“This is pretty close,” Matt commented casually, not at all agitated as he would be if it were the Red Sox in the same jam. Nevertheless, he watched closely as Nathan struggled through Rodriguez’s at bat, falling behind three and one.
“Don’t worry, the Twins are going to win it.” I said it with confidence because I knew it was true. Sometimes, I wanted something to happen, and it did about half the time. Other times, I just knew how something was going to happen, and it always did.
“You calling it?” Matt asked seriously.
How fortunate was I that he didn’t make fun of my abilities. That could have something to do with watching the BoSox’s miraculous season a few years back, and I called David Ortiz winning game four with a homerun. Not only did I call that, I called him winning the game again the next night. I didn’t realize it would be in the fourteenth inning, and I thought it’d be another home run, but I called it out loud. Every time he was up, I paid closer attention to the game as did Matt who was from Boston originally and never outgrew being a member of the Red Sox Nation. Of course, he was impossible to live with after the Red Sox finally broke the Curse, but I could understand that. I damn near lost it myself when I got to see in person the seventh game of the first World Series the Twins won back in 1987. Now, Matt cheered for the Twins alongside me but only when they weren’t playing the Red Sox. Oh, and I called the Red Sox sweeping the Cardinals in the Series. Matt was skeptical before that, but he couldn’t deny my freaky powers after he saw them in action for the duration of the magical playoffs. I even knew the Twins would lose to the Yanks again in the first round, but it didn’t take a psychic to predict that.
“I’m calling it,” I said firmly. “Nathan may let a base-runner or two get on, but he’ll close the deal with a strikeout. In fact, all three outs will be via strikeouts.” Ok, I was just showing off with the last prediction, but damned if I wasn’t right. Nathan walked Rodriguez before striking out Abreu and Jorge to end the game.
“You are too good,” Matt said in admiration after the last out was made. “You really should bet on some games.” I smiled but didn’t respond. We’d had this discussion many times before, and I didn’t feel like going through it again. Hell, if I were that good, I’d buy a lottery ticket and be done with it.
“I’m very good,” I said, dropping my voice to husky. It had been three months since I’d had sex, and I was PMS’ing big time. Matt wasn’t seeing anybody, either, so there was no reason we couldn’t indulge in some sports of our own, especially as it was Saturday night—which meant no work tomorrow.
“Oh, I know you are,” Matt said, leaning towards me. “But maybe you could refresh my memory as it’s been a long time.” It had been half a year since we’d had sex, but I remembered how great it was as if it had been yesterday.
We met in the middle of the futon and kissed. There was something familiar about Matt that made sex with him simultaneously exciting and comforting. It was really too bad that we didn’t suit as a couple because he was nearly everything I wanted in a partner. I knew he felt the same way about me, but it’s one of god’s greatest tricks to make two people just miss being the perfect match. I slipped my hand under Matt’s shirt, marveling at his taut body. He stilled played baseball on the weekends with some of his old teammates, and he worked out almost every day. He was borderline body dysmorphic, but he realized the absurdity of his mindset and managed not to go completely overboard with it. Any time he edged near insanity, I was right there to pull him back.
“Your room or mine?” Matt breathed once we broke off the kiss.