I am not jealous of Buzz Wallace. She did not want him, not even for one night.

I would be jealous, though, if she were gushing all over him. Or if, God forbid, she’d taken him up on his offer to go out—or, in this case, to go down on him. Fucking Buzz. Where the hell was he raised? In a barn? Didn’t his mother teach him any manners?

Wallace is exactly the kind of dude who gives student athletes a bad name. Spoiled. Good-looking. Cocky. We didn’t go to the same college—he went to Florida State and I was on the East Coast—but we’d play a few games against each other each year, both entered the draft at the same time, both signed similar contracts.

My contract earns me more than his—10 million bucks more, to be exact—and I smirk, spine a bit straighter.

The weird thing is, Wallace isn’t competitive when it comes to his friends. Shocking, I know, but he isn’t bothered by the fact that his agent didn’t get him more money. Isn’t bothered by the fact that I have a bigger house. Doesn’t hassle me about my truck.

He just wants to hang out.

It’s fucking strange, a guy with his ego not trying to one-up everyone.

One bonus point for him.

My phone pings while I stand here overthinking things.

Miranda: Hey, you still there? Are you calling or no? It’s cool if you can’t—I have work stuff to go do.

My palms are sweaty and I wipe them off, almost nervously. Swipe a hand through my shaggy hair as if I’m about to take a video call.

I click through her contact until it begins ringing, chest thumping. Crap, I don’t remember the last time I called a woman if you don’t include my mom—and I don’t.

Don’t pick up, don’t pick up, don’t pick up.

She picks up.

“Hello?” The salutation is hesitant at best, despite the fact that she knew I was calling. “This is Miranda.”

So businessy and professional.

“Hey. It’s Noah.” Even to my own ears, I sound unsure and insecure, and I groan.

“Noah?” Miranda hesitates again, baffled. “Noah who?”

Dammit, that’s right—she thinks my name is Buzz, because that’s what I told her to call me.

I roll my eyes at the absurdity of this entire situation: the texts, me sending someone else to get the card, him pretending to be me, her thinking he’s scum, me apprehensively calling her to confess.

And I will.

Eventually…

“Uh, the guy who just bought your Hank Archer card?” Why do I sound so bloody nervous? I do press conferences in front of entire press corps, for Christ’s sake—I can handle a phone call with a cute girl.

You don’t know she’s cute, dipshit—you’re just assuming she is because Wallace wouldn’t hit on her if she wasn’t, regardless of whether or not she was his type. I’ve seen him in action, and I’ve seen him make plenty of passes at women who weren’t attractive. He’s never hit on anyone who wasn’t, so Miranda must be pretty.

“Your name is Noah?”

“Yes.” I’m smiling stupidly, now standing at my kitchen counter, clicking a solid gold fountain pen cap nervously. It has my initials engraved on it, a gift from my agent when I signed my contract.

Click.

Click, click.

Stop it, Noah—you’re fidgeting.

“Noah,” she says again. “So much nicer than Buzz, or Baseman, even though it’s weird that you have more than one nickname.” She laughs, amused and delighted by this new information and I realize Buzz must have used my nickname instead of his. The list of his screwups just keeps getting longer and longer. “Aww, I love your name, Noah. Why do you introduce yourself with a nickname? Buzz and Baseman don’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

It doesn’t, but Noah sure does roll off hers nice and pretty-sounding; I want to hear her say it again.

Why did Wallace have to go and tell her my nickname? Makes me look like a damn idiot. This is the last time I send him to do my errands, I swear.

“How did you get the name Baseman? It’s odd.” Her voice is soft and pleasant, exactly how I would have thought she’d sound. “Wait, don’t tell me—it’s because you go all the way on a first date?” She giggles before continuing. “You look like the type who has sex after knowing someone three minutes.”

Just tell her that wasn’t you.

Do it.

Tell her.

“I…uh.” I clear my throat. “In high school I played baseball.” And in college. Oh, and by the way, I play for the Chicago Steam and am beloved by the entire nation. “They call me Baseman because I could run the bases even if I hadn’t hit a home run, I was that fast.”

“Ahh, I see. That makes sense now. And here I thought it was because you were a total douche.”

A douche.

Ouch.

She thinks I’m a douche because clearly Wallace was acting like one, but dang—for her to come right out and say it? I’m not sure how to respond to her sarcasm, to the disdain lacing her statement.