Page 16 of Wild Pitch
“You really don’t want to do that.”
All the way across the room, Lucky says, “Word.”
“I’ll ice you before everybody else.”
“That will get you in trouble with your boss.” I whirl around and she stops in her tracks an inch before colliding against me. She has to crane her neck back to look up at my face. I lower my voice so the eavesdropper doesn’t hear. “Listen, you don’t need any help, least of all mine. The right guy will come along when you least expect it.”
“I don’t need ‘the right guy,’” she says with air quotes, startling me even though I school my face not to show it. “What I need is options and I need them quick.”
I take a giant step away. “I still can’t help you. I don’t know if you’ve heard but something called Spring Training starts in a week and I’ll be busy with it.”
“But—”
“Good luck, darlin’.” I toss my towel to a hamper basket and get in position.
To my surprise, instead of insisting once more, Garcia expels a breath that deflates her shoulders and walks away toward the weights wall. I watch her for just another second, wondering if she’ll come back to keep pleading her case, and I’m oddly disappointed that she doesn’t.
CHAPTER 7
HOPE
Iam what anyone would consider a morning person. My alarm goes off at five thirty every morning and I’m ready to eat the world—or my stomach is. I’m in and out of the bathroom in five minutes, do a high-intensity interval training in my bedroom, shower in another five minutes, and make a protein shake or veggie smoothie that I can drink on the way to work.
Not today. Today I wake up rolling on my bed like a panda, and looking like one too. All thanks to a late night conversation with a dating prospect that stalled at three in the morning, and then the jerk unmatched me with no warning.
I’m not in and out of the restroom in five minutes. In fact, when I emerge from brushing my teeth, I can’t even fathom the thought of sweating. I skip the shower, skip the healthy smoothie, and instead grab a breakfast burrito from the canteen at work. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed up so late for a jerk when today is day one of Spring Training. I hate it when there are consequences to my own actions.
“Good mor—” The words die in Steve’s mouth once he takes one look at the dark circles around my eyes. He takes one giant step back. “If you’re coming down with something you need to stay home.”
“I’m not sick. I stayed out late uh, reading.” He doesn’t need to know it was text messages and not something more erudite.
“Oh.” My boss’s entire body language shifts back to the easy going vibe he first walked into the prep room with. “The good news is that you’ll be able to take a nap on the bus later. How’s prep going?”
My burrito wrapper lays discarded on a table that is otherwise full of snacks and drinks I’ve categorized by player. The nutrition team takes care of planning their main meals and managing player’s health, but I’m tasked with making sure their before, during, and after game snacks are on point. It’s always tricky because one guy loves strawberry flavors but hates other berries, another guy is the opposite, or you have the ones who only accept one brand and straight up won’t even open another one. Plus allergies, intolerances and plain boredom. They riot if I give them the same snack two times in a row.
“Almost done,” I respond, resisting the urge to sweep my arm over the table where I have pouches with player names emblazoned to hold protein bars, protein chips, and bottles with electrolyte drinks. On a different topic, I add, “I also got the trunks ready.”
The trunks are packed with all the equipment we need to help players stretch and warm up, tape them up, ice them, stave off pain, and make splints with. They’re also picky about which brand of muscle pain relievers they like, so I keep a stock of everything that exists under the sun is FDA approved.
Otto, my coworker, strides in a whole fifteen minutes late and gets a handshake from Steve rather than a scolding. He takes a look at all the work I’ve done and opens his mouth. “Looking great. Any snackies for me?”
“Help yourself.” I offer what I hope is a casual smile but make sure to point at the fridge with my index and not middle finger, as I’d have preferred. I’m paid to take care of athletes, not him.
“Aww, Hope. You should be more of a team player and get something for staff too.” Sighing as if this is the end of the world, he drags his ass toward the fridge to poke his head in there. Unfortunately he keeps using his mouth. “After all, it’s such a long drive to Clearwater.”
I turn my back on him to start collecting all the pouches and put them in a massive cooler on wheels, muttering, “It’s barely over two hours.”
Steve probably hears this because he clears his throat. “Anyway, where’s everyone else?”
“Dom and Jimmy took up some of the trunks to the buses,” I answer.
“Great. Otto and I will take the rest. Do you have this covered?” Steve points at the snacks.
“Yep, I got it.”
My mood improves just a notch when both of them wheel the rest of the trunks out of the prep room, and I can keep working in peace and quiet.
Unfortunately my mind destroys any such notion when it reminds me again of the douche from last night, and how suddenly Otto has a bit of a point. A two-hour drive all the way down I-4 on a bus full of men sounds like a horrible nightmare. I wish I was back home, snuggled in my bed and making up for all the time I wasted on a random guy who didn’t deserve it.
