I grab my water bottle and zip up my hoodie, tipping my chin to one of my workout partners. Juan, a pitcher on my team. He’s tearing up the treadmill. He yanks an AirPod from his ear.

“You almost done?”

“Do I look like I’m almost done?” he fires back, breathing hard, attacking the machine with ferocity.

“Looks like you’re taking a walk in the park.”

He laughs, then flips me the bird. “Fuck off.”

“Fuck off to you too.”

“Hey! You want to babysit again?”

“Anytime. You let me know.”

“Thanks, man.”

I turn to Holden. “Over and out for you?” I ask as he tugs on his LA Bandits sweatshirt, his former team.

“I am. Logged my four miles already this morning. So this was just extra.”

“Show-off.”

“You could work harder too. Might make your stats better,” he says, an evil glint in his eyes.

“My stats destroy your stats.”

He scoffs, then laughs. “You wish. Ready for some grub?”

“You sure you can fit it in your schedule? You probably have a one o’clock session with a sandwich, then a two o’clock to do your laundry.”

“You’re right. I’ll dine alone.”

I clap his shoulder. “Let’s go. Lunch with you will kill an hour.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks. Glad I’m a way for you to pass the time.”

“That is indeed one of your benefits. Along with the occasional display of friendship and support,” I say with an I’m a smart-ass wink. I gesture to his sweatshirt. “Any word from your agent or from the team about whether the Dragons have a new manager yet?”

He shakes his head, sighing heavily. Holden joined the Dragons after a recent trade. Once the city’s vaunted baseball franchise, the longtime team is now the scourge of Major League Baseball after a sign-stealing scandal that would put a certain Texas team to shame. Our fans call The Dragons our mortal enemies, saying the city isn’t big enough for two teams, when one’s best known for cheating. The cheating ran up and down the lineup, with the manager enlisting players, pitchers, pinch hitters, bat boys, camera operators, field crew, and more in an elaborate ruse to steal opposing teams’ catcher signs to rack up ill-gotten wins. So many wins and so many sign thefts that the team won two World Series in a row.

Two tainted championships one right after the other.

When an enterprising sports reporter broke news of the scandal, the Dragons owner was an apoplectic-level of livid. He cleaned house like a biohazard crew on steroids, gutting the organization with a stem to stern roster shake-up.

Every player on the cheating lineup got the hook. Every coach too, from manager down to first base, third base, pitching, and so on. The owner brought in new talent, like Holden.

But one of the last pieces to fall into place is a new skipper.

“No idea when that’s going to come. It’d be nice to know who’s going to be determining the batting lineup,” Holden says as we head up Fillmore.

“What’s the vibe like so far with the new players? Any idea yet from talking to the guys?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’ve only met a handful. They seem decent and as disgusted with the sign-stealing as they should be.”

“Hell yeah. If I were the baseball commissioner, I’d ban the entire former team for life.”

“Ban them right now. Right the hell now.” He shakes his head in obvious disgust. “Consider yourself lucky that you’re on the team in the city with a squeaky-clean image.”

We stop at the light. “I definitely consider myself lucky for that. In fact, I might have to get a new pair of lucky socks just to celebrate being on a fine-ass team.”

On that note we pop into Gabriel’s Tuxedos on the next block. “I need a new pair for tonight. Every event needs its own inaugural socks,” I say, heading for a display of the sartorial item in question. Flicking through pairs, I find one that suits my fancy. Fox socks. “I deem these my new lucky socks.”

I hold the pair above my head, Simba-style.

“Those are ugly as sin, so they’re perfect for you,” Holden says.

“Or maybe I’m just a fox and they match me.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

At the register, Gabe says hello then shoots me a give me news stare. “How’s it going with the plan?”

“Yes, inquiring minds want to know,” Holden adds with avid eyes of his own. The man knows my temptation. My particular one.

But I haven’t fallen too far off the wagon. I’m holding on to the wheels. I give them two thumbs up. “I am all good.”

“You’re being a good boy?” Gabe asks, wanting to be sure.

“So good.”

That feels true enough for now.

We take off with my socks in hand, heading to my favorite salad-and-grain-bowl spot for lunch. As we eat, Holden and I chat more about his season ahead, and what he wants to do differently to distance himself from the old guard.

“I feel for you, man. It can’t be easy. But I have faith that you’re going to do a great job. You just have to work on your media persona,” I say, since he’s not known for being a smiley-faced favorite among reporters.

He sneers, then narrows his eyes. “That’s going to be one tough task. Last time I sat down with a local sports reporter in Seattle it didn’t go so well.”

“Did he burn you?”

“More like stabbed me in the back, made shit up and totally invaded my family’s privacy.”

“Ah, so that did it. That’s why you don’t like talking to the media?”

“I don’t have many warm fuzzies for the press.”

“I hear ya. It’s a balance, man. It’s part of the job though. Helps with sponsorships.”

“True. And my agent says the same. So I’m sure I need to work on it. Someday.” As he takes a bite of his lunch, his brow furrows. “Hey, if you said at the wedding that nothing was happening with Nadia, then why the hell are you counting down the time until the awards ceremony tonight?” He strokes his chin, like a detective cracking the case. “I sense a plot twist, Watson.”

“No twist. The answer is as simple as the evidence in front of you.”

“What evidence?”

I lean in closer, adopting a satisfied smile. “She’s prettier to look at than you.”

He lifts a forkful of his chicken salad. “No argument there. She’s gorgeous.”

I bristle, but don’t disagree.

Facts are facts.

Six hours later, I’m in my black tux. I pull on my new lucky socks, adjust my bow tie, and grab the corsage and boutonniere from the fridge.

I frown at the plastic container in my hand. This is cheesy, right?

Like extra-slices-melting-down-the-burger-patty levels of cheese.

Does she really want this for each event?

It’s kind of . . . teenager-y. It was kind of funny when it was required at the wedding.

But tonight? For a gala?

We don’t need to walk down Prom Memory Lane.

Fuck these flowers. Nadia is a sexy, sophisticated woman. I’m going to get her something to match her mystique.