Page 7 of The Problem with Sports
And that was how I found myself standing in front of the door of apartment 903.
All the condos came with balconies, and I had been enjoying mine when the wind had picked up my neighbors’ voices and had carried them upward, so that I could hear their conversation. Now, I didn’t hang out on my balcony often because I had roof access to the pool and social amenities that had come with the penthouse purchase, but I had felt like enjoying the cool breeze that didn’t happen often in July.
Then their voices had made it to my ears, and I couldn’t just stand by and let this poor child be led astray. Clearly, his father was doing him a disservice by not setting him straight, so here I was.
About to set this kid straight.
I knocked on the door and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
I knocked again after about an hour (which was probably only really ten seconds), andfinallyI could hear the lock disengage as someone was getting ready to open the door.
I stood there, waiting patiently, and when the door swung open, I was greeted with a sight that threatened to turn me stupid.
She could only be topping at, maybe, five-foot-four, and she was petite as hell. Around thirty, or so, she had blonde hair and brown eyes, and she was just plain fucking stunning. She was dressed in a loose-fitting blue t-shirt, baggy ass jeans, and she was barefoot, with toenails painted a pale yellow.
“May I help you?”
Fuck yeah, she may help me.
I mentally told my dick to shut the hell up and snapped myself out of my blonde-entranced stupor. “Do you have a kid in here?”
Her brows shot up and she started blinking rapidly. “Uhm…pardon?”
“A kid?” I repeated. “A very misinformed, misguided, confused child. Is he in there?”
“Excuse me?” she choked out.
“Mom, who is it?” came the misinformed, misguided, and confused voice behind her. Since ‘Mom’ was so much shorter than I was, it wasn’t hard to see behind her. And, there, stood a boy about eight-years-old and recognition flashed in his eyes.
I invited myself in (by just brushing past ‘Mom’) and stood in front of the kid. “Jansen Hillman isnotthe best player on the Condors,” I argued. “His average is great, don’t get me wrong, but thebest?”
The kid had the nerve not to take my word for it. “The only thing stopping him is his injury,” he replied. “If he hadn’t been injured, he’d be killing it.”
“You’re not even considering the PWA or PGP,” I accused.
“The entire team’s player win average had been affected with the recentretirements,”the little twerp fired back. “And Jansen’s player game percentage has been compromised by his injury.” He crossed his arms over his little chest. “I’d think you would know that.”
The sound of the door shutting behind me reminded me that we weren’t alone. And I was quickly reminded of it when the boy’s mother came to stand in front of me. “Excuse me,” she snapped. “Who in the hell are you? And what are you doing in my home?”
Who was I?
Was there no end to the insults?
“Mom, that’s Nathan Hayes,” her son said, cluing her in on who I was.
She turned back to face him. “Who?”
Christ on The Cross.
They’djustbeen talking about me.
The kid walked over to stand next to me. “Nathan Hayes, Mom,” he repeated. “Remember? He just retired and is probably going to be in the Hall of Fame.”
She shook her head, then looked up at me. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
