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“Who wants ya?” Corey asked. He was going to sell the hell out of that team. Especially one that might, in the future, let Clayton go to a team that could pay more.
“Mostly Denver and Seattle.”
“Ha, the hauntingly bad luck of going top three.”
Clayton snorted.
“Joking aside, Seattle’s got the first pick and Denver the third, right?”
“If you say I’m living every kid’s dream, I’m hanging up.”
He remembered people saying similar things to him when he was drafted out of Penn State. It had crushed him not to be in New York.
“It’s either going to be the mile-high can’t breathe capital of the world or the rainy dark cloud of the US,” Clayton moaned.
“You really think both cities suck? Or you’ve decided not to give anyone but New York a chance?” he asked, as he started down the tunnel to the parking garage.
“Both cities suck. Suckety suck, suck, suck.” Clayton sounded like a teenager.
“Don’t be a pussy. Seattle—that city has potential. I know it means going number one, but the piano bars, the fish market, the docks, the underground, the club scene—all awesome. And it’s more of a neighborhood than any other city. I’d go there.” Corey nodded at another of his teammates as he opened the tunnel door into the parking garage. “I doubt you’ll be lonely since we’ll all visit you constantly.”
“Just what I need, a bunch of people checking up on me. I hate the west coast,” Clayton mumbled.
“Really?” Corey shook his head and hit the unlock button on his key fob. “You seem happy as a pig in shit every time I see you in Cali.”
“I mean—” He couldn’t finish the sentence because it was true.
“Look, Clay, you want to be home, but it’s not time yet. I know exactly how you feel, but being away from everyone means you can put the time in to earn your stripes in Seattle.” Corey leaned against the side of the red truck.
“I guess that’s true. You guys would try to make me hang out all the time, especially Beth. I mean, I’m her favorite,” Clayton joked about his sister and one of Corey’s best friends.
“Horseshit. I’m her favorite. And besides, Seattle won’t be able to afford you in three years, and you can force a trade back home then.”
“Ya think?” Clayton sounded hopeful.
Corey switched his phone to the other hand and rolled his sore shoulder, causing the ice still taped to him to crack. “I’m sure. Denver could afford to keep you. Seattle can’t. Ask your agent. He’ll tell you the same thing. Go with Seattle.”
“Thanks bro,” Clayton said.
“Anytime, Clay, and don’t melt in all that rain,” Corey teased as he adjusted his shoulder again, and turned his head a bit, catching the movement of someone in the shadows. He narrowed his eyes. It looked like a ten or twelve-year-old boy hiding behind the pole several feet away. He didn’t understand how he could have gotten into the parking garage, but the kid was definitely close enough to hear the conversation.
“Oh, by the way, that third inning—fuck—you sucked. Did you forget that the guys shouldn’t be hitting the ball?” Clayton was laughing as Corey cursed him.
“You want a pep talk going into the draft? Don’t mention that inning. I got out of it, so don’t even start with the worst one of the season shit.” Corey moved straight to the pole, heading after the kid. “I got to go, Clay.”
The white stripes of the Yankee cap were easy to see moving in the dark between two SUVs. Corey guessed the route and quickly eased the other way around the big black Escalade, beating him to the back of the car. The kid was still looking over his shoulder, checking to see where he’d gone, when he smacked into Corey’s chest and fell backward.
Corey caught his small arm before the poor kid hit the concrete. “Whatcha doing here, kid?”
The Yankees cap snapped up, and a pair of sea-mist-green eyes looked up at him. “My job,” said a voice that was definitely not male.
He quickly released his hold on the thin arm, not wanting to be accused of assault, and the woman stumbled back again but righted herself.
Corey crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the little woman. She couldn’t have been more than five foot, and she was maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. There was not a curve on her, at least not one he could see under her big white T-shirt and what looked like a ten-year-old boy’s jeans. He rocked back on his heels.
“What exactly is your job?”
A small crease appeared between her green eyes. “You don’t know who I am?”
