Night Games Read Free Page A

I’m on the road. But I refuse to live my life like a prisoner of my fame. I like going out in public and enjoying myself. I only wish these social media addicts would give me a break. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve started reprimanding them out loud, and the majority slink away with their tails between their legs. Sometimes it pays to speak up in order to wrest some power away from these obnoxious pests.
    Now don’t get me wrong, most of the time I don’t mind engaging with fans, especially the kids. But when I’m eating, that’s an invasion of my personal space and I refuse to be bothered. I decline their requests politely, but sometimes the interruptions are constant, one right after another, after I’ve already said that I’m not signing. And that’s when I start to lose my cool. I could be trying to have a conversation with the people at my table and someone’s tapping me on the shoulder, shoving a crumpled napkin and a Sharpie in my face.
    But the worst are the ones who follow me around with backpacks crammed with memorabilia—balls, cards, posters, and everything in between. They’re not looking for a personalized memento. Oh no. They’re hoping to make a quick buck off my signature. It’s bad enough that I have to sit for hours at sports shows or sign thousands of numbered items for deals my agent agreed to. But to have some paparazzi-like con artist try to swindle me for a profit? That gets my blood boiling.
    “I can’t wait until you’re back playing in New York, Mr. Whitfield.” The pilot salutes me as I reach the cockpit, drawing me out of my negative headspace.
    “You and me both, Merle. I hope you won’t be seeing me in person for a while.”
    “I take it you’re being driven back to the city when you’re done in Stockton?”
    “That’s the plan.”
    “Good luck to you, sir. Hit one out of the park for me tonight.”
    “Now, Merle. You know I’m more of a line drive guy.”
    “That’s right. Mr. Whitfield definitely knows his way around the bases,” the stewardess interrupts, trying to get me to notice her again.
    I shoot her a withering look. I’m not big on people jumping into a conversation I’m having with someone else. She’s coming on a little too strong, hungry for my undivided attention.
    “He sure does,” Merle complies, but he’s too old school to pick up on the sexual innuendo behind her statement.
    “Thanks for flying with us, Mr. Whitfield.” She extends her hand, and with the pilot watching, I have to take it, even though I’d rather not. Her fingers wrap around mine as she presses a piece of paper against my palm. It’s the oldest trick in the book. I didn’t even bother to catch her name, but I’m sure she has it written down next to her number, probably surrounded by Xs and Os.
    I sling my bag over my shoulder and exit the plane. There’s a garbage can right outside the gate, and I toss the scrap of paper into it. Like I have the time or the inclination to sleep with a pushy stewardess. There’s nothing more cliché than that, even if she does have a killer body. It might be the last hot piece of ass I see for a while.
    “Mr. Whitfield! Mr. Whitfield, over here!”
    All eyes in the mostly empty airport zero in on me. Gee thanks, asshole. Now they might as well announce it over the loudspeaker. Forget about making a quiet entrance. Immediately, a crowd starts to swell around me as I push through to the guilt-ridden chauffeur.
    “I’m so sorry, sir. I just got excited and I didn’t want you to walk by me.” The guy seems sincere, and I decide to cut him some slack, especially if he’s going to be the one driving me around all week. I need him on my side.
    “Mission accomplished then,” I say with a hasty smile, quickly scribbling my name across a baseball someone’s holding out to me. “Lead the way…?”
    “Noah. Noah Martin,” he replies, ushering me toward the revolving door. “Your bags are already in the trunk. We can make a