Page 1 of Stolen Bases

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Cameron

“Hello, slut.” My brotherEli’s voice vibrates through my car’s speakers as he answers my call.

I roll my eyes at the comment. Eli already knows I was out last night, no thanks to some scumbag paparazzi who probably captured me out with the woman I’d taken to dinner and posted it online. My date was beautiful and nice, but … meh. She did nothing for me, and I won’t be seeing her again.

Before you ask—no, I did not sleep with her.

“I’m not a slut, you dick waffle.”

Do I like women? Hell yes. Believe me when I say they like me too. But contrary to what people believe, I’m not a manwhore.

Eli barks a laugh. “Sure, you’re not, bro.”

This fucking guy, I swear.

Okay, so maybe I date a lot of women, and maybe—just maybe—I have slept with a decent number of them, but not all of them. And that was all in the past. Now, I have standards. Scout’s honor.

I’m not the same twenty-four-year-old guy who liked to fuck around. Not that I am looking to settle down, but if the right girl came along… Let’s just say I’d be open. I see what my brothers, Jace and Mason, have. Somewhere, deep down and hidden away, I might someday want that too.

Just not yet.

What I really want is to win the World Series. I want my name engraved on the Commissioner’s Trophy forever. That’s mydream. I’ve been playing Major League Baseball for nearly a decade, and I’ve almost won a few times with the Los Angeles Evaders, but close won’t cut it.

I want it all. Winning the World Series is what I’ve been working towards all my life.

“Are you already in the office?” I ask, changing the subject.

I’m on my way to the stadium for some spring training workouts and meetings, and I called Eli for help, not to get slut shamed.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Unlike you, I have an actual job that requires me to work. I don’t get to play baseball outside all day long.”

“Gee, you’re sounding more like Mason in your old age,” I joke, masking my annoyance.

Eli laughs again, and my irritation dissipates. The jabs about my job and personal life are getting old. I question whether he—and the rest of my family, for that matter—takes me seriously at all.

“I have a real job, you know.”

I’ve worked my ass off to get into the MLB. I still work my ass off. Being one of the top-rated pitchers in the league comes with a lot of pressure and takes dedication, which is something I am not short on.

It’s just… As the youngest of four brothers, my family automatically lumped me into the “wild child” category. I’m the funny, carefree brother. Some days, I don’t know if I’ve become the person they expect me to be, or if I really am who they say. I like to think there’s more to me than being a goofy playboy.

My big bro sighs. “Sorry, kid. I know you work hard. I’m just stressed. Stuff’s been…” His voice falls off as if he’s deep in thought.

A couple of years ago, he and his best friend opened up their own talent agency. They manage and represent a lot of A-list clients in the entertainment industry. I am really proud of my brother and all that he has accomplished.

Eli’s the reason I studied sportsmanagement in college. I figured maybe I could go work with him if I ever got hurt or too old for baseball.

“Too old” is getting closer with every passing season.

“Princess problems?” I’m referring to his number one client.

He hums a non-answer.

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