Page 11 of Wild Pitch
“I guess not,” I mutter, stuffing my phone in the pocket of my jacket and pushing the chair back to stand. I look around me and other than the glass of water she kept filling up, there are barely any vestiges that I was there at all. “Sorry that I didn’t end up ordering anything.”
As her expression softens with understanding and sudden sympathy, I decide that it’s exactly how I’m going to treat this. As if I was never here.
Leaving her to tidy up, I weave through the narrow space between tables occupied by people using this café as an office, or those who have already left their workplaces for a little happy hour. I approach the door where the money bros stand, and one of them smacks his buddy’s arm and points at me with minus one hundred percent discretion.
“Pfff, I bet she’s not even a real fan. Women just don’t understand baseball.”
Luckily for him, I’m too tired of men to deign him with an answer. However, I’m not above bumping against him with my shoulder, hard enough that it makes him stumble. I assume that his buddy’s chuckles means that they know he deserved it.
My loose hair blows in the wind while I make my way around the block to the far too expensive parking lot where my Jeep’s at. That’s the most annoying part about this whole deal, the sheer amount of money I’m wasting on bad dates with guys who don’t even want to feign interest. Because I’ve had to foot my half of the bill every single time, and the entire bill on the two other occasions where my dates excused themselves to use the restroom and never returned. Except for that one time when a good samaritan saved my derriere at a fancy restaurant.
I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror as I twist to fasten my seatbelt. The top looks like I’m pissed off, complete with wrinkles between my tight eyebrows and narrow eyes that promise murder. But my lips are twisted in an exaggerated pout like I’m a kid about to throw a tantrum.
I punch the steering wheel once—that’s as far as I allow myself. Otherwise I start wallowing in how much of a failure I am at romance, having only had one boyfriend ever who dumped me because I was boring, and who then decided to start dating my former best friend.
“This needs some angry hard rock.” I find a playlist on my phone and jam to it the entire way home.
*
Some half hour later, I survive the traffic and pull into the gated community of townhomes in Winter Park, which is its own city smack inside Orlando, and is one of the nicest areas to live in. The only reason I can afford this place is because I roomwith Rosalina Mena, the team’s social media girl, and Audrey Winters, who works in the public relations department. The latter knows the owner and got us a massive discount.
I park by the curb and while unplugging my phone, notice that I have a message from whatshisface. Swiping the screen to unlock the phone, I read the message once. Twice.
“Hijo de su madre!” I scream in the quiet of the cabin.
I saw you sitting outside and you’re not really my type. GL.
And of course I can’t message him back with anything colorful for wasting my time, because he already unmatched me.
“Argh.” With that neanderthal war cry, I throw myself out of my car and stomp my way up the yard to the house. I fling the door open with so much strength that it slams against the wall, and I snarl again.
Audrey startles from the kitchen but her shoulders relax when she sees it’s just me. From the living room, all Rose does is glance up from her phone for a moment before turning her attention back to scrolling.
“What’s got your thong in a twist?” Audrey cocks an eyebrow as I stomp my way to take one of the barstools.
“I don’t wear thongs, they’re too uncomfortable,” I say as if that was what mattered here. Groaning, I run my hands down my hair, messing it in the process, and drop my head on the counter. “Why are men?”
“That’s a really good question.”
“Ugh. I know, right?”
I need to say no more for both of them to surround me in a second.
“Is this grounds for an HR complaint?” Rose asks from the barstool on my left. “Because I have them on speed dial.”
From my right, Audrey snaps her fingers. “I bet it’s Rivera. That guy flirts with anything that smells good.”
“That’s true.” I snort, because Lucky Rivera has even flirted withme, and I’m clearly a defective sample of the female species. “But no, this isn’t work related.”
“Oh.”
“Hmm.”
They sound almost disappointed, the gossips.
This is why I didn’t want to tell them—not because I fear that the whole team will find out. My roommates are a lot more discreet than I figured Starr would be, and I was wrong about that too.
I just don’t want to deal with the pity that no doubt will reflect on their faces. And yet, I’m so out of my depth that I clearly need help.
