Page 38 of Wild Pitch
The latter looks dissatisfied with the direction this conversation took, but he picks himself up and follows after our boss. Fortunately, they sit at a table by the window that is removed enough to not carry our voices to them.
“Whew.” I slump on my chair.
Meanwhile, Starr takes my phone out from his jeans pocket. “Unlock this thing, please.”
Rolling my eyes, I comply only so I don’t have to dig any further holes for myself. It’s weird to see my phone in his hand, though. It looks tiny and?—
“Wait, who did you just swipe left on?” I ask, leaning forward.
“A finance bro.”
“Yuck. Good job, Cowboy,” chimes Rivera.
“Yeah, no bros for her.” Kim frowns at my phone. Apparently he can see well enough from his vantage because he says, “Right on that one.”
Starr lifts up his face. “What, is he your type?”
“He’s a doctor,” is all Kim says.
While I marvel at the fact that he can even read the description from that far, both Rivera and Starr nod like they agree. And Starr swipes right without further ado.
By the time dinner is finally ready, I end up with nine new candidates to try with when I’m back home in Orlando. Hurray for VPNs, am I right?
CHAPTER 14
CADE
Back when I was called up from the minors, the one thing I enjoyed the most after pitching practice was the circuit. It’s the one drill that brings the whole team together in unified suffering. Right now, usual regulars and competing prospects follow through the exercises divided into sections under the watchful eyes of the trainers and coaching staff.
Today is what I’d define as a perfect day, cool enough that we’re still breathing air and not water, puffy clouds trekking slowly in the sky, the sun bright but not stabby. I even forego my sunglasses for the drills and twist my cap around. The field is filled with the sounds of whistles, cleats racing on dirt and grass, shouts of encouragement or heckling, the grunts of players pushing themselves hard, and of young prospects hacking up in a trash can. Welcome to the majors, kiddies.
I rub the sweat off the palms of my hands on my pants and stay low, waiting for the whistle. Once it comes, I take off like a raging bull is right behind me, working my legs until my thighs burn. Flanking me are three other guys and because we’re professional little shits, we try to outrun each other. I’m nowhere near the fastest runner in the team—that’s Lucky, actually—but I put up a damn good fight and make it in second place.
The hip rotations next would almost feel like resting in comparison, until you realize your thighs don’t want to cooperate anymore. I grunt at the quick pace of the drill, sweat dripping down my face enough that I can see my own droplets fly around my face as I move. After that, prisoner squats really start testing my endurance. Especially because this is my fourth time around the circuit.
“Faster, Cowboy,” says a familiar voice beside me. Garcia claps her hands, urging me. “That’s it, keep going—O’Brien, you’re cheating and I can see it!”
“Ah, shit.” He huffs and puffs.
Somehow, I manage to find the strength for my lips to twitch, yet they don’t form a full smile. Garcia is famous for being the toughest of the drill sergeants, like she genuinely enjoys seeing elite athletes shed tears. She also sticks to us every step of the way, which is a workout in itself.
Honestly, my respects.
The next one is relatively easy, side sprints with an elastic band. I pick the first one I find discarded on the grass and put it around my waist. The nearest trainer is precisely her so we have to partner up.
“Faster, darlin’,” I tease back as she jogs over, and I appreciate how her little face tightens.
She slides into the circle of the band, securing it around her waist and spreading her legs to brace herself. “Less yapping and more running, Starr.”
I give her a salute and start the drill before my heart rate goes down. I’d never admit this aloud because she’d no doubt inflict serious bodily harm on me, but the first time I was in a drill like this with her, I had serious concerns that I may somehow hurt her. Until I learned she holds stronger than a grudge. Obviously, my movement jerks her out of position and she has to dig herheels deep into the soil, but she still makes it impossible to topple her over. My deepest respects to her thighs.
I sure appreciate how her quads stand in stark relief under her leggings. They taper up into wide, shapely hips that are meant to be grabbed. By someone who is not me.
I best lift my eyes before she realizes I’m checking her out like a creep.
Once I switch to my other side, I fix my attention on literally anything else, which ends up being Lucky by the dugout, coaching a prospect into learning how to breathe again after a round of vomiting.
Finishing my reps, I step in to let the elastic band fall and Garcia does the same. I turn my head toward her and she’s lifted her cap with one hand, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her other hand.
