Cali

My closet resembles the aftermath of a tornado with more clothes lying on the floor than the plastic hangers. Grumbling, I search below the top layer of jeans and discarded tops in hopes of finding my brunch appropriate heels. They’re not too tall, but still give me some needed height. At only five foot two, I get mistaken for a twelve-year-old way too often. I stopped wearing my hair in a ponytail, so at least that helps me look like I’ve graduated high school.

Voila! I find both shoes in less than five minutes under the dress I wore last Sunday and chalk that up to a miracle. Glancing at the ceiling, I hold them in the air, half in thanks and half in victory that I won over the mess.

Luckily, I never face this closet on workday mornings. Since I’m a physician’s assistant, I wear scrubs at the office. It’s a dream wardrobe and the upkeep is as easy as pie. Wait, pies are one bitch to bake. Who made up that crazy saying? Betty Crocker? Anyway, all I do is wash the shapeless maroon tops and bottoms, and keep them stashed in a hamper along with my work approved shoes sitting close by.

Scanning the clothing explosion on my floor as I slip on my heels, I spot my favorite Chicago jersey in the corner with the name LUCK written across the back and the number 7 beneath it.

Weak-kneed, I lean against the wall, remembering last night and my close encounter with Brady Luck. Well, it was more than a close encounter. He actually picked me up off the bar floor after I humiliated myself by swooning into a heap of mushy Jell-O in front of him. I still can’t believe he asked for my name, or even noticed me. Then again, how could he miss the human lump he had to step over.

My face flushes as the mortification comes back. At least I have this one meeting to remember for my lifetime, because I’m sure I’ll never get another chance to feel his touch again. But the way I reacted is something I’d rather forget.

I push off the wall and straighten my white dress with its conservative black floral print. It’s bright but professional—somewhere between office and club attire.

I rush out of my apartment on my sensible heels and make the trek to the restaurant for brunch to meet my clan of besties. The sun shines overhead and warms my exposed arms. I didn’t think to grab a cardigan before I left, but I’m lucky the wind is non-existent today—an uncommon occurrence in Chicago.

I arrive at Lark’s a few minutes late and spot my three close friends, Taylor, Erin, and Laurie, in the corner, each of them holding a full mimosa. I wave to get their attention and start my walk toward the back of the restaurant.

Taylor, my best friend who witnessed my Brady encounter last night, seems way too excited to see me. She places her drink on the table and starts talking with her arms flailing about. Everyone at the table flashes their eyes from her animated storytelling to me in a rapid back and forth motion. It doesn’t take an IQ above a housefly to know she’s retelling my bar debacle.

I’m tempted to turn around and retreat, but my need of a mimosa is much more important than a little humiliation.

“Here she is,” Taylor announces as I slide into the open seat left for me at the table. There’s a full glass of the good stuff waiting for me at my place setting and I bring it closer. “The penis handler.”

“Whatever brownnoser,” I quip back at her.

“When will you two stop making fun of your professions?” Laurie asks.

“Never,” Taylor and I reply in unison, then glance at each other and laugh.

“We need to laugh to keep sane,” I add, because it’s true.

Taylor and I met our freshman year in college while pursuing degrees to become physician’s assistants. We studied together while our friends were out partying and it helped to have a friend in the same position as me. No one likes being stuck in a dorm room on the weekend alone with their nose in a book.

After graduating a few months ago, I found a position working for a urologist focused on men’s health, which helped me earn the title “penis handler.” She landed at the proctologist office in the same building and deals with assholes all day—literally.

“Taylor told us about last night,” Laurie says while leaning forward with wide eyes. “Did you really fall on the floor after he touched your face?”

“If swooning were an Olympic sport, my fall to the floor would’ve been a perfect ten.”

“Ouch,” Erin says with a wince. “That had to hurt.”

“Only bruised my self-esteem.” I pause and take an overdue gulp of my drink. “Besides, I don’t have a chance in hell with a player like Brady Luck. He’s a god in this town with women at his beck and call and I’m not a slut.”

“You totally pinged his radar last night, so there’s that,” Taylor pipes up.

“So did that girl in the gossip column this morning,” Laurie adds, and I glance over the table at her with narrowed eyes.

“What girl?” I ask.

