Five Tool Player

Joel Miller was your favorite athlete when you were a teenager, before the world went to shit 10 years ago. You had his pictures hanging up in your bedroom. Hell, maybe they're still there. He was what they called a five tool player. He had it all: batting average, batting power, speed, throwing strength, and fielding skill. And he was easy on the eyes, too. Even after all this time, you recognize him instantly when you see him talking to a man known for selling illegal goods on your way home after your shift. He's wearing a blue baseball hat, but not the same shade of blue he wore on the Toronto Blue Jays.

He can't be living around here, you would have noticed him before now. If he's just passing through, he may never be here again. You're caught looking and when he slowly looks you up and down, there's something in his eyes. It's not the playful glint from the ripped out magazine pages on your bedroom wall, but something darker. He smirks at you but keeps talking to the man. Instead of heading back to your sad apartment, you duck into the bar across the street.

Maybe he saw you go in. You're not exactly the outgoing or flirty type, making eye contact and then walking into this bar is the boldest act of shooting your shot you've ever taken. Really, you just want to meet him. Just seeing him has filled you with a feeling of nostalgia that's for once not sad and a warmth low in your belly. The years and the apocalypse have only made him more attractive.

You take an open bar stool and when the bartender comes by order one of the cheap watered down beers. Someone slides onto the bar stool next to you.

"I'm Joel Miller," he says simply with a drawl and a knowing smile.

The roughness of his voice makes you shiver and you know he notices. Your mouth suddenly feels like glue and it takes a moment to unstick. "I know. I was at the game where you won the ALCS. I was a huge fan."

"Was?" he smirks.

"Am," you correct quickly. Your cheeks are burning all the way to the tips of your ear.

"Good," he says, leaning close and grabbing the nearly clear beer the bartender just set down in front of you. "Because there's no way I can let one of my beloved fans drink garbage like this. Two shots of whisky," he says as he hands the drink back to the bartender.

You ask about his old teammates and your favorite plays that you remember. You don't ask about what became of the other players or his family or what he's been doing. The two of you talk like the apocalypse never happened and he's just a retired ballplayer. He seems to enjoy the attention and you see the boyish charm you remember from his interviews shining through. By the time you down your third shot, he's stroking your hand and asking you about your job as a guard and where you're posted and when your shifts are.

Before you know it, you're outside the bar and Joel has one arm wrapped around your waist holding you tight to his body. You curse your bulky guard uniform as you imagine fewer and fewer layers between you. His other hand is cupping your cheek while his eyes search your face. He looks truly relaxed for the first time that night. When he kisses you, it's sweeter and gentler than you expected. Just a peck. And then another. On the third kiss, he opens his mouth and you follow his lead.

He'd said something before you left the bar. Something about needing help tomorrow. "What sort of help do you need?" you ask in a low voice, only slightly slurring your words.

He smiles sadly and seems reluctant to answer. After another kiss, he strokes the hair back from your face. "You don't have to do anything at all, just need you to not see something."

Ah, a smuggler, of course. You're no stranger to this kind of favor. You've taken bribes before. Smugglers have been known to beat or even kill guards who refused to help. It wasn't anything worth dying over to you and you might as well get something out of it.