Page 19 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Nothing like adding a little more pressure or anything.

“If that’s the case,” I interject into the conversation that’s moved on to the questionable call from the game earlier, “wouldn’t Doc be here rehabbing me instead of Scout?”

Three pair of eyes angle my way. “You want man-hands on you instead of woman-hands?” Tino asks, and the table erupts into laughter.

“T, you’re so hard up you’d take any hands at this point.”

“At least I’m not a picky bastard like you,” he replies.

“East has a point,” J.P. says. “But considering I was thinking about pulling a groin tonight just so Scout could rub it out for me, my vote is to keep her around.”

“Fucker,” I chuckle. “You’re vote’s no good, though. Scout’s here for me. Only me,” I taunt. “So you’re shit outta luck. Be my guest, though, and pull that muscle. I’m sure Sumo Sam would love to rub out your groin and maybe take a quick detour to find your dick while he’s at it.”

“Gonna need a magnifying glass for that,” J.P. mocks.

Phones ding around the table and interrupt the conversation as we all move to see what’s going on.

ESPN Alert: Trade rumors are swirling that Jose Santiago will likely be traded in the coming weeks.

“Fucker.” My comment is repeated around the table as I stare at the name of the person responsible for my stint on the DL.

“God help whatever team he lands on,” Drew says.

My phone alerts me again, and when I look at the screen, I sigh but for a completely different reason. Not again. “Sorry guys. Put mine on my tab. I’ve gotta head out.”

“You good to drive, man?” Drew asks.

“Yeah. I only had two. I’m good.”

Too much damn time to think.

About Santiago.

Scout.

If my arm’s fucked up to the point of no return.

And only one of those thoughts on the hour drive to the outskirts of town is welcome. So, by the time I pull into the familiar gravel lot, tires crunching beneath me and the silver moonlight around me, I’m in no mood to face this. It’s not like I have a choice though.

The slam of my truck door echoes as I stride up the pathway I know all too well.

“Sorry it took me so long, Marty,” I say as I walk through his plume of cigarette smoke to where he’s standing outside the rundown bar.

“No worries. She’s not hurting anyone. Sissy called in sick tonight. I’m flying solo so I can’t leave the bar to take her back to her place.”

Same old song and dance. Just a different day.

The air, stale with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, hits me the minute I open the ill-hanging wooden door and walk into the dimly lit bar. I spot her immediately. She’s slumped in her booth with empty glasses littering the table in front of her.

“Mom.”

She jumps at the sound of my voice, her eyes painted with too much makeup look up at me, and her lips, a bright red, turn up in a smile. “Easton.” She says my name like it’s the first time she’s seen me in months—excited, grateful, and hopeful.

“Hi, Momma. You’ve gotta stop doing this,” I tell her as I fake the same level of enthusiasm, my insides fucking exhausted from this dance.

“I know, but I was so excited that you won tonight!”

“I didn’t play tonight. My arm’s still hurt,” I explain as I help her scoot from behind the table and wrap my arm around her waist to get her out the door.