Chapter Six Jimmy

Chapter Six

Jimmy

A LONE IN HIS KING-SIZE BED AT THE W ESTIN IN M INNEAPOLIS, Jimmy stares at his phone for a long, silent moment. Then he swears under his breath and tosses the thing onto the sheets.

He's not going to reply, obviously. What would even be the point of replying? What exactly does he think he's trying to accomplish here? She's a little bit nuts, or that's what people say about her. She's the benevolent dictator of a densely populated nation comprised entirely of screaming girls. Jimmy's been with famous women before, has gamely held their purses while they walked red carpets and struggled to keep his composure while cameras strobed six inches from his eyeballs. He promised himself a long time ago he was never getting anywhere near any of that Hollywood bullshit ever again.

Also, not for nothing, he stood alone in that bathroom for four full minutes waiting for his fucking erection to go down.

He picks his phone up off the mattress. The time stamp on her message is 7:52 p.m., a little over two and a half hours ago. She must have sent it before she went onstage, assuming she had a concert to night. Did she have a concert tonight? Jimmy's not about to fucking check. He makes himself do a hundred push-ups instead of considering the possibilities. Then he makes himself do seventy-five more.

Finally he gets up off the carpet and reads her note one more time, rubbing a contemplative hand over his beard. He thinks of the pleased, slightly mischievous way she looked at him as the elevator whooshed down to the parking garage at the hotel last night, like the two of them were in cahoots about something. He thinks of the sounds she made as she came.

Oh yeah? he types—and already, already he knows he's going to live to regret this. What happened, you get some good coverage in CosmoGirl ?

Jimmy puts his phone down, for real this time. Then he grabs it again, locks it in the hotel safe, and marches himself down to the bar to get a beer.

A couple of the guys are already down there, Ray and a few of the other call-ups slouched with their skinny legs spread on the red leather armchairs in the lounge. They spent the entire afternoon in the dugout giving Jimmy shit about last night, about where he might or might not have gone after the rest of them left the club. "Back to my hotel room to jerk off," he told them truthfully, yanking his ballcap down over his forehead and shoving his sunglasses onto his face. "Just like the rest of you fucking clowns." He thinks he may have hit the homer mostly just to shut them up.

Still: "Yo," Tuck said quietly, sliding into the seat beside him on the bus to the airport after the game. "Between you and me. Did you really not—?"

"I really did not," Jimmy said firmly. "Nice girl, though."

"Yeah," Tuck agreed, glancing over at him for what may or may not have been an extra, bullshit-smelling second. "Nice girl."

In any event, Jimmy's not about to surrender himself for further questioning, so he flips the rest of them a friendly bird and takes his beer back upstairs to his room, where he drinks it, plus another one from the minibar, while staring out the plate glass window and thinking, resolutely, about nothing at all. He takes a shower, soaping himself up with hotel-issue body wash that purports to smell like green tea and bergamot. He watches half an hour of SportsCenter . He ices his swollen knees.

Just after midnight, he takes the phone out of the safe.

Sure as shit: two new messages from Instagram user laceylogan, 254M followers. The little green circle, the one that means the person has the app open at this very moment, glows like a beacon right next to her name.

First of all , she's written, that's a sexist comment.

Second of all, no. I was talking about you. Nice game today.

Jimmy sits down on the edge of the mattress. She said she was going to Canada, which means the local news wouldn't have carried Yankees/Orioles baseball, which means she actively sought that information through alternate channels. He concentrates for a moment on not feeling any particular kind of way about that, and mostly fails.

Thanks , he types, then: Sorry. For being sexist.

Joke's on you, she fires back, so quickly it startles him a little. CosmoGirl folded like twenty years ago.

Jimmy gets another beer from the minibar, though that's three, which is more than he tries to have the night before a game now, the way hangovers hit quicker and harder on this side of thirty-five. It's a bold move, adding an elective headache to his long list of bodily grievances. Explains why my subscription hasn't been arriving, I guess.

The little red heart appears, the one that means she liked it. I'm sorry too, she writes. It's weird how fast she's replying, though Jimmy supposes one doesn't have to worry about looking thirsty in one's direct messages if one is Lacey Logan, Queen of the Glitter Universe. For running out like that. And, you know. For slut-shaming you, I guess.

For slut-shaming—oh, for fuck's sake. Jimmy types and discards three different responses, all boasting slightly different ratios of humorous to douchey, before finally settling on: No big deal. I get it.

