BY PAT FLYNN
This is an excerpt from Chapter 894 of a fictional book I’m not actually going to write about Derek Jeter’s love life. Nobody in the history of history has ever put in work like this guy. Hannah Davis and Jeter have been romantically linked. So I took some liberties and assumed how the courtship went.
The day began like they all do for Derek Jeter.
The 38 year-old future Hall of Famer crawled over, around and through the legs of the seven different women sleeping in his bed. The crafty veteran made it out without waking a single one of them and limped his way to the dining room of his stunning New York City penthouse.
There Jeter consumed his omelet and complained to his chef about the stresses of not knowing which luxury car endorsement to take. From there, muscle memory took over for the Yankee captain as he gingerly made his way to the elevator, cursing the play that injured his still-recovering ankle last season.
He showered, made a Gillette commercial, put on his Yankees’ home uniform and took the elevator down 3,304 floors to his driver who was waiting with the engine running. A quick fist pound for the driver who held the door open, and without even a hint of direction, they were off to the same place they’ve been every Monday for the past 15 years.
Eight minutes later, Jeter’s 2016 Bugatti sedan that does not yet have a model name came to a stop in the spot reserved for it.
The driver pops out, opens the door opposite Park Avenue in front of IMG Models and out hobbles Jeter who exhales and says quietly to himself, “time to go to work.”
Jeter is making his way to the door when he senses something. He can’t explain it. It’s this gift he has. He calls it his “umpteenth sense.” Jeter swings the door open and runs full speed, forgetting the ankle, and slides head first between the doors of a closing elevator.
The three men in the elevator call him bro seven times (each) in 3 seconds and have him autograph their faces. The 2 girls buckle at the knees, one passes out. The one that doesn’t pass out is Sports Illustrated swimsuit model Hannah Davis. She’s 5-foot-10, 22 years-old and she’ll do for today.
The Captain extends his hand towards Davis, the courtship screeching to a halt the closer his hand gets. She takes his hand, still in awe.
Jeter and Davis walk slowly towards the door, his cleats and her stilettos making the only sounds in the crowded lobby as onlookers stare slack-jawed at what they’ve just seen.
The driver is waiting for his cue, and then he sees it. He knows Jeter didn’t even have to go up to the office this time. He hasn’t in years.
The door Jeter kicks open, flies off its hinges and totals a 2001 Ford Explorer parked on the other side of the street. Jeter and Davis step out and walk the 20 feet to the curb where his car waits. She gets in first.
The driver nods questioningly, Jeter raises his eyebrows as if to ask whatsup.
“Who is this one?” the driver asks.
To which Jeter replies simply: “She’s number eight.”