“Huh,” I murmur. “Good to know.”
“So,” Jake says, lightly slapping the bar top. “Why are we here?”
As I’m about to dive into the utmost humiliating discussion about why I’ve been removed from the team roster for our Opening Day series in Chicago, Delgado, Hernandez, and Russo walk through the front door of Putters.
During my time at Bridge Point, I had my favorite haunts where I knew I could enjoy a meal or drink with anonymity. In Denver, however, it seems the entire team uses one location for their enjoyment: a hole-in-the-wall sports bar called Putters. Sports memorabilia covers the wall-to-wall wood paneling, and at least a dozen large televisions hang from the ceiling throughout the space. A back wall is reserved for darts, and the tables are all green. There’s even a faux putting green hanging over the large bar, right in the middle of the restaurant. Typical bar food, which I like. The greasier the better.
“Damn, Holloway. Thought you were lying,” Dante Russo says, slapping Jake on the shoulders. “Thought for sure he got some signal crossed somewhere.”
“Nope,” Jake replies. “He was just about to tell me why he needs help, but you dipshits rolled in here.”
“Oh? Help?” Alberto Hernandez asks, dragging a bar stool to the side of me. “Baseball or women? I help.”
I chuckle as I look at the shortstop phenom. Arriving from the Dominican Republic, Alberto made an immediate splash as aplayer to watch. His English isn’t the best, and he’s gotten himself in trouble more than once with extracurricular activities. He’s also a ladies man, and has been responsible for more than one bar fight between women who thought they were the only one he was fucking. “I don’t think I need your help with women. I do need advice on a woman, though, but on a strictly professional level.”
“Layla?” Dante asks, reaching around my shoulder to steal a French fry.
“Hey!” I protest, but it’s too late. The fry disappears into Dante’s mouth. “But yeah. Layla.”
“You’re out of luck with that one, man. Especially when she sees what you’re eating,” I hear from behind us. Turning, I find Jackson Archer and Ryder Sullivan, the latter of whom is snapping a photo.
“Did you just take my picture?” I ask, and Ryder nods.
“Gotta send it to Layla. Boy is she gonna be pissed,” he says with a snort.
“Honestly, it’s bullshit that he gets to eat this, but we have to watch our diets,” Jackson whines. “He’s a billion years old. Aren’t you in danger of having a heart attack or something?”
“I’m thirty-five,” I remark dryly. “A few years shy of a billion.”
“I had a kale salad with grilled chicken for dinner,” he snaps. “You’re eating the greasiest hamburger I’ve ever seen. How is this fair?”
I’m tempted to make a big show of taking a huge bite of the burger, but I choose to refrain. A quick glance around the group tells me more than half are eyeing my burger with jealousy. “Uh, how many of you are sticking to Layla’s meal plans?”
Every hand shoots up.
“Seriously?” I ask incredulously.
Jake nods. “I’ve always been into eating healthy, and I like tracking data. Once I started following Layla’s meal plans, I really improved my sprint speed. And while I still need to track more data, I’ve seen an increase in my exit velocity at bat.”
“No shit,” I murmur.
Delgado nods. “My overall energy level is so much better. Iused to be relieved when Coach would pull me in the seventh inning. Now I’m begging for him to let me finish out the game. I’m determined to get a no-hitter this year.”
“All of this because of a meal plan?” I ask warily.
“You need to give it a shot,” Jake says. Looking down at my greasy dinner, he laughs. “That may taste good, but no telling how it’s fucking up your game. What do you have to lose?”
“Well,” I mumble, “Coach said I couldn’t play unless I stick to Layla’s plans. But I pissed her off, so she refuses to work with me.”
“That’swhy you aren’t on the roster for Opening Day?” Ryder screeches. I nod. “Fucking hell. Unbelievable.”
“Coach has it out for you or something?” Jackson comments. “This seems pretty unusual.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been here long enough to recognize his moods and behaviors.”
“Batting average is down,” Alberto chimes in, staring at his phone. “Definitely a drop from Bridge Point.”
“On-base average is down, too. Damn, old man,” Ryder says with a chuckle. “Did this slide start in Bridge Point, or did they trade you just in time?”
