1
DRAKE
The crowd loved him – and honestly?
Drake loved them back.
It felt like on the field, specifically on the base waiting for the ball to cross the plate, was the one place where he could truly be himself or be free of all the pressures, the commitments, the grind that sometimes pressed upon him. The fans devoured his antics, the playful way he was lobbing the erratic dances, the lip-syncing, the outrageous things that he did – like earlier today. He’d been doing an interview, and when his part was finished, the table was cleared, and the coach walked in… something clicked in his brain.
Maybe he shouldn’t have done it.
Perhaps he should have his head examined…
But whatever was wrong with his brain, the media loved him – even if the coach didn’t. Yeah, putting one knee in the air, both hands behind his head, and grinding against Coach Martinez’s chair behind him like he was dancing probably wasn’t the smartest idea in the book. He could end up benched, traded, or fired – but as long as he filled stadiums, Drake knew he was getting away with murder… in a fashion.
Coach slowly turned to him, Drake paused, made a face like ‘What just happened’ – and took off, scampering like a scene out of Scooby Doo, making the crowd laugh in delight as the cameras exploded in a series of clicks, whirls, and he heard his name being called once more. So long as they called his name, he was safe… in theory.
Did he learn his lesson?
Heck-to-the-nawww…
It was the eighth inning, and Drake already been chased by the umpire, bunted his way onto first base with a flair that was comical, and slid into home, scoring a run. All in all, it should have been a good game, heck – a great game – yet he felt empty inside. He knew what was coming next, and there was no excitement anymore. Life was… monotonous.
Slap the other team’s hand after the game, shout encouraging things, do a little playful something for the camera filming so he made it on television – good, bad, or otherwise – and it kept him fresh in the fans’ minds. It sold jerseys, baseballs, hats, heck – he even had his name and number on one of those plastic baseball cap cereal bowls. He knew because he used them for ice cream bowls at home and mailed one to each of his brothers. Pete was living in Alabama, flying for the Air Force and married to the cutest little ‘hobgoblin’ to ever grace the planet… and his brother, Tommy, was living in Detroit as a ‘Kept-Man’. Gosh, it irked Tommy when Drake called him that, but what else did you call it when the guy stayed home taking care of the kids while the wife was the breadwinner?
A mife? A man-wife?
A stay-at-home-dom… like a stay at home dad-mom? Nah, sounded raunchy even to his ears.
He wasn’t all about the patriarchy, no fist in the air crusade or comments about ‘Manly-Men’ because frankly, he had nothing and wanted something. He was happy for Tommy andPete… and maybe a little jealous. Okay, maybe a lot jealous, if he was being honest with himself as he sat there on the bench in the dugout, chewing a wad of bubble gum that would choke a small elephant.
“DRAKE!”
Oh shoot, he thought, completely taken aback that he missed the cameraman getting a close-up of him… and let his gum wad roll out of his mouth, rolling childishly down his chin with a mischievous flick to get it to drop, before giving them a brilliant and innocent smile – and then a flirty wink.
Was he a ham? Most definitely.
Kicking a little dirt over his clod of bubble gum, he shot to his feet, putting his hands on his hips, and did a little twist to the left, then a twist to the right. His Pilates instructor online – because he was not going to get mobbed in public, eyeballing a bunch of sweaty women in spandex in public – called that move a ‘hula rotation’ to help keep him limber. He never wanted to admit that things were getting to him, that he was starting to feel his age in ways he never imagined. He wasn’t old, but hitting the ground, sliding, slamming his body into the earth to catch a ball, well – it was taking a toll, and while it never bothered him before, he needed those Pilates stretches and yoga moves. In fact, he put a foot up on the bench, turned, gave his hamstring a stretch… before giving his butt a slight wiggle and winking over his shoulder at whoever was watching.
There was always one watching – if not several.
It was part of the reason his Ferrari was parked in the garage and was rarely driven. It was the reason he drove a Toyota Camry with illegal tint because it was common and didn’t stand out… and it was also the reason he lived in a normal subdivision instead of a McMansion where he was sure to get spotted, stalked, or harassed. Nahhh, instead he paid for security to monitor the subdivision, funded the ‘gated community’ idea,and even paid for the construction of the gatehouse, making it the safest place on the freaking earth if word got out.
And it did – because people were people.
He was trapped in his house, sprang for a bunch of big bushy hedges to separate him from his neighbors, and kept the shades drawn on the place. The fans were everywhere, and he couldn’t exactly get mad about it because their admiration and loyalty paid for everything, kept him employed, and would keep him cozy if the day ever came that he couldn’t play baseball anymore… and he was terrified that day was getting closer and closer each year.
“Nowwww, up to bat, we’ve got number seventeen of the Timberwolves, Drake Walkerrrr!”
A sharp whistle, a gesture, a look, all the indicators from the other guys that he should have been ready, should have had his butt in gear, up and swinging the bat – preparing himself – but ohhh no. He was fooling around in the dugout instead of waiting in the circle, testing the weight of the bat he was gonna use in a moment.
Well,now.
He was going to use the batnow. Grabbing the bat from the bin, he gave it a few test swings, looked to his coach, who gave him a stern glare, and Drake winked, focusing on the pitcher. Staring, he saw the slight motion, hidden by his glove, as he started to wind up the pitch… and smirked. The dude was throwing him a ball. Sure enough, it whizzed past him, just outside the box, as the umpire called it.
“Ball one…”
Drake squared up his shoulders, dug in his foot into the red clay, and focused once more, waiting. The ball came flying once more and he swung only a split second before he realized it was wide.Craaap…