The typing bubble appears, then disappears and stays gone for so long Jimmy wonders if maybe that's the end of the conversation. That could have been all she wanted to say, he guesses. Closure, or whatever. He could leave it like that— should leave it like that, probably, should file this strange interlude away with the end of his marriage and the weekend he spent in Ibiza drinking mezcal flights with John Mayer under Experiences It's Probably Best Not to Dwell On and move the hell on with his life.

So , he types instead, how's the Great White North?

Pretty good so far, Lacey reports immediately. They made me the mayor for a couple of days.

Oh yeah? Jimmy flops back onto the pillows. What are your duties?

I have no idea, she confesses. I should probably ask for a briefing.

Couldn't hurt.

They riff back and forth on executive orders for a while, then on Canada in general, then on celebrities who seem Canadian but aren't, then on Michael Bublé. When Jimmy finally glances at the clock on the nightstand he realizes they've been at this for almost an hour, like how he used to talk to girls on Instant Messenger back in middle school. His arm is a little bit numb from holding the phone.

Fuck it, he decides suddenly. After all: she messaged him first. Hey, he types, hitting send before he can talk himself out of it, what's your number?

A pause then, maybe twenty or thirty seconds. Jimmy can feel his pulse ticking. He's got the mostly empty Heineken balanced on his chest, one hand holding it loosely, and the thud of his heart makes the beer slosh a little inside.

Like, my phone number? she finally asks.

Jimmy lets a breath out. No, your body count, he types, then deletes it letter by careful letter. Yes, princess, he replies instead. Your phone number.

Are you going to call me?

Well, I don't usually send nudes until the third date , he tells her, but just this once, I guess. Since you asked so nicely.

Oh, you're hilarious, Lacey says, which is neither a yes nor a no, but a moment later a number comes through, an area code Jimmy doesn't recognize.

That your burner? he asks, only half kidding.

Google Voice, baby.

Is it really?

No, she admits. It's my real number, which means I'm trusting you not to fuck me . Then, before Jimmy can even begin to decide how to respond to that particular declaration, she continues: I can't actually talk tonight, though. I've got three shows in a row every weekend on this tour, so I do strict vocal rest those days.

Same , he tells her, then closes out of the Instagram app and texts her number instead. There, he says. Now you've got me too.

Another heart, quick and decisive. Now I've got you , Lacey agrees.

***

T HEY WIN THEIR FIRST GAME AGAINST THE T WINS ON F RIDAY, the Minnesota night cool and green-smelling, a breeze in the air that tempts fall. This is Jimmy's favorite time of the whole season, the middle-end of August, the team broken in like a well-oiled mitt and the playoffs still far enough away that he can ignore the faint sound of his own mortality tapping softly at the window of his hotel room. It's—not easy , exactly; it's professional fucking sports, it's not supposed to be easy—but easier than it's been feeling lately. It's nice.

Then his alarm goes off on Saturday morning, and he can't bend either one of his knees.

Jimmy swears out loud, wincing with every step as he eases himself out of bed and hobbles slowly to the bathroom. This happens a decent amount now, him waking up in the body of a person twice his age, every single one of his joints on white-hot fire. He needs cortisone shots, probably. He needs a peaceful retirement surrounded by fruit trees and beautiful women, but cortisone shots will get him through his fucking game.

He calls over to the clubhouse and spends the better part of the afternoon with one of the team doctors, a middle-aged orthopedist named Moira with a scratchy voice and the bedside manner of Attila the Hun. "Pain level?" she asks, rolling her stool back a few inches to peer at him curiously, her red-brown hair frizzy around her face.

It's a nine in his back, easily. A seven in his hands and knees. "Two?" he tries with a shrug. "Three? I dunno. I'm fine to play."

"Uh-huh." Moira does not look impressed. The average catcher in the major leagues has a career that lasts a little over five seasons. Jimmy has stuck it out for more than twice that, and his body has kept the dutiful score: tendinitis in both knees and nerve damage in his catching hand, a wonky shoulder left over from six years ago when a runner from the Marlins took a flying leap directly into his left side and tore his labrum basically in half. His lower back aches so much and so constantly he barely even notices it anymore, which is all to say: it's manageable, just like he told her. It's fine.

In the end Moira gives him the shots and writes him a prescription for a different kind of anti-inflammatory, telling him to text her if he has any weird side effects. "What kind of side effects?" Jimmy asks, a little suspicious, but Moira is already out of the room.

He makes it through all nine innings, if barely, collapsing onto his bed back at the Westin later that night and fishing his phone out of his jeans. Lacey had texted him again this morning, a picture of the embossed certificate they gave her to commemorate her brief foray into Canadian politics.

