Torso Tackle

Chapter 5: Playing with Balls

Chapter 5: Playing with Balls

I’m addicted to coffee and cannot live without the stuff. Most people have a vice for porn, drugs, or alcohol. I prefer java over everything else. Without the jolt in the mornings I am nothing but a zombie throughout the day. Even a fresh morning run will not suffice; unable to fill me with energy. What I fully rely on is caffeine inside my system, driving me into noon, and further through my day.

Every morning, just before eight o’clock and before I head into work, I grab a cup of java at The Muffin Shack. High aluminum stools surround two-person tables and a bar, adding a chic look. Tornado-shaped lights hang down from the ceiling and illuminate the birch wood floor. Bach plays from overhead speakers. The vibe inside The Muffin Shack is toasty warm with kitchen smells, like freshly baked cranberries and cinnamon. The business is a local hangout for Internet junkies of the associate world and hungry teenagers before and after their scholastic days.

Joseph, an adorable twenty-six-year-old red-haired sweetheart with freckles and glasses, always greets me with a smile. “Sebastian, you look divine today, as always.”

Joseph and I have a past. The once-fluffer and now coffee house owner dated me for two months, made me laugh, shared some incredible times with me, and found someone new—a soccer boy named Rudy with legs of steel. I don’t hold it against him that he moved on; love obviously was not in our favor. Truth is, Joseph was fun to be around, but a little high maintenance for my standards; another thing I don’t personally hold against him.

He serves me a smile and a cup of Madagascar brew, light on the cream, and a sprinkle of Splenda. Joseph says, “It’s on the house today.”

“You’ll go broke serving me coffee for free every day. I forbid such foolish antics.” I place a ten on the counter as a tip, which I occasionally do.

“Trust me, I dumped on you and still feel guilty about it. Giving you a little coffee every day isn’t going to absolve me. I gave you up for a soccer asshole and regret it to the hilt.”

I still have visions of the sexy soccer player who took him away from me. Rudy was French to the core, a pretty boy with the biggest dong between his legs.

“Sebastian?” a familiar voice over my right shoulder awakens me from my Rudy-induced flashback.

I spin around and take in the beautiful frame of Jory Sole. A quick head-to-toe shot of him details a wool sweater, khakis, Tom’s shoes, and a bomber jacket. I surface from his dapper look and say, “You drink coffee?”

He blushes, which is the cutest thing in the world, and nods his head. “I know I shouldn’t, but I love it. What can I say?”

“That makes two of us.”

Former boyfriend Joseph obviously watches me with the quarterback, clears his throat behind the counter, and inquires, “Sebastian, stop being rude and introduce me to this fine looking piece of man with all his muscles.”

Jory laughs, maybe feeling a bit uncomfortable being the center of attention. He reaches his hand across the counter for Joseph to shake, and says, “I’m Jory Sole.”

Joseph is clueless about sports. He can’t name a single hockey, baseball, or football star that plays for the city, even if I paid him to. To help him out, I say, “He plays for the Vipers.”

“A pleasure,” Joseph says, shaking the quarterback’s hand and grinning with thick intoxication regarding the football player’s impressive bulk and enigmatic looks. “What position do you play? Catcher or pitcher?”

“Joseph!” I scold, outraged by his embarrassing behavior.

Jory sucks it up and takes it like a man, and replies, “I do football, not baseball.”

Before Joseph leaves the counter to rescue the business phone from ringing, he quickly rattles off, “As long as you’re playing with balls, I guess it doesn’t matter which kind.”