THE ARTFUL DODGER
(title under construction)
Just a little something that popped into my head. It's another baseball story, because apparently I can only write those and historical fiction. Enjoy this little snippet :)
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Alex doesn’t even bother knocking; he simply twists the knob on the door and shoves it open. His eyes narrow as the door bangs against the wall and he sees Henry on the phone. Maybe (definitely) it’s rude but his blood is fucking boiling so he doesn’t really care.
“You wanna tell me what the fuck this is about?” he asks, waving his cell phone in Henry’s direction.
The man himself barely reacts. He murmurs quietly that he’ll call the person back and then gently rests the receiver back in the cradle. “Mr. Claremont-Diaz,” he begins and fuck that.
“Cut the shit,” Alex says, advancing on him. “What - the fuck - is this?” he asks, shoving his phone at Henry.
With an annoyingly put-upon sigh, Henry stands and walks over to the door to his office, shutting it softly and clicking the lock. “It appears to be your mobile,” he says passively, barely any inflection in his voice. “One would think you’d know that by now, considering the blasted thing is practically welded to your hand.”
Alex really wants to rise to the bait but he’s so spitting mad he can’t bring himself to get off topic. “Can you stop being professional for one fucking second and answer my question?” he demands. “Why do I have a text from my agent three hours before a game?”
Henry adjusts his stance - the first sign he’s slightly uncomfortable - and crosses his arms. “I would assume you’re in frequent contact with your agent,” he says, “considering you’re on every top ten list in Major League Baseball.”