Page 68 of Wild Pitch
“Shh,” he says with a finger against his mouth. He stretches to peep over the hood of the car but when I try the same, he jerks me back down.
“What are you doing, Rivera?”
“Looking out for you, trust me.”
Still crouching, I rest my elbows on my knees and bring my hands up to rub my face. My voice comes out garbled as I ask, “What do you even mean?”
A car roars by and when Lucky motions at me to stand again, it clicks that it must’ve been Kim driving away with Garcia on his passenger seat. I swallow down the bitter taste on my tongue.
Lucky observes me for a moment with his game face, not his usual clown grin that precedes some sort of prank—but like I’m a rival he expects to bat a nasty hit from that’ll make him earn his sizable paycheck.
“You dipshit,” he says at last.
I jerk back as if hit. “What?”
“Are you in love with her?”
“No!” I exclaim, my face scrunching, my palms sweating, my skin itching.
“Let’s say I believe that. But clearly you feel some typa way over her. It’s written all over your face.”
“I told you not to have that second whiskey.”
He shoves me. Hard. “Stop bullshitting, man. Why aren’t you the one taking Garcia out on a date, then?”
“Because I don’t feel anything for her.” For the first time in a long time—and the last time was when I ate the last slice of his pizza—Lucky glares at me so I hard that I wouldn’t be shocked if he socks me in the eye. “Trust me, I—I really don’t.”
“I’ve never heard you stutter before.”
Grunting, I run both hands down my hair. “Fine. Maybe I do feel some typa way, like you said.”
“Uh huh.” He folds his arms and leans his head back to stare me down.
“But I’m not the right guy for her, man.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” I give out a dry laugh while motioning at myself. “What do I have to offer? Literally nothing.”
“That’s not how you use the word literally, you absolute fool. Literally—” he says in a sinister tone as he advances to poke my chest, “—means not even yourself, and last I checked you’re single as shit.”
I bat his hand away. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“No, Iliterallydon’t understand you right now.”
Exasperated I basically shout, “I have no family! No past. No legacy. I don’t even know what day I was really born. I don’t know if I still have parents. Or siblings. I don’t know where I came from, what health issues I may develop, or worse. I—I…” I breathe hard, swallow with difficulty. “I don’t know if my biological mother was hurt for me to exist. Or if she just didn’t want me. I’m all alone, Lucky. I havenothingand she deserveseverythingshewants and then some.”
Somehow his chest rises and falls with the same cadence as mine, as if we’re running around the field instead of standing in the middle of a quiet parking lot.
Stepping back, Lucky lets out a shaky breath and a string of Spanish, aimed pointedly at me, which can’t be any good. Then he says, “You do have a brother.Me.”
My eyes pop.
“And you’re not alone.” He points a finger at my face. “You have a whole team behind you. You have fans.”
“That’s not the same,” I say, my voice raspy after shouting like a fool.
“Yeah, it is. I bet some fans probably love you more than relatives would.” He wrinkles his face. “And screw your parents. They don’t deserve you, you’re clearly too good for them.”
