Page 49 of Wild Pitch
“Oof, that’s rough.” I stretch my lips in a cringe of sympathy. I can relate more than he knows.
“Would you like to taste the wine, sir?” a different server says, holding a chilled white bottle wrapped in a white linen cloth, completely ignoring me. He must think I don’t like wine, which is a mistake, or that I don’t have a discerning palate—which isn’t the point.
So what if I can’t tell apart notes of oak barrel casket or grapes from California versus Chile? I recognize tasty versus yuck, so why am I being dismissed here?
While the male server and Frank do their tasting dance, I toss a glance over at the table with baseball boys. Kim’s the first to react and smacks Starr’s arm with enough force to make the guy wince while he’s drinking water. He turns his attention to me and sees something in my face that has him pressing a button on the transmitter.
“Six.”
I shake my head slightly, like I’m the pitcher rejecting her catcher’s call. It’s not time yet to regroup.
“Excellent, very rich,” Frank says in a way that feels rehearsed, and it occurs to me that he was here earlier than me. Who’s to say he didn’t rope the sommelier into this little theater to appear cultured and worldly?
I bite my lips, almost appreciating the effort. Literally not one of my other dates tried anywhere this hard for me.
I glance down. Is this the power of a little boob?
No, he couldn’t have known I was going to wear this dress.
I wonder if he might’ve changed tack if I showed up in my usual sport polo and windbreaker, with joggers smeared in dirt from a baseball field or grease from some exercise machine. Probably not.
What if other dates also meant to make an effort and decided that I wasn’t worth it based on how I looked? Like, obviously that means they weren’t the right person for me all along. But I also don’t want a guy who tries extra hard just because I’m wearing clothes that show off what my momma gave me.
The server pours two generous cups for us and the second he goes away, I take a healthy sip of the wine.
“So, Hope. What do you do for a living?” Frank asks, apparently not recalling that we already had this conversation via chat. Then again, he must be talking with twenty other women at the same time and can’t get facts straight.
Annoyed but trying to replicate Rosalina’s beauty pageant smile, I say, “I’m an athletic trainer for the Orlando Wild.”
“Wow.” His eyes sweep down and up my frame again. “No wonder you’re so stunning. You must work out a lot.”
This is dangerously close to a territory other guys have shown me they dislike. It’s like they love a hot woman, but she can’t be more dedicated to her fitness than they are because then she’s self absorbed.
“Ah, yes. Nowhere near the level of elite athletes, though,” I say carefully, trying to steer him away from delving deeper into my exercise regime.
“Anything going on with any of the players though?” he asks with a too-loud laugh. “Just want to know if I have competition, you know?”
“No, I’m a professional and so are they.” Ish. He doesn’t have to know that.
“Three,” whispers the recorded voice of one such professional athlete over my ear. He must’ve guessed it was thetiming, based on Frank’s laughter. The last thing I want to do is pretend like this is a hee-hee-ha-ha moment because I’m so annoyed, but whatever. I drop an awkward chuckle to flatter him.
“Oysters for two.” Mandy settles the whole paraphernalia on the table, a wide plate of oysters sitting on ice, two little plates with lime slices and some kind of sauce. A second server places a basket with steaming bread and butter cubes sliding down the crust slopes as well.
“Excellent!” Frank tucks in right away, grabbing an oyster and squeezing some lime on it and sucking it with gusto. I end up using a host of muscle groups in an effort not to cringe visibly.
Instead, I grab some of the warm bread and start with that.
“You need to try the oysters, they are truly incredible. Here.” He takes one, squeezes lime juice on it, and offers it to me.
I guess it would be rude if I reject it right away. Leaving the yummy bread on my plate, I take the oyster. Maybe if I look at the ceiling instead of at the slimy insides I won’t hate it as much. Bracing myself, I bring it to my lips and suck like he did.
Oh my word. Ihateit. We should’ve gone to a burger joint or something. I thought I’d order some fancy ahi tuna, notthis.
I set the empty shell on my plate and swallow without even attempting to chew. The quicker the feeling and the taste disappear from my mouth, the better. I reach for the wine to wash it all down.
Frank leans back, sighing. “Damn, you’re so sexy. I could watch you eat oysters all night.”
I choke slightly. It takes me a second to comprehend how his words can even relate to me eating a disgusting oyster. And then I realize it’s because it requires sucking and my skin crawls to the point where I break into goosebumps. The really bad kind.
