Page 10 of Wild Pitch
I continue following Mena until she points at me to stand at a random spot in the grass. Or not so random, when she trains her camera so that the fielding practice—and not the pitching area—shows behind me.
“Okay, so this is going to be for a few different clips, so I’ll try to get you at different angles to pretend like it was shot on different days.”
“Efficient, I like it.” I tip my cap to her.
She offers a brilliant smile, the kind I’ve heard won her a Miss Florida pageant while she was in college. “Great. So, question one: if you had a sister, who would you let her date from the team?”
“No one,” I say right away, not only because I don’t have a sister that I know of, but also because every guy on this team is a dirty horndog.
“Geez,” she mutters amid chuckles. She shifts to the side, motioning with her finger for me to follow. Now the fences are behind me. “Question two: who from the team has the most game with the ladies? And you can’t say yourself.”
“Hmm.” I press my glove between my elbow and my ribs to free my hand, and remove my hat to comb through my sweaty brown hair while I think. “Probably Rivera. The accent drives them wild.”
Mena doesn’t remark on my spectacular pun, instead she says, “That’s funny, the guys were pretty unanimous in voting for you on both questions.”
I reel back. Pretending like I’m not as shocked as I am, I ask in a casual voice, “Oh yeah?”
“And Rivera also pointed out your accent. He said the whole southern gentleman thing you have going on gets you all the ladies without even trying.”
Maybe. Until they get to know me a bit better and figure out that I’m not husband material. Or family material, for that matter.
I can feel my face splitting into the smile that I offer to fans when they catch me in the last moment I want to be perceived—like say, in the restroom. “Why, I guess I should thank the team for the compliments. Are there any other questions?”
“Yes, last one.” She takes a quick look around and I guess she doesn’t find another decent background in the vicinity, because she settles for zooming closer to my face. To the camera, she says, “Question three: if you could have any girlfriend in the world, who would it be?”
This is the question that stumps me.
As much as I like women, I don’t actually dream of being with any single one long enough to call hermy girlfriend. Maybe I should name drop some impossible celebrity, but some fans have a way of spinning that way out of control. Maybe I should just name a random quality in women instead and call it a day.
Hope Garcia dashes across the green on her way back to the bench. It inspires me to say, “I want to date a woman who keeps it real no matter what.” That’s the first thing that flashed in my mind when I saw her. The second one was powerful thighs, but that kind of answer would probably have made Lou want to quit from being my agent.
There, generic and still decent. Mena’s eyes lift from the camera to my face, her mouth opening until she changes her mind. After a moment, she tucks the camera away and says, “That’s it for now. Thanks, Starr.”
“Welcome, princess.” I put my hat back on and head over to get my shoulder iced.
CHAPTER 5
HOPE
Maybe I should stop scheduling dates during rush hour or in the downtown area. Or both.
The Orlando Wild training facilities are nearby, so it’s convenient to me and I’m always the first to arrive. Unfortunately, I’ve been waiting long enough that I’m beginning to suspect that the wait might not be due to traffic.
Today’s guy has been the worst so far. Allegedly he works at the University of Central Florida, all the way on the east side. I know there’s no practical way of getting here without experiencing the worst of traffic, but couldn’t he at least give me an ETA? Or even text an OMW?
I tap my fingers on the table hard enough to cause ripples in the third water glass. I’m starting to feel the need for a bio break after so much water.
At least the weather is amazing today.
It’s still a bit on the chilly side, so I’m wearing my Orlando Wild jacket for winter, unzipped because I’m worked up after an entire day of running around the field and training grounds, catering to the needs—small and large—of overgrown, muscular babies. I turn my face up to the sun, closing my eyes behind my sunglasses like I’m at the beach and not sitting in a terrace patio,surrounded by tall buildings and with cars blowing invisible plumes of smoke nearby.
Even then, this is the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks. Maybe it’s best if this guy doesn’t show up after all.
“Excuse me, are you still waiting for someone?” a woman asks beside me.
I pop an eye open and barely manage to stifle a sigh at the impatience of the waitress. She glances over her shoulder and I follow her line of sight to the big group of banker looking dudes waiting at the door to be seated. The fact that they look like carbon copies of Mitch makes me grind my molars, a reminder of last year’s disastrous Thanksgiving and how I basically lost my entire group of friends in one fell swoop.
The waitress is still waiting for an answer, though. I lift my phone off the table and notice that I’ve been waiting just over an hour like a fool. There’s no way that freaking jerk is showing up at this point.