Congrats, he replied. Planning to issue any proclamations?

Thinking about it, she told him. Open to ideas.

Oh, I've got ideas, he typed back, then deleted it and suggested National Old Fucking Catchers Day instead. Considering he's already had his mouth between her legs, Jimmy finds he's weirdly afraid to come on too strong with her, to be caught wanting anything in particular from these little chats. It feels not-impossible he's misreading whatever the fuck is happening here. She's texting so much because she's bored and got nothing better to do, in all likelihood. She's stuck in a hotel room. She's literally not allowed to talk.

Well, he realizes now, still lying prone on his own hotel mattress late Saturday night: she couldn't talk. Three shows at a time, she said, and if the third one was tonight then conceivably now she—

Jimmy taps her name in his contacts before he can talk himself out of it. It's a lark, that's all, he tells himself, listening to the crackle of the line as it connects. She's probably out drinking fountain Cokes with her dancers or driving around in a red convertible wearing a sash and crown. It's not like she's going to pick up.

"Hi."

Jesus Christ, on the second ring. "Uh," Jimmy says, clearing his throat and feeling distinctly like she just called his bluff. "Hi yourself."

"How was your game?" she asks. "Did you win?"

"We did," he admits, warmly pleased in spite of himself. Just for a moment, his knees don't hurt at all.

"Did you hit a home run?"

"Did I—no," he says, laughing, a little taken aback. "That's not really something that happens every time."

Lacey hmm s. "I think if I was a baseball player I would try to hit a home run at every game."

"That's... solid strategy," Jimmy agrees. "I'll be sure to mention it to the rest of the team."

"Thank you."

He rubs at his beard for a moment, feeling the curve of his own smile under his palm. "What about you?" he asks—shoving a pillow behind his back, trying to get comfortable. "How was your night?"

"It was good," she reports. "Well, mostly good. My dancing was a little stupid on the bridge during ‘Fameland ' —that's one of my songs that I do, I don't know if you—?"

Jimmy laughs out loud. "It's one of your songs that you do, huh?" "Fameland" was the number one record in the US for, like, thirty-three consecutive weeks last year. "You know, I think I've heard of it."

"Okay, well!" Lacey laughs, too, huffing a little. He can picture the exasperated face she's making on the other end of the phone. "I'm just, like, contextualizing. I don't know what you listen to."

"Sea shanties, mostly. The occasional German opera."

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."

"Not at all."

"Love that for you," Lacey says. "Anyway, there's this one turn that I can only ever nail, like, eighty percent of time, and tonight wasn't one of them, so I'll just, you know. Be here perseverating on that nonstop until next Thursday night."

Jimmy knows better than to tell her that probably nobody noticed. "Yeah," he says instead. "I know how that goes."

"I get too in my head sometimes."

"I hear that." He reaches for another pillow, trying not to groan with the effort. He took some high-test Motrin earlier, but it isn't doing much. "So you're off for a few days now, right? What'll you do?"

"I'm flying back to LA first thing tomorrow," she says, rustling around a little. He wonders if she's getting ready for bed, what she sleeps in. What she'd look like in his T-shirt and nothing else. "I'll see some friends, take care of some admin stuff. Water my plants."

"You water your own plants?"

"I do, as a matter of fact," she informs him a little haughtily. "When I'm home."

"Me too."

"You have a lot of plants?"

"I have a farm, actually."

"Wait." That stops her. "Do you really?"

"Small one," Jimmy admits. "Fourteen acres, up in Baltimore County."

"What do you farm?"

"I don't know," he says, faintly embarrassed all of a sudden. The guys love to tell him how corny he is, how he's Old MacDonald. On his birthday they got him overalls and a straw hat. "Regular farm shit. Vegetables, mostly. I've got a little orchard."

"Animals?"

"Horses," he says. "Some chickens. Coupla dogs."

"Wow."

"Yeah, well." Jimmy shrugs into the pillows. "I needed a project after my divorce. And I'm not really that into cars, so."

"Yeah," Lacey says. It sounds like she's smiling. "I'm not really that into cars, either."

"What are you into?" he asks, then realizes a beat too late that it sounds like... whatever it sounds like. He thinks again of her mouth, her cold hands skating over his chest and his stomach. She left a not-insignificant hickey on his collarbone, and he's had to hide it from his team all weekend long. "Uh. When you're not working, I mean."

"I'm always working," she says immediately, then seems to reconsider. "That sounds bleak."

"Nah," Jimmy lies. "I mean, I get it."

