Play Maker(70)

“What? That’s impossible. I give you the rent check every month…” Fuck. Of course. I had given Nick one responsibility in our relationship—to walk the rent to the landlord’s apartment by the first of the month—and he had apparently failed to do that. I had wondered why my bank account had seemed unusually robust. The checks were probably sitting next to the door or, knowing Nick, covered in bong water on the coffee table somewhere. He had never really understood the purpose of the coasters I owned.

“He said you have to be out by the 15th of next month.”

I rubbed my temple. It was the 20th. The last game before the MLB draft was in just over a week. Maybe I could call my landlord and explain, but then I remembered that he had told me about the noise complaints from the other neighbors, as well as the lingering scent of pot that hovered around our apartment. No doubt he was eager for me to be out.

“Fine,” I said, realizing I would probably have to move back in with my mom for a while. The pain in my temple bloomed into a full-on headache. “Just make sure you’re out of there when I get back.”

“It’s cool,” he said. “Anne Marie is letting me stay with her.”

“Of course.” Anne Marie was the only girl in their five-person band. She played the tambourine and was sleeping her way through the group. I couldn’t blame her, though. She was terribly attractive and not very musically talented. Use what you got, right? Guess she saw potential in Nick. Just like I had. “Use protection,” I said and hung up.

I took a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm myself. This was just a minor setback. I was here to do a job and that’s what I was going to do. Nothing else mattered right now. I could do this. I was smart and capable and resourceful. Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and pulled it towards the welcome desk. But it got stuck around the potted plant, so I gave it a firm yank, which freed it, not only from the plant, but also from my grasp. I could only watch as my duct-taped suitcase flew through the air, hit the smooth, perfect floor, and promptly exploded in the middle of the busy lobby.

***

“Thank you so much,” I said to the very kind bellboy that had helped sweep my scattered clothes into my busted suitcase and get both it and me out of the lobby and up to my room in an incredibly short amount of time. I dug into my pockets for a tip, grateful to find a five-dollar bill even though it was a wadded up sweaty mess.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I could explain how I had ended up in this situation, but that was a long story, starting with the poor decisions made in my adolescent and teen years, and this poor kid was already politely nodding his way out the door. The minute the door closed, I kicked my suitcase. Whatever delicate balance the bellboy had managed in order to get it into the room was immediately disrupted as the top popped open and my clothes spilled out onto the floor.

“I guess I’ll unpack, then,” I said, scowling at my completely broken piece of luggage. The only one that I owned. Guess I would be buying a new one no matter what. Unless I wanted to carry my clothes back to Houston in a garbage bag. I shivered. It had happened before and while it wasn’t the most embarrassing part of my childhood, it was pretty high up there.

I hung my clothes onto the hangers provided by the hotel, even folded up my panties and shirts and put them in the drawer. Then, when it was empty, I kicked my suitcase across the room like it was a stupid, awful, broken soccer ball. I just wanted it somewhere that I wouldn’t be able to look at it. It went under the bed. I hoped to forget about it.

The tiny glass bottles in the minibar clinked as I jerked the door open. I needed a drink. I needed one bad. Somehow in the insanity of the bag and my unmentionables spilling onto the floor of the lobby of a very fancy hotel, I had forgotten, briefly, that my boyfriend of six months had broken up with me and I was getting evicted from my apartment.

“That shithead,” I muttered to myself, staring at the tiny bottles of booze. The price list lay on top of the fridge, but I didn’t want to look. Not yet. I knew I couldn’t afford them, but I didn’t want to know how much I couldn’t afford them. Surely there was a bar nearby that had cheap beer on tap, or maybe a bottle of tequila they were looking to unload.

I pushed back my hair, which had gone frizzy from sweat and frustration, and closed the fridge door. I was going to be following Nathan Ryder for the next week. I couldn’t be mooning over Nick or thinking about how I was going to get my clothes home or worrying about finding a new place.

The paper had told me that Nathan was weary of journalists. That even though this meeting and interview had been arranged and he had agreed to it, there was a chance that he was going to be cagey and uncomfortable with the situation. I had to make him comfortable. That I could do.

I approached the mirror and gave myself a once-over. I looked exactly how I felt, sweaty and exhausted. Somehow my hair was both limp and fuzzy, my face splotchy. My clothes were wrinkled and displayed multiple wet spots, most especially underneath my armpits. I pulled them off and I stared at myself in the mirror, hands on hips, wearing nothing but black lace and a scowl.

“OK, Hall,” I said, blowing brown hair out of my equally brown eyes. “Here’s the score. Bases are loaded. The game is tied. You’re tired. But you can do this. You can f*cking do this. You’ve got a hell of a swing and the ball is an easy lob. This guy is hot and interesting and you can write a piece that will make every panty in the country drop and also make his mama proud. This is your pitch, babe. This is what will get you into the big leagues.”