Night Games Read Free

Great. Just great.
    I catch a glimpse of the tiny airport through the window. Hopefully, I’ll be able to connect with my driver without too much commotion. I don’t travel with bodyguards or any type of security. I like to keep things low-key, but in a small town like this, my presence is sure to attract attention. I can’t blend in with the crowd like I usually do in New York. I’m going to stand out.
    And there’s nothing I crave more than my privacy. For years, I’ve stayed out of the gossip columns and shied away from the spotlight. Sure, my celebrity hook-ups are well documented, but they’re all for the camera. If I were really into a girl, the press sure as hell wouldn’t know about it. I’d keep her out of sight. No one would even know we were together, much less know her name. But fat chance of that happening any time soon. I haven’t come across a woman who makes me want to expend the effort. I’m not exactly the monogamous type, and there’s no way I’m paying some gold-digger alimony after she catches me cheating on her. It’s bound to happen, so why tempt fate? I’m happy living it up as a bachelor, the envy of every guy in America.
    What I don’t often admit is that sometimes it gets old. I see my teammates with their wives and kids and it hurts. They have what I’ll never have, even if they don’t see their families for more than half the year. During the season, we travel so much that sometimes it feels like I’m on a plane more than I’m in a car. If I ever do get married, I think I’d wait until after I am done playing so that I could be home more. There’s nothing worse than a long-distance relationship, and at this point, I know I’m not ready to make the necessary sacrifice. My roving eye would certainly get the better of me. There are just too many beautiful women out there to be tied down to just one.
    I reach for my leather case and shove in the documents Steve, my agent, sent me to read. There’s talk of another book deal, but I’m not into it. I hated having a ghostwriter follow me around the last time. And being that I’ve been in such a rotten mood lately, it’s not the smartest idea to have someone analyzing my every move. I’m so tightly wound I’d rather not have a journalist witness me flying off the handle.
    I like being in control, and there’s nothing I’m more obsessive about than my image. I have a Google alert sent to my phone every time my name is mentioned. It helps me stay on top of my publicist in squashing any false rumors or nasty gossip some lowlife scum tries to pawn off as the truth. People post some crazy shit about me on the internet. Supposedly, I’ve had every sexually transmitted disease known to man. I’ve paid off women to keep their mouths shut about our one-night stands. I’ve been having a closeted relationship with Kings’ third basemen, Drake Schultz, for years. Yeah, I’ve heard it all, but I also know how to spin bad press to my advantage by getting ahead of the story and framing the narrative.
    Other guys eat that shit up when they hear about all of my supposed conquests in the bedroom. It’s like they’re giving me a high-five through the virtual universe. I’m living their dream. Banging every Maxim pinup girl and lingerie model in existence. I’m the embodiment of the ultimate male fantasy. I’m a sports god. I get to play a game for a living and make millions of dollars doing it. I can have any girl I want, and one day my face will be immortalized in bronze in Cooperstown. It doesn’t get any better than that, right? Yeah, if they only knew what it was really like.
    The chances of getting close to someone are slim to none. Everyone I meet always wants something from me. An autograph. A picture. A moment of my time. It irritates me to go to a restaurant only to have someone at the next table recording a video of me slurping my soup on their phone. I could stay home and subsist on takeout. I could order room service when