Baby Glider: Betty Crocker is at it again.
Below the text is a picture of me in the kitchen with a red apron superimposed on my body.
That little shit.
McGinnis wouldn’t even be in the group chat if he hadn’t swiped my phone and added himself. I’ve tried to remove him, but someone always adds him back. Not because he’s earned it, but because they’re taking bets on how long it’ll take me to crash out.
Smitty: Hell yeah. What’s he making us this time? Is it the pumpkin bread? Please say it’s the pumpkin bread.
A picture of McGinnis pops up. He’s holding a chocolate chip cookie—one of the ones I made for Ava—and there’s a bite missing.
D-Vo: I can’t believe you let the kid have first dibs.
I didn’t let him do anything. McGinnis played me.
The realization hits me like a puck to the face. There wasn’t anything wrong with my shirt. He just wanted me out of the kitchen so he could steal my cookies.
Boosh: I’d do unholy things to those cookies.
Forey: Jesus Christ, Boosh. Leave us out of your kinky fantasies.
Boosh: Ducking autocorrect. You know what I meant!
Bates: Relax, Boosh. This is a safe space to talk about your cookie fetish.
Boosh: ??
Hardy: Yo, Cap! I’ve been a very good boy. When do I get my cookie?
Me: If we win the home opener, I’ll make you a dozen.
I’ll make him anything he wants if we can string together a few wins. Our first season in Atlanta was a shitshow. We had the worst record in the league, which should be virtually impossible for an expansion team under the new draft rules.
Judging by our performance at training camp, the situation hasn’t improved, and as the team captain, I’m feeling the pressure.
It doesn’t help that our number one draft pick is a twenty-year-old kid with an ego the size of a Zamboni.
Hardy: But I want those. They look good as hell. Big too.
D-Vo: Definitely super-sized. They’re as big as Baby Glider’s mitts.
Davis: Great, the nutritionist put me on a low-carb diet and now I’m craving cookies.
Me: Blame Baby Glider.
Baby Glider: Whatever. He’s deflecting because they’re for the new neighbor. He’s taking her out on a date tonight.
D-Vo: For real? You better not be fucking with us, Ginny.
Smitty: Jamesy, you got a date?
Bates: What’s her name? Is it anyone we know?
I shove my phone into my pocket and head back downstairs, ignoring the messages streaming in. I’m nervous enough without the guys grilling me, and I sure as hell don’t want them blowing up my phone all night. If I don’t respond, they’ll lose interest—eventually.
When I re-enter the kitchen, McGinnis is sitting at the island with milk and cookies.
It would be a wholesome sight if he wasn’t putting me on blast.