Page 66 of Home Town Advantage
Harper hangs on every word Bailey says and asks, “Who’s Chad?”
Bailey and I share bemused looks before she answers, “It’s a universal name for jerky guys. Like Karen for women.”
Harper scrunches her face. “There’s a Karen in my class. She’s abhorrent.”
Did this kid just use the word abhorrent? I’m about to ask when a shorter, attractive blonde woman with the same turquoise eyes as Harper, likely in her late thirties, appears. She holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Fallon, Harper’s mom and mega-Sulley O’Shea fan. You’re mynumber onefavorite player,” she giggles before winking at Harper.
I smile as I shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I hear we’re playing ball today. Harper and I are going to take you two to school.” I fist bump Harper, and she jumps up and down excitedly.
We end up playing for an hour. Bailey and Fallon are pretty good. They both have skills and athleticism. Apparently, Fallon also used to play in high school. Harper is shockingly good for her age with great hand-eye coordination. Bailey has a few struggles, but she’s doing well considering her back was broken a few months ago.
I learn Fallon is a professional physical therapist. I suppose Vance mentioned it, but I had forgotten. Before I leave, I encourage her to consider a job with the Beavers. She’d be perfect for it. The hours are great, the pay is probably more than what she makes now working at a hospital, and Harper would enjoy becoming a gym rat. Fallon said she’d consider it. I make a note to mention it to Reagan.
VANCE
“It’s a national holiday,” Daylen declares.
I roll my eyes. “No, it’s not.”
“Suck a Dick Sunday is a weekly holiday I celebrate. Don’t yuck my yum. Please respect my religious beliefs.” He bites back his goofy smile. “You have no idea how many women I’ve convinced that it’s a real holiday.”
I stare at Daylen in disbelief as he does leg presses in our team gym. From the chest press machine, I shake my head. “You’re a fucking idiot, D.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Or a genius.”
I sigh and point to the large man currently on the other side of the gym lifting hundreds of pounds over his head. “Beau is a genius. I still don’t understand what he wassaying about weight distribution the other day at my new house.”
I’ve been back for a few days, finishing my move into the new house. I had a moving company, but Beau and Daylen, who are bigger and stronger than the professional movers, have been extremely helpful. Beau put my entire dresser on his shoulder like it weighed ten pounds. He then put my sofa on his other shoulder and explained to us how the distribution of each lessens the effects, or some shit like that.
Beau shrugs. “I’m not a genius. I applied simple principles of mathematics and equilibrium.”
Daylen nonchalantly says, “Did you know that eighty-five percent of Americans can’t do basic math? It’s a good thing I’m in the other twenty-five percent.”
Everyone starts laughing. I can’t help but smile at my friend. He’s truly one of a kind.
I look over to Champ, who’s doing squats at an obscene weight. “Shit, man, no wonder no one can tackle you. That’s triple what I can do.”
He nods. “We’re going all the way this year. It’s our time, McCaffrey.”
I agree. We’re getting older. We’ll never have a better, stronger team than we’ll have this upcoming season. Management added two more defensive studs so everything doesn’t fall on Beau’s shoulders.
I look over at Reece. “Rook, get me a towel.”
He scowls. “I’m not a rookie anymore. Have one of them get you a towel, McCaffrey.”
Beau is about to go set him straight when I hold up my hand for him to stop. I’ve got this. “You’re a rook until you stop acting like a little bitch. How many passes did you drop last season?”
“Seven,” he mumbles.
“How many did you catch?”
“Six.”
“Right. So you’re still a fucking rookie until you catch more passes than you drop, butterfingers. And if you want me to throw you the ball, get my fucking towel, you mouthy little shit. And get one for Champ too. In fact, wipe down machines for Champ today after he’s done using them. You’re his wiping bitch for the day.”
Put simply, no one likes Reece Sanders. He’s an obvious bigot, always mumbling anti-gay slurs and jokes that only he thinks are funny. The way he treats Champ makes my blood boil, but Champ never says anything and asks us to leave it be. He just takes it on the chin, never wanting to be the center of attention. Daylen, Beau, and I have discussed it. If Reece’s behavior continues this year, we’re going to ask management to trade or release him. He’s bad news, but, at Champ’s request, we’re chalking up last year to immaturity. He’s skating on thin ice with us right now.
He throws a towel toward Champ and brings me mine. I grab his wrist and grit out so only he can hear me, “You’re a piece of shit. Learn some respect. If you can’t manage it, hillbilly, we’re going to have a problem. It’s not a good idea to piss off the person who decides whether or not to throw you the ball. This is your last chance, Sanders. Get your act together. Grow the fuck up.”
