Page 36 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

“Damn,” Ray whistles. “You should run for office with that answer.”

“Hey, Seb.” I turn around to see Liza walking over to me. “I’ve got a few questions.”

Ken steps in between us. “Liza, you know Seb doesn’t answer questions until he’s dressed. Give him a few minutes.”

“And you know reporters work on deadlines, right?” She laughs as she backs up a few steps. “And it’s not like I haven’t seen everything Seb has to offer many,manytimes before.”

Sophie jumps up. “Nice talking to you, Ray,” she says, shaking his hand. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

She glances back at me as she walks away. The way she looks at me has changed in the last few hours and not for the better. I’m going to have to get into that, but not here. I grab my phone and send her a text.

What’s wrong?

“Sophia,” Ray says to her back. “Any time you want to go on record, you know where I am.”

She nods at him and then looks down at her phone. She takes a quick look at me again and puts the phone in her pocket without answering.

“Something going on there, Seb?” Ray’s holding his phone out toward me.

“Naw, I don’t mess with women who work here—”

“Even when they look that good?” He lets out a slow whistle as he pulls out his notepad and pen.

“Especially then.” I zip up my jeans and turn toward the gaggle of reporters pacing behind me. “You got any questions about the game, Ray? Or are you working for theNational Enquirernow?”

“I’d probably get paid better if I worked for them,” he chuckles. The other reporters start to circle me as Ray continues, “Yeah, why don’t you tell me about that final out in the top of the first? I’ve never seen you throw that hard, and that’s saying something. Did Buckley do something to piss you off?”

“Yeah, he got on base,” I say, shaking my head. “You remember how this game works, right?

* * *

When they built the new team parking garage at the stadium, they attached it to the front offices. Now the players have to walk by all the team’s employees when we’re going to and from the field. Gary Randall thought it would make us a more cohesive organization. The players hate it. Some of the staff are cool, but most are them are more annoying fans than the people who wait for us outside the stadium.

For the first couple weeks we parked there, staff members would take pictures of us and ask for autographs as we walked through the offices. We complained to our union, and that part finally stopped, but they still stare at us when we walk through. Tonight’s no different, except for this time, I’m staring back—looking for Sophie. I’ve texted her again without a response.

“Hey Barkley,” I say to one of the sales guys. He’s cool. The first thing he told me when we met was that he was more of a hockey guy. I respect that. “You know who Sophia Banks is?”

“Yeah, she already left. Consultants never stick around to do the dirty work, you know?” He laughs as he points to a table of promotional T-shirts that he and three other guys are folding.

“All right, thanks.”

“Good game, Seb,” one of the other guys says. “Solid hitting, but your timing seems off with the curve. Maybe start swinging a little earlier.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say, glaring at him as I walk toward the parking garage door. Joe’s already there, holding it open for me.

“I see you’re still sniffing around after Sophie. I thought we agreed to leave her alone.”

“I didn’t agree to shit.”

“Seb—”

“Joe, seriously, back off,” I say, spinning around. I lower my voice as a few people look over. “Look, man, you’ve become a good friend to me, but it’s important you know that I’ve knocked my friends to the ground more than once. I heard you. Now back off.”

He stares at me and finally nods. “Roger that.”

* * *

---