Saluting the security guard at the gates as we passed, I turned right onto P.C.H., and away from the private estate where I lived.
Orwelived.
Because when we weren’t in New York, Malibu would be our residence. We were now officially bi-coastal. The season had ended two weeks ago; Marnie and I had spent a week packing our things and then hopped on a jet to the warmth of California.
More specifically, the season for The Lions had ended two weeks ago, in the first round of the playoffs. We’d lost against the Cubs.
We’d lost, but you’d never know it from the celebration, which lasted three days – five if you counted the amount of time Ace went missing for, only to resurface at the Hard Rock Hotel in Atlantic City. Penn Shepherd certainly knew how to throw a party.
And boy had we partied.
The last time the New York Lions had made the postseason was fifty years ago, and we made sure everyone knew it.
It had never happened in my lifetime.
Never in the lifetime of any of the current team members, or the executive board.
What we’d achieved, not only as a new team, but a team made up of guys who’d never played together before, was immense. Virtually implausible.
The formerly almost washed-up, almost forgotten about Lions, were once more walking proudly with their heads held high.
New fans cheered loudly, old fans cheered even louder. The flags flying along Lions Boulevard flapped hard in the breeze.
The team New York had long considered a joke was now a serious contender for next year’s World Series. We’d had a taste of victory, and there was no way we wouldn’t do everything in our power to beat ourselves in the standings.
Especially as we had The Edge.
The Edge, who was now softly snoring away in the passenger seat, catching up on all the sleep she didn’t get last night. The Edge I was totally taking credit for.
Penn Shepherd might have spent a billion on improvements, but we’d have never managed it without Marnie and her One Percent.
And Marnie would still be sending rockets into space if it hadn’t been for me.
Therefore, credit.
The bat baggies, the bat tape, and the sleep schedule had all been improved on. I still didn’t have the velvet pouches, but the starting nine now traveled with their own mattresses which were carefully wrapped and set up in the hotels on each away game by a team which rivaled a Formula One pit crew for speed and precision. I didn’t think it would make that much of a difference, but The Lions had the longest winning streak of all the teams this season.
We went fourteen games in a row without a loss.
There were now two guys on The Lions’ staff whose sole job was to make the dugouts we visited exactly like our dugout at Lions stadium; down to the cubby where our helmets were kept, and the positioning of the water cooler. We kept to the same snacks, same meals, same everything.
The technology in our shirts had proved inordinately successful. After the first trial, Penn Shepherd had bought it, and Jorg had moved over from Germany; because once Shepherd wanted something, he usually got it – which was another reason why The Science and Analytics Department now existed.
Jorg and Marnie had grown into a team of ten, which was great for Marnie, less so for me and the afternoon delights I could no longer partake in due to all of the people being aroundall of the time.
Sex with Marnie had been relegated to mornings and evenings. Occasionally I persuaded her to stay in bed longer, but unfortunately, the team winning had awakened a monster in her. She was almost more desperate to reach the World Series next season than I was.
And I fucking loved her for it.
The nightstand on her side was piled high with books on sports data and analytics. I’d get into bed every night and have to answer twenty questions on what I thought may or may not work, based on that evening’s game. Sometimes she wouldn’t stop talking unless I made her stop talking, usually with my dick.
Because whenever my dick was involved, I always had one hundred percent of her attention.
The nightstand on my side was piled high with books on design and architecture; because now the off-season had begun, we had the time to dedicate to our New York house. It was our project. And if she peppered me with twenty questions about the different types of tape, or the best ways to break in new cleats, then I was asking about styles of flooring she wanted, or the size of the bed, or whether she had time for a conference call with our architects. And to get my attention, she just needed to stand in front of me.
Naked.
Just the thought of it now had my dick twitching.
