“You want spaghetti?” Matt called out to me as I watched the Twins get trounced by the hated Yankees. I didn’t answer because the Twins were mounting a mini-rally in the bottom of the fifth inning to pull within five. Matt Garza had better shape up in a hurry, or I was going to demand they ship him out. Hey, I knew he was only a rookie, but so what? This was the bigs, baby, so you better bring your big-league game. Too bad Liriano had to go on the disabled list.
“Twink, you want spaghetti?” Like an apparition, Matt appeared in front of my face—standing between me and the plasma television. Greater men have been hurt for lesser reasons, and I growled my displeasure as I jerked my head once in agreement. Thankfully, Matt disappeared before I had to do him bodily harm, and I was able to watch my beloved Twins again. They were nearing the third time hitting Mussina, and it seemed as if they’d figured him out. I settled back to enjoy the show. During the commercial, I actually deigned to talk to Matt, my longtime roommate.
“What do you think the chances of the Twins making the World Series this year?” I asked eagerly, turning to look at Matt, although all I could see was his ass because he was bending over to get a pan. As it was a nice ass, I didn’t mind watching it. “They have Santana, Radke, Silva, and Nathan. They got Hunter in centerfield and a solid defense. They got the M boys to boot. All they need is one more starter and a power hitter. I can’t believe they let Ortiz go, and look what he did for the BoSox. What do you think?”
“I think you need to get laid,” Matt said, his head appearing again. Though his fore wasn’t quite as fetching as his aft, it was still rather good-looking with his sandy curls, clear blue eyes, and engaging grin. He had been a starting pitcher for the Gophers when we were at the U, and he still kept his body in tiptop shape. “Any time you start obsessing about whichever sport you’re watching, it means you’re sublimating.” Matt had been a psych major when we were in college with a focused interest in art, and he liked to bone up on his skills by psychoanalyzing me whenever he got the chance. “Twink, I’m telling you, it’s not normal for a woman to obsess about sports the way you do.”
“That’s sexist,” I said crossly, my eyes still glued to the not-so-small screen. “And my name’s not Twink.” He knew it bugged me when he called me that, which was probably why he did it. He also called me Viqueen when the Vikes were playing and Timberwolfie when the T-wolves were playing. He didn’t have a cute nickname for me while I watched the Lynx, probably because they were a female team. He enjoyed sports almost as much as I did, but it still amused him that I, a mere female, knew more about the games than he did.
“What should I call you? Scarlett?” Matt’s tone was snide as he deftly pushed my buttons.
