Page 1 of Turn Me On

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A GOOD SURPRISE

Zane Archer

I love baseball almost as much as I love my dick.

And first base is the perfect position for me on the field— I’m a talker and it’s Grand Central here.

Talking both keeps my visitors distracted and makes the time go faster. Like tonight, when I’ve been counting the minutes until I meet with my agent after the game.

Home stretch now, top of the ninth in a May night game. The Chicago batter slams a single to center and rolls up to first base.

“Hey, Santiago,” I say as he tags up. “Good to see you off the injured list.”

The opposing team’s shortstop gives me a baffled look as he pulls off his batting glove. “You’re thinking of someone else, man.”

“Huh,” I say, my eyes glued to the next batter taking a practice swing in the box. “I figured that was why I hadn’t seen you on base yet this series.”

He sighs, annoyed. “Fuck you, Archer.”

I grin, but I’ll have to picture the look on his face since the go-ahead run is up and I’m concentrating on the game action.

There’s the wind-up andwhoosh, our closer fires a fastball that paints the corner of the plate. The batter lunges for it and sends a pop fly my way. I trot under the ball and let it drop home into my glove.Come to Papa.

That’s the final out. I pump my fist—we just swept the series and I am out of here.

I jog down the baseline, where Santiago is trudging along, head hanging. I tap him with my glove. “Hey, man. I was going to send you a get-well present. How about I make it a ‘thank you for helping us win’ gift?”

“Fuck you harder.”

“You wish,” I say with a grin, shifting gears. “How’s Emily and Rosie? Did your kiddo get her cast off?”

The Shark flashes a smile. “She did. Elbow is as good as new. Thanks for asking. You’re only a half-hole now.”

“Goals,” I deadpan, leaving him in the dust as I jog to the dugout where I high-five my teammates, finishing with my friend Gunnar.

“Great series, Gun,” I say. He racked up four RBIs, a couple shy of my total for this series.

“Same to you, bro. Imagine how amazing your game would be if you had to, you know,defendwhen you were in the field,” he says, straight-faced.

I grab my lucky water bottle from the bench. Other infielders are such assholes. “Good thing my bat is better.”

“That’s not what he said,” Gunnar retorts.

“That’s what theyallsay,” I reply. As we turn toward the steps to the locker room, I glance at the time on the giant scoreboard in the outfield. Seven-thirty.

The welcome distraction from my personal countdown ended with the game.

“Any movement on a new deal?” Gunnar asks.

“Nope.” I stretch my neck from side to side. During spring training, my agent wasthisclose to nabbing a sponsorship deal with a video game company, but it fell apart at the last minute when the company reported lower revenue than expected. Now, the energy drink manufacturer he’s pursuing is getting cold feet. It’s enough to make a guy wonder if he’s damaged goods.

I’ve been on edge since my agent texted me this morning. “I have dinner with Vance in forty-five minutes,” I tell Gunnar. “He said he hasnewsto share. An endorsement would be sweet.”

That’s an understatement. A good deal could set me up for a long time—and I need the money. Badly.

“I hear you,” the third baseman says as we descend into the tunnel under the ballpark. Gunnar gets my impatience. We’re both only a few years into our service time and hunting for partnerships that will make a difference.