Free Night Games by Collette West

storms through the door.
    “Hey, Whit! Long time no see, my man. How ya doin’?” He reaches out to shake my hand, but I don’t extend mine. I’ve had my fill of this guy and then some. I can’t believe he’s in Stockton. Talk about relentless. “Do ya think you can sign this lithograph for me? It’d mean the world to my kids. It really would.” His Kings cap is on backwards like he’s all gangsta and shit. He’s added to the number of gold chains around his neck since the last time I saw him down at spring training but he still reeks of cheap cologne. He’s been haggling me for years, like a whack-a-mole that keeps popping up no matter how many times I beat him down.
    But sadly, his persistence pays off. I’ve probably signed more shit for him than I care to think about just to get him out of my face. He gets off on the thrill of the hunt, hounding all of the Kings players and making a hefty income off what he gets us to sign. Turns out, he has a broker in Queens who pays top dollar for everything he brings in because the guy knows his stuff is legit. He’s got quite a racket going, and it is because of people like him that I say no to everyone else because I don’t want fans making money off my generosity. Having people invade my personal time in the hope of making a quick buck on the side? I don’t think so. That’s where I draw the line.
    “Listen, Jimmy. I’m not signing tonight. So back off.” I brush past him, but he has the audacity to tug on my shirt to prevent my escape.
    “C’mon, man. You’re gonna be here all week. Sign it tonight and you won’t have to look at my ugly mug until you’re back in New York.”
    The Latino guy behind me flushes the urinal and suddenly I feel like I’m being surrounded. It’s tight quarters in here, and if he gets in on the action too, I won’t have anywhere to move, wedged in between them like I am. I’m not used to the claustrophobia of small-town life and I’m already starting to feel suffocated. That drunken heckler chick from the stadium is out there along with the girl I’d rather forget. It’s like a freakin’ family reunion or something and I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours.
    “Jimmy, I don’t know who you’re recruiting in Stockton to keep tabs on me, but you’d better back off. Hiring those local chicks to scope out the place is pretty low, even for you.”
    “What are ya talkin’ about, Whit? They aren’t with me.”
    I see the Latino guy wrinkle his brow in the mirror and shoot Jimmy a worried glance. What? Is he in on it too? Is Jimmy trying to double-team me in here or what?
    “Yeah right, Jimmy. Whatever game you’re running, I’m not playing. Tell your little cronies to stay far away from me. You got that?” I push past Jimmy, more annoyed than ever. Since the minute my plane touched down, all I’ve wanted to do is get the fuck out of here, and it just keeps on getting worse. I should get Noah to take me back to the hotel. But I can’t…because she’s still here.
    I don’t know if she’s working for Jimmy or just the bigmouth in the shiny top she’s with. I can’t be sure, and I hate to say it, but I don’t even care. I want her to come over and talk to me. I’m impressed that she even came in here after I went off on her at Beaver Field. When she came through the door, I thought I was seeing things. Of all the bars, in all the world…
    But this isn’t some movie. I’m not sentimental when it comes to women. I hook up and check out. No strings, no baggage. I satisfy my raging hard-on and then move on to the next in line. They’re all the same. None of them stand out. They just want a chance to say they spent the night with Chase Whitfield, so I make it worth their while. Let’s just say that I’ve never had any complaints when it comes to my prowess in the bedroom. I know my way around a woman’s body. I make sure they get something out of it, too. I’m not that selfish.
    But commitment—that’s