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baseball player.
    “He sounds like a jerk, sweetie,” Wren says. “You don’t want an autograph from someone like that anyway.”
    Enzo sniffs, nodding, and buries his face into Wren’s shoulder.
    That fucking asshole.
    He better hope we never cross paths again.

4
    A ce

    T he pizza box slides across my island, coming to a quick stop in the dead center. Hunched over this poor excuse for a dinner like some lion devouring a gazelle, I inhale slice after slice.
    It’s been one of those days.
    One of those so-much-shit-going-on-I-forgot-to-eat kind of days, and I fully expect to devour every last slice of this disgustingly large corned beef and cabbage pizza.
    Eating standing up is one of the best things about living alone. The table never gets dirty and never needs to be set. No one’s fussing at me to eat a proper meal.
    I grab a bottle of dark lager from the fridge and twist the cap, watching the evaporation spray from the top and disappear into thin air before taking a swig. The bottle leaves my lips with a satisfying pop as the lager swishes to the bottom.
    Irish beer and pizza.
    Never gets old.
    When I’m well past the point of full and my stomach is threatening to burst, I shove the box in the trash and head to my room. Slipping my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, I empty the contents on my dresser before unzipping my fly.
    A handful of coins go rolling before spinning and coming to a stop between a pack of gum and a wadded-up receipt, and a thin, mint-green business card rests in the middle of all that. Squinting, I examine the card, trying to remember where it came from.
    And then it hits me.
    That gap-toothed, freckle-faced kid at the pizza pub.
    He wanted my autograph.
    I don’t care how cute those little snot-noses are, I have a strict no-autograph policy, and I have since the day I retired. If I’d made an exception for him, I’d have had to make one for the group of assholes sitting at the bar, harassing me as I waited for my carryout pizza. I’d just finished telling them “no” and listening to their jeers and heckles about how pathetic and washed up I am when the kid walked up and handed me a pen and a business card.
    I’m in no condition to be dealing with the general public, and maybe I should’ve ordered delivery, but being holed up in this apartment day in and day out makes a man crave a brisk, mind-clearing walk.
    The whole concept of autographs is ridiculous to me anyway. Who the fuck cares about an illegible signature? It’ll probably get stuffed in the bottom of some teenage boy’s smelly sock drawer anyway, or if the thing is lucky, it might get framed and hung on the wall of some memorabilia collector’s basement in Indiana after he buys it from the kid at a yard sale.
    I saw one of mine fetch over five grand once, when I was at the height of my career. It disgusted me. These people paying this kind of money for a scrap of paper? I’ll never understand it. That money should go to feeding the homeless, mosquito nets in Africa, no-kill animal shelters.
    Not my goddamned signature.
    Come the fuck on.
    I’m just another asshole who happens to know how to throw a ball.
    Or at least, I used to.
    I catch my reflection in the dresser mirror, my eyes sagging and tired, and run my hand down the sides of my jaw. My beard needs trimming, but making a trek to the barber’s tomorrow holds zero appeal to me.
    I need to get out of the city, and I could use a day or two to clear my head. Fishing and fresh air might help. Someplace without honking cars and Wi-Fi and constant reminders of the way things were before everything came crashing down sounds about perfect right now.
    The business card is sandwiched between a couple of quarters and I reach for it, bringing it close for inspection.
    Aidy Kincaid, Professional Makeup Artist and Owner of Glam2Go
    Chuffing, I set it aside. Sounds like the name of an American Girl doll. Why some kid would be walking around with something like that is