Page 8 of The Triple Play

FOXXY

“Who blew sunshine up your butt?” Harold’s raspy voice cuts off my whistle as I kick his door shut behind me. I give the old man a smile, setting down the tray of cat grass. Sweet Pea immediately comes trotting up to me, her saggy stomach swaying back and forth, as always. She places her front two paws on my leg and I oblige, picking her up and draping her over my shoulder. Her purr is so fucking loud in my ear, but I love it.

“What, is it illegal for a guy to be happy?” I tease as I walk farther into Harold’s apartment. It’s right across the hall from the one I share with Griff, so it’s the mirror image of our space. Sitting down carefully on his worn-out old couch, I make sure Sweet Pea is comfortable before I relax. “I’m just having a good day, old man.”

A very good day, indeed. Running into Olivia at the pet store, meeting that awesome dog of hers, was so good.

Harold harrumphs, but I know better. He tries this grumpy old curmudgeon act on me every now and then, usually when his gout is acting up and he’s in pain but too stubborn to ask for help. The rest of the time, he’s a nice guy. Happy to take me to the cleaners when we play penny poker and quick with a story about his days playing and coaching baseball.

“Where’s your medication?” I ask, as if I don’t really care what the answer is. But Harold knows me too well, just like I know him. His gaze narrows, bushy grey eyebrows drawing together. I stare back at him, calmly stroking Sweet Pea’s back, until he finally relents.

“In the bathroom cabinet.”

I stand up and deposit the fluffy cat in his lap before striding down the hall to the bathroom. I locate his pills easily, noting there’s only a few left. I’ll have to call the pharmacy when I leave.

Returning to Harold, I hand him a glass of water and a pill. “Finish your water and maybe I’ll go get the scones I made this morning.”

“You better,” he grumbles, but he does as I instruct. As promised, I go across the hall to get the container of scones. I cut the sugar in this batch so they’re healthier for him. Here’s hoping he doesn’t notice.

As soon as I’ve set Harold’s scone and a cup of coffee down in front of him, Sweet Pea hops down from his lap and immediately comes back to me. She curls up with a content purr.

“Damn traitor,” Harold grumbles, but his voice has softened, and I know he appreciates not only my help, but also the fact that his cat likes me. It takes a load off his mind to know I’ll be there for his precious pet whenever he can’t be.

I wait till he’s got a mouthful of scone, watching to see if he comments on the sweetness. When he doesn’t, I mentally pat myself on the back. I love baking. Mostly savoury things like breads and pretzels and shit, but Harold’s got a sweet tooth. So it’s become my mission to figure out recipes that are lower in sugar but still enjoyable for him.

“Terri said you need to limit Sweet Pea’s access to the cat grass,” I mention, knowing he’s gonna ignore me. “It’s not good for her stomach to have too much.”

As expected, he just grunts and takes another bite. “Are you keeping up on those exercises I gave you?”

I nod. “Yup, and I can already tell the difference in my timing.”

“Of course you can. I know what I’m talking about when it comes to batting. That Hutton boy should hire me as an assistant.”

I hide my grin at him calling Levi Hutton a boy. The batting coach for the Thunder is at least a few years older than my thirty. But Harold’s right, he does know a thing or two about baseball.

“I’ll suggest it at spring training.”

Harold huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, you do that.”

We fall into a companionable silence, with the only noise being Sweet Pea’s purr. I can tell the instant the pain medication starts to kick in, because the next sound Harold makes is a sigh of relief as he readjusts himself in his chair.

“What do you think of the Vancouver Tridents’ chance this year?” he asks, most of the grumpy tone gone from his voice.

“With Dixie joining their ranks, pretty damn good,” I reply.

“That’s right, I forgot he moved up to the big leagues.”

“He deserves it.”

Harold nods, and we both fall quiet again. A few minutes later, he starts to snore, and I stand up. Taking his plate into the kitchen, I move the cat grass into the fridge so Sweet Pea can’t get it, refill her water and food, and then head back to my apartment.

Griff is home when I walk in, standing over the stove, stirring something in a big pot.

“Want some pasta?” he asks without looking up.

“Hell yeah. Thanks, man.” I rub my stomach. I may be the baker, but Griff is definitely the better cook.

“How’s Harold?”