. You own that with him?”
“Yeah. He was doing maintenance at the stadium when he moved back to Sun City last year, and when he decided to start up his own business, I wanted to help out because he’s been my best friend since we were in high school.”
Okay, their close friendship makes more sense now, given their history. And Jordan would be extra grateful for Houston’s investment and want to repay the favor, even if that favor is hosing Houston down when he looks like he murdered a Teletubby.
“What else?” I ask, inching closer.
“An old neighbor wanted to get into real estate, so together we bought some duplexes and condos to rent out. I technically own the house Brook lives in, though she doesn’t know that.”
That explainsthishouse, but not why he lives in it when he could live anywhere. Why would anyone want a wall-sharing neighbor if they didn’t have to have one?
“Why doesn’t she know?” I ask.
