Page 46 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

Chapter Eighteen

seb

“I hate this fucking party,” I mumble to no one in particular.

“It’s only once a season,” Joe says from behind me. “These people pay your salary.”

Every season when we’re playing in New York, the Randalls throw a party for all the team’s largest sponsors. The players are required by contract to be here. We hate it. It’s usually after a game. We’re tired and hungry, and we don’t want to spend hours making small talk.

“Do they have any real food here this year?” I look around for a buffet table but don’t see one.

“Naw, just appetizers.” Joe grabs the waiter who’s been circling me with a tray of food for the last five minutes.

The waiter holds up his tray. It’s some kind of cheese and meat—each piece stabbed in the center with a toothpick. I smile as I think of Sophie. I scan my eyes around the room again but don’t see her.

“These any good?” I look from the tray to the waiter.

He shrugs. “I don’t eat this crap. You wouldn’t either if you knew the people who prepare it.”

“Good tip,” I say, nodding. “Is that my rookie card sticking out of your shirt pocket?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “but I’ll get fired if I ask you to sign it.”

I grab it out of his pocket and take a napkin off the tray. “Circle back around and pick up my napkin in a minute.”

As I sign it, I see Gentry making his way over to me—dragging some other guy along with him.

“Seb,” Gentry says, putting his arm around me. He acts like we’re best friends. It bugs the crap out of me, “this is Jeff Manning. He’s a new sponsor.”

“Hey.” I shake Jeff’s hand. Gentry’s arm is still around me. I glare down at him. Joe pulls Gentry’s arm away from me. I don’t know how much the Randalls pay Joe, but it’s not even close to being enough.

“Hey, Seb,” Jeff says. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m a huge fan. My son’s an even bigger fan. He’s a catcher, too.”

The waiter circles back around. I lay the autographed baseball card—wrapped in the napkin—back on his tray. Gentry tries to grab a cheese thing, but the waiter’s already halfway across the room, looking at the card. He turns around and gives me a discreet nod before he heads back into the kitchen.

“Oh yeah,” I say, looking back at Jeff. “How old’s your son?”

“Thirteen. You know, the asshole age. The only things that make him happy right now are baseball and looking at the sixteen-year-old girl who lives across the street.”

“That sounds about right,” I laugh. “Do you want an autograph for him?”

“Yes.” He holds up a baseball. “But I’d really like a picture with you to show him that his dad is maybe even halfway cool.”

“If my dad had come home with a picture of himself and Jorge Posada when I was that age, I would have been more pissed than impressed.” Joe hands me a Sharpie to sign the ball. “There’s no way to look cool to a thirteen-year-old.”

“Yeah, that’s the truth.” Jeff hands his phone to Joe. “You were a Posada fan growing up?”

Joe motions for us to stand together and takes the picture quickly. He knows my patience level is low for stuff like this.

“Yeah, I worshiped him,” I say. “Still do.”

“You ever get to meet him?”

“Once. He was cool.”

“So are you, man,” he says, shaking my hand again. “I appreciate the picture.”

“Let me know if it works with your son.” I tap Joe and point at Jeff. “And tell him to write me if he wants any catching tips. I answer the stuff that comes to this address. Don’t share it with anyone else.”

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