Page 6 of F*ckin' With Me
My hand went to my gun that sat on top of my armrest. I cocked my shit back so fast because, what the fuck? I took a deep breath when I saw that it was Coach Randolph. Ole girl sat up in the passenger seat and wiped the drool away from the corners of her mouth. I rolled the window down. “Coach, man! I was about to shoot the shit outta you.”
I didn’t want to laugh at the tightness of my coach’s face. Coach Randolph was my college hitting coach. When I was drafted, I promised that I would get him on. After I started making positive game noise, I demanded a new hitting coach. My old coach wasn’t doing shit anyway. The upside of my college hitting coach being there was that he knew my potential and how to direct it. The downside was that he knew all my bullshit too.
“Day, why the fuck do we have to go through this shit? You really got some hussy sucking you off in the baseball field parking lot where everyone parks? You could have at least tried to find a more discreet parking space.” He looked at ole girl with disgust.
My shoulders crept upward. “I mean, my windows are tinted. Throwback don’t mind.” I turned my head slightly. “You don’t mind, right?”
She smiled flirtatiously. “I don’t mind.” She leaned forward to make eye contact with Coach. “If you want a sample, you can climb in the back.”
My face contortion matched Coach Randolph’s. “What kind of woman are you? My dick imprint is still in your mouth, and you’re offering more imprint services to him with me sitting right here? Flee from my presence, you whorish heathen.”
I reached across her to open her door. Once it opened, I waved her off. She looked like she wanted to cry. She knew better than to go back and forth with me. One thing made clear early in my career was that I was a hot head. I was labeled the thug of baseball, which I resented. Just because a nigga didn’t play with people, that made me a thug?
Sure, I might have let a few niggas hit my fist with their faces, but was that really my fault? People were so sensitive these days. Ole girl whose name escaped me, climbed out of my luxury SUV. Coach and I sat quietly as we watched her walk away.Where is she going?I could have been bought for a million dollars when she walked over to the bus bench and sat down.No muthafucka would ever be able to buy me for a damn penny.
Coach laughed. “These are the kind of women that you prefer to fuck with. Get your ass in this building. Practice is in less than an hour.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Coach, you act like I don’t have on a watch. I was keeping up with the time.” I climbed out with my bag in my hand. “I’m not that irresponsible.”
I felt him on my heels as I walked into the stadium. “Day.” He called out to me before I went into the locker room. I turned around to give him the respect I knew he wanted. One thing Coach Randolph didn’t play about was his respect. “You know, son, one day, your amazing baseball abilities will not cover you. These white people gonna get tired of your unruly ass.”
I sucked my teeth. “Coach, I’ve been chill for a while now. I haven’t pulled my gun on anyone in at least four months. Hell, I haven’t put fist to face, head, or ribs in at least a month and a half. In every case that I did, I was protecting myself. All those white folks care about is making money.”
“I’m not going to do this with you.” He threw his hands up. “Go get ready for practice.”
I laughed at him as he walked toward his office. I gave that man hell. He was like a second father to me. I was the last person to come into the locker room, which wasn’t out of the norm. I showered at home before I went to practice. Most of the team showered there or didn’t shower at all. The latter always seemed to be a little riper than the others, but I digressed.
“Yo! Coach Randolph is going to fuck you up one day,” Rashad joked. “That man has got to be sicka you. I told you to not fuck with that girl.”
Rashad and I had been friends since we were drafted together. We solidified ourselves as best friends when he helped me pop some niggas that tried to rob me almost five years ago. It was a media circus because it happened in front of multiple paparazzi. That was also one of the things that saved us from murder charges. The whole situation was an out-of-body experience.
That situation, although I was innocent in it all, didn’t help my thug of baseball image. People questioned why I had a firearm. That was a stupid ass question to me because, why did thousands of people have guns? Rashad was better at keeping his image clean, although he had more street in him than I did. He was a lot more levelheaded with his shit though. That was what balanced us out. When I was ready to shoot a nigga in his head, he was there to be like,nah, shoot him in his leg.
“Man, who was I to not save that girl’s life? You heard what she said.” I sat on the chair in front of my locker cubby as I called it. I rested my forearms on my thighs. “Yo, that girl caught the bus here. That’s crazy to me.”
Rashad chortled. “What the hell do you care? You trying to buy her a car or something? Let me find out that her mouth was like that.”
“Boy, fuck you,” I said with a chuckle. “Her mouth couldn’t buy her ass one of those lil’ scooters that you rent from the streetcorners and shit. I’m just saying, and her ass offered her services to Coach.”
Rashad’s eyes bucked. “Nah! No, she didn’t, bro.”
“Yeah, she did. Aye, did you watch the tape that you said you were going to watch?” I asked him.
“Oh, yeah! I think I figured out how his ass did that wrist turn. I’m going to test it out today during practice.” Rashad was our pitcher. His ass threw rocket launchers. I respected that he was always trying to better his craft.
I nodded after I took my sneakers off to put on my cleats. “Bet, we can run that shit. I need to work on my curve hits anyway.”
Rashad made me a better hitter, and I made him a better pitcher. We loved and respected that about each other. It took me about twenty minutes to get dressed. We headed out to the field. Yeah, people called me all kinds of things, from the thug of baseball, to hothead, to a nuisance even. That was all fine and well, but the one thing they could never call me was a waste of a ball player.
I worked my ass during the on and off season when it came to this hitting shit. That was what took care of my family. It was how I was able to retire my father, send my sister to fashion and cosmetology school, and live the lifestyle that I did. I made sure I lived well below my means. That, combined with my many businesses and investments, made sure I would always be a millionaire.
Practice lasted a few hours. Like clockwork, when I did something Coach Randolph didn’t like, my father called me as soon as my ass hit my locker chair.“What’s up, Pops?”
“Boy, why can’t you wait to get ya dick sucked somewhere else? I’m tired of convincing Randolph that I raised you at least half a damn,”my dad fussed.
I dropped my head because when Declan climbed on his soapbox, his ass didn’t get off until the batteries in the wireless microphone died.“Pops, the girl said she was gonna die and my nut was the elixir of life. What was I supposed to do? You know I love giving to charity.”
“Daylen, I will reach up to heaven, grab your mother’s hand, and slap you with it. Keep fuckin’ playing with me. You and Rashad, bring y’all asses over here! I’m cooking.”He didn’t let me decline his invitation before he hung up.