"I guess I don't actually have a lot of... like... hobbies?" she confesses, her voice quiet on the other end of the line. "I used to. I went through a knitting phase. I knit scarves for all my bus drivers on the last tour. I did sourdough during COVID. My starter was named Carole King. And I used to really like to go hear other musicians, to go to concerts and stuff."

"Used to?" Jimmy asks.

"Well, yeah," she says. "It can get kind of complicated, now that I'm—" She breaks off. "It can kind of be, like, thunder-stealing, you know? If I go. The attention is automatically all on me, which people are understandably not always crazy about."

"Even if you're low-key about it?" he asks. "Sit in the back, wear one of those glasses-and-funny-nose situations?"

" Low-key isn't really a thing in my life," Lacey admits. "I mean, it's not a big deal. But after a while my fans started figuring out what shows I was most likely to be at and coming by to say hi."

Coming by to say hi sounds like a euphemism for some real stalker-level shit if ever Jimmy has heard one, but he doesn't say that out loud. "All your fans are in the Illuminati," he teases instead. "They all think you're trying to send them secret messages via the outfits you're wearing on TikTok."

"I mean, to be fair, I often am trying to send them secret messages via the outfits I'm wearing on TikTok."

"Are you really?" Jimmy blinks. "Like, the... what do you call it, the numerology and shit? The hidden pictures?" Anagrams, too. He read about this, alone in bed in his hotel room the other night after the bar in New York, when he tried and failed not to careen down the Lacey Logan Internet Rabbit Hole. He thought there was no way it was a real thing, the idea that her social media feeds and album notes are all teeming with various winks and hints and puzzles, the solving of which purportedly opens the door to a deeper and more profound understanding of the life and times of one Lacey Elaine Logan: her love affairs and blood vendettas, the secretmost chambers of her heart and mind. This woman has 254 million amateur cryptologists following her on Instagram. The CIA should recruit them to break enemy code.

"Yeah," Lacey confesses now, sounding a little sheepish. "It's different, with my fans. It's not—I mean, they're special. It's a game we're playing together, that's all. We have a whole little thing that we do."

"Okay."

"I'm serious!"

"I can tell."

"Yeah, and you think it's totally fucking creepy."

Jimmy considers that for a moment, trying to come up with an answer besides Yup! I totally fuckin' do . "I think you're objectively the most successful person I've ever met," he tells her finally, which has the benefit of being the truth in addition to being a compliment, "so whatever you're doing is working for you, and if you're cool with it then it's not really my business to judge it either way."

Lacey grumbles quietly. "Good answer," she admits grudgingly.

"Was it?" he asks. His back still hurts, so he gets up and walks around the room for a minute, trying to stretch it without making any embarrassing grunting noises. It's dark in here, the TV flickering on mute and the AC humming quietly. It's been a long time since he talked to anyone on the phone like this. "I'm trying."

"I appreciate that," Lacey says. "Also, my friend, let's not forget that you're literally a professional athlete. You're going to sit there and tell me you don't have any weird shit you do for your career?"

"I mean, yeah, I sit in a recycling bin full of ice for half an hour every morning and average, like, two surgeries a year."

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" She laughs, full-throated and charming. "Tell me more about the ice."

They stay on the line for a while longer, comparing their respective workout routines and the questionable diets they've attempted, the supplements and the juices and the shakes. Jimmy doesn't mention his little March of Progress episode from this morning, how it took him the better part of an archaeological age to even stand upright. A bunch of other boring shit, he told her when she asked why he was retiring. No reason to advertise the gory details.

Finally Lacey lets out a quiet yawn—quick and ladylike, sure, but Jimmy pictures it before he can stop himself: her mouth open, the wet pink flash of her tongue. He wants to ask her if she's in bed, if she's lying down, how she touches herself when she's alone in the darkness. He wants to get on a plane to Canada and finish what he started last Wednesday night. "All right, you," he says instead, glancing at the alarm clock one more time and realizing it's after two. "I've gotta go. I've got a game in eleven hours."

"Try to hit a home run," she advises.

"I will," he promises. "If I manage it you'll know it's just for you, how about."

"Mm-hmm," Lacey agrees before yawning one more time, the sound of it like a secret thing between them. "I'll know."

***

H E HITS ONE, ACTUALLY.

He thinks about her as soon as the bat connects, her dark hair and soft neck and quick, brilliant smile. He knows the ball is gone before he even starts to run. Jimmy hauls ass anyway, the adrenaline coursing through him, his whole body quick and sleek and painless and the din of the crowd echoing in his head; when he finally slides home, covered in dust and sweat and bruises, for a moment the glare of the sun makes it too bright to see.