“You should’ve kept your mouth closed,” Taylor scolds, and Laurie mouths, “Sorry.”

“Cough it up. It’s not like he’s cheating on me,” I laugh.

“There’s a photo of him from The Wit last night. He’s with some black-haired girl. She’s straddling his lap and his hands are on her ass. Rumors are he left with her,” Laurie dishes the sordid details, and boy how I wish I’d been the girl with his hands on my ass.

“Whatever,” I say as any delusional hope of more with Brady Luck dies inside me. “Besides, athletes don’t make faithful boyfriends. Believe me, I should know.”

We all look down at the table and take sips of our mimosas. They know I swore off discussing my painful breakup with Mitchell Davis, the star baseball player for Northwestern, and now the Yanks. We dated for two years until he dumped me after leaving college to head to the pros. He’s in the past and I need to keep him there.

I raise my now empty glass in the air to catch the server’s eye. I need a damn refill. The server nods and brings a mimosa-filled pitcher my way. We come here on Sundays for the fifteen-dollar unlimited brunch drinks, though there is a two-hour limit.

“They’re called players for a reason,” I add, my fresh mimosa in hand, leaving out the part about me having a weakness for them, especially baseball players. Their tight pants that show off even tighter asses, gunned up biceps, and those cocky attitudes flip my hormonal switch. Give a guy a ball glove and I turn to goo.

“You’re probably right. But I’d still love to hear the play by play from last night. The before the fall stuff.”

“It started with me dragging her butt out of her apartment.” Taylor sits up and sticks her chest out like she accomplished an impossible feat, and maybe she had. I can’t remember the last time I went out to a club.

“I’ll admit I’ve been on the hermit side this winter.” I can’t go clubbing too often, because I still have a ton of debt left to pay on my student loans.

“No more staying at home,” Taylor gives me an ultimatum.

“Okay, as long as you’re picking up the bar tab,” I jab, but halfway mean it. She’s from the North Shore, or what I call the old money area of Chicago. She even has season tickets to watch Chicago. Since she doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment, I am her sidekick to every game. Lucky me, I get to drool over Mr. Luck from the third base sideline.

“More of the story,” Erin says, drawing me back to Brady. I sigh.

“Taylor dragged me to the bar where the hot threesome hangs out.”

“She’s been avoiding the place,” Taylor adds. I start to protest, but shrug my shoulders instead. I am not a social butterfly and groups of hot single guys make me nervous as hell. Add those hot guys being baseball players…my stomach turns into knots just thinking about it.

“She made me get a blow out, buy a new dress that barely covered my ass, and wear heels I could only shuffle my feet in,” I say, outlining Taylor’s pre-bar prep work of me.

“And she stopped Brady Luck in his tracks,” Taylor adds. “My push to get you out and noticed succeeded.”

“Getting noticed is one thing, going out with him is another,” I confess.

“Baby steps,” Taylor says. “Besides, those guys don’t date, they fuck around.”

“Just once I’d like to go out with a decent guy,” I say, finishing off my second mimosa.

“That’s bullshit. Decent guys are boring for smart girls like us,” Taylor starts, giving her usual take on why we crave the bad boys. “We need a mental challenge in our lives to have happiness in the bedroom. It goes back to Anthropology one-oh-one. We are all desperately seeking a cave man. Yours just tend to be wearing baseball uniforms with numbers on their backs.”

“You’re right. What am I supposed to do about it though?”

“Chicago’s back in town next Saturday. We’ll try The Wit again after we go to the game. You know who they’re playing?” Taylor asks with a pointed stare.

“Don’t tell me. The Yankees, right?”

“Yep, one of those interleague games from hell,” Taylor confirms my fears. The team my former boyfriend plays for seldom comes to town. The Yankees are on the American League side versus Chicago being in the National League division. “At least we sit by Brady on third, and not the first base line where Mitchell plays for the Yanks.”

“That’s not much consolation.” I hope he doesn’t try to reach out to me while he’s in town, because I’ll likely cave and see him.

“And no texting with him. Got it?”

“What are you now? A mind reader?” I quip.

“No, I’m your best friend.” Taylor gives me a side hug, and much to my delight, we go back to discussing our jobs and the new boutique that opened on Michigan Avenue. All thoughts of baseball and the boys who play it float away in my mimosa soaked brain for now.