Page 17 of Wild Pitch
Alas, I drag my feet and the cooler behind me all the way out to the parking lot. The sun has no right to be as bright as it is today, and after a quick pat down of my pockets I come up empty for sunglasses.
“Great.” This day can’t possibly get worse, can it?
“Whoa, what’s up with that grumpy raccoon face?” The obnoxious voice of one shortstop by the name of Lucas “Lucky” Rivera comes from the left. Worse, he’s joined by his buddy, Cade “Cowboy” Starr.
I stare at him. “I prefer panda face.”
“You’re not sick, are you?” Starr asks.
“No,” I grouch.
“Then what’s up, Garcia?” Rivera points at me with his chin. “We don’t need that bad juju to start Spring Training, you know?”
“It’s not bad juju, it’s just men.” I huff and wave a hand toward the bus. “Anyway, hop on. We don’t have all day.” Other players and staff members bypass us on their way to the nearest team bus or the ones farther back.
“Ah. So this is about the dating issues again,” Rivera says with a Mr. Miyagi nod and stroke of his imaginary beard.
There’s plenty of loud chatter around us that I hope has covered his words. But just in case, I ask, “Did you forget about my steak knives?”
Rivera’s eyebrows take off into the sky. “You know what, until this very moment I had.”
“Let’s go, you jerk.” Starr puts a big paw on his friend’s shoulder, trying to steer him away.
However, the Boricua seems to have other plans. He plants himself firmly and folds his arms. “Listen, my offer still stands. I can definitely help you with that issue.”
And I guess I must be so out of sorts between the poor sleep and the anger roiling in my gut, that for a second I contemplate it.
Honestly, it doesn’t have to be Starr who coaches me into successful dating. He’s right in that we’ve barely ever seen him with the same woman twice. But Rivera had a solid girlfriend a couple of years back.
I mirror his exact stance down to the wide feet. “Okay, what do you have in mind?”
Slowly his lips curve into a little smirk that has the odd effect of making me want to punch his face. “Date me instead. I can treat you right.”
“That’s it,” Starr announces and grabs a whole fistful of Rivera’s shirt and hauls him away. “One more word out of your yap and I’ll be a witness against you in the harassment lawsuit.”
I snort through my nose.
Rivera gesticulates wide with his hands as he gets dragged to the bus. “I’m just trying to help, man.”
The pitcher pushes him into the bus and right as he climbs the first step, Starr stops to glance back at me over his shoulder. The bill of his cap casts a pretty prominent shadow across his face, but I can still tell that he’s studying me like I’m the batter for a rival team. He shakes his head and finally hops on the bus.
¿Qué diantres fue eso?
I file that one away to replay it in my head whenever I manage to land my head on a pillow again. For now, I take a seat on the cooler and wait until the team is fully boarded before I start my little round.
I check my list with the seating chart and take a grocery bag from the cooler, stuffed with the snacks for the players in the third bus. It takes about ten minutes to distribute them to everyone and I rinse and repeat with the next, and finally with the last bus. My eyes immediately fall on the two stooges, Starr and Rivera, sitting together toward the back, and I’m immensely glad that my seat isn’t on this one.
“Kim,” I call our main catcher’s name and toss his snack pouch at him. He catches it easily, which is apropos.
“Miller.” Snacks go to our first baseman.
“O’Brian.” Another one to the right fielder. I keep going until I make it to the back.
“Rivera,” I say in the most deadpanned way possible. This time he’s more excited about the prospect of food and drink than on teasing me.
I reach into the shopping bag for one of the last pouches. Since Starr is right beside me, instead of tossing it I just dangle it on his face. “Starr.”
He plucks it from my hand and I move away to reach the last three guys at the back. But suddenly a big, calloused hand wraps around my wrist and I freeze.
