Read Online 7 Days at the Hot Corner by Terry Trueman - Free Book Online Page A

drive a yellow 1989 Toyota 4x4 pickup truck. I know that 1989 sounds really old, but I love my rig. It’s a short-bed SR5 with big oversize tires for off-road driving (which I never actually do). I keep it in pretty nice shape: great chrome wheels, a decent sound system, sheepskin seat covers, and a heavy-duty storage box bolted onto the pickup bed, just behind the cab. Yeah, I love my truck; I even tried to get my dad and mom, separately or together, to go in on personalized license plates for me. I checked with the department of licensing and both “Hotcorner” and “Baseball23” (my uniform number) were still available, but my parents said no. I guess that really would have been sort of show-offy.
    But because my truck is bright yellow, I think a lot of kids know it’s mine, and as I pull up and park, I see a couple of ninth-grade girls I recognize from school watch me get out and walk into the store.
    I’m standing at the chips rack, trying to decide between Cheetos and Doritos, when the two girls approach me. I don’t even notice them until they’re right next to me. They’re only frosh and real young-looking.
    The taller of the two, a blond girl, asks, “Aren’t you on Thompson’s team?”
    I say, “Yeah, the baseball team.”
    The other girl says, “Like there’re any others....”
    I smile and say, “Don’t let the tennis, golf, or track-and-field guys hear you say that.”
    They both laugh, and the blonde says, “We read about you in the paper this morning.”
    I say, “Oh yeah?”
    â€œYeah,” they both answer at once.
    The shorter girl says, “You guys are awesome; you play third base, huh?”
    I smile again. “Yeah, I do. Have you guys been coming out to our games?” Kind of a stupid question, but I can’t really think of anything else to say.
    â€œYeah,” they both say again, nodding their heads at the same time.
    They look so incredibly young to me, more like sixth graders than high school girls. But they’re cute, and someday they’ll be the kind of girls who would refuse to even glance at me at a dance or something. Right now, though, they look all starry-eyed and happy.
    I make my junk food decision and reach for the Doritos, a medium-size bag, when the blonde suddenly asks, “Can we have your autograph?”
    I look at them closely to be sure they’re not kidding. Nobody has ever asked me for an autograph before, and it seems ridiculous, but they look sincere.
    I say, “Come on, why would you want my autograph? I mean, we go to the same school, right?”
    The shorter girl speaks right up. “You’re gonna be famous someday.”
    I laugh and say, “Not too likely.”
    The blonde says, “You’re already famous! Your name is in the paper today.”
    I say, “Yeah, it’s in the box scores every day too, but—”
    â€œNo,” the blonde interrupts, “it was in the article about Thompson. You’re Scott Latimer, and it said you’re one of the best players on the team.”
    I feel myself blush. “We’ve got a lot of good players—I’m just one of the guys.”
    The short girl says, “You’re a senior.”
    I say, “Yeah.”
    â€œNext year you’ll be a big league player—you’ll get like five million dollars a year or something.”
    I keep myself from laughing and say, “The stars get that. Not regular players—”
    The short girl interrupts me. “No,” she says. “The stars, like A-Rod of the Yankees, get twenty-five million dollars a year—but some pitchers, even guys with ERA’s over five, still make millions.”
    I laugh, surprised that she’s so smart about baseball. I say, “That’s true, but anyway, there’s no guarantee that I’ll even make the pros.”
    â€œYou will,” the blond girl