Dear Life(3)

Thinking about it now, I still have no clue how I did it. I played ball the way I know how to and the way I love to. It almost seemed too simple.

Now it’s the off-season, I’m sitting in my nicer apartment in downtown Denver, Rookie of the Year title stamped on my career, and enough endorsements rolling in to make any twenty-one-year-old dickhead a pompous ass.

But that’s not me.

I will always be humble, I will always be grateful, and I will always be safe with my money.

Humble beginnings bring you great appreciation, a saying I’m quite familiar with.

“Do you know why I shot your sorry ass?” Ethan asks, sipping his beer.

“Because you’re a little bitch and saw that I was carrying the team?”

“No.” He takes another swig from his beer. The off-season lends to heavier drinking. We’ll work it off in the spring. Pointing his bottle at me, he continues, “Because you made me drive down 470 West, during rush hour, on a Friday, to bring you gas because you drive a piece of shit that doesn’t have a working gas gauge.”

This happens to be true. I drive a rusted Jeep Cherokee. Traffic sucked the life out of my car, and I wound up not being able to make it to a gas station on time. I know when my truck needs gas. I always have to pump when the gauge gets to a quarter of a tank, anything past that and I’m playing a gas gauge game of Russian roulette. Thanks to Denver traffic, the gauge fell below the quarter mark, leaving me no choice but to call Ethan when my car stopped.

“I bought you dinner that night, dude. We’re even.”

Ethan shakes his head, bottle halfway to his mouth as he peers over at me. “Nothing will make up for making me drive on 470 West during rush hour. Nothing.”

“Who’s being the little bitch now?”

“Fuck you.” Ethan laughs. “Speaking of dinner, are you ordering that pizza anytime soon?”

“Already did on my phone.”

“Did you get black olives? You know I hate those turdlettes.”

I shrug, knowing fully well I didn’t get black olives.

“Dude,” he whines. Laughter erupts deep down within me just as he punches me in the shoulder.

Ding dong.

When I go to answer the door, Ethan asks, “Did you really get black olives? You know those things are impossible to pick off.”

“I didn’t get black olives. Christ, you really are being a little bitch today.”

Shaking my head, I grab my wallet off the kitchen counter and head for the entryway. I’m rifling through my cash when I open the door. “Twenty-two fifty, right?” I look up and don’t see a pizza, or a warming box, or a delivery person at all. Instead I see a woman.

Not just any woman, but Rebecca.

Rebecca the bartender from Phoenix.

The bartender I had many long orgasm-filled nights with.

The bartender who I was exclusive with until I moved up to the majors and she called everything off.

The bartender who came to visit me once last year, seven months ago.

The bartender who now stands in front of me with a protruding belly, a very pregnant protruding belly.

Fuck me.

Avoiding eye contact with me, she somberly says, “Hey, Jace.”

I swallow hard, sweat starting to form at my brow, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There can only be one reason why she is here.

“Rebecca, uh what are you doing here?” It’s a stupid question. It’s obvious what she’s about to tell me, but I’m at a loss for words.

Looking up at me, not delaying the conversation, she says, “It’s yours.”

Yup, just what I fucking thought. My hand goes to my forehead in disbelief and my mouth feels like a desert all of a sudden, my throat closing up on me. Not a word passes between us for several seconds.

Coming up from behind me, Ethan says, “Dude, just pay her and . . . wow.” He pauses and takes in Rebecca. “Uh, that’s not pizza.”

Scowling at Ethan from over my shoulder, she says, “No, it’s a baby.”

“Yikes.” Ethan pats my shoulder. “Uh, I’m just going to grab another beer. Bottle of whiskey for you, bro?” He takes off without an answer.

Before I can react, Rebecca speaks up. “The baby is yours.”

Once again, something I already know. Rebecca wasn’t one to sleep around, so there is no doubt in my mind that the baby is mine.

Still in shock, she continues, “I’m not keeping her. I thought I could do this on my own, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but when I give birth, she’s yours.”

She?

Not giving me a second to process what she’s saying, Rebecca continues, sending me into a tailspin of what the fuck. “I’m due in two and a half months. Figure out what you want to do. Here is my new number.” She hands me a piece of paper. I can’t even look at it. The parchment feels like an anvil of responsibility in my hand. “Call me when you don’t have that oh shit look on your face and you’re ready to talk. I’m staying at a friend’s place here in Denver.” Stepping away, she holds her round belly and says sincerely, “I want nothing from you, Jace. I don’t want your love, your warmth, your money, or your fame. I just want you to take this baby and give her a good home. One I know I can’t give her right now.”

She . . .