Page 99 of Wild Pitch
“And if you don’t want to, we can help you avoid him for the rest of your life.” Audrey’s smile is soft. “I have a PhD on that.”
My face is absolutely flaming as I process the fact that I haven’t been anywhere near as discreet as I thought. If they’ve noticed, who else has? Does Cade know that I have the hots for him? Heavens, I hope not. Not to be dramatic but I would simply perish.
“Thanks, guys. Can we talk about something that will make us pass the Bechdel test?”
Audrey cringes. “We work with only men and basically have no social life away from work, so probably not.”
“The only way I know is to rewatch Legally Blonde. Who’s in?” Rose asks, and it gets her a full show of hands.
CHAPTER 32
CADE
My childhood dream was to become the best pitcher in the entire world, earn millions of dollars, build a house big enough for twelve people, and be so successful that no one else could say “there goes the orphan no one wanted” anymore.
I have since revised the dream to be more realistic. Yes, I do make millions of dollars per year and have invested enough that I’ll be able to live comfortably for the rest of my life in my very nice house. Also, barely anyone ever talks about my origins anymore, to the point where Hope—a coworker who has clearly never stalked me on the internet—had no idea. So in that sense, that childhood dream is fulfilled too.
But I’m middle of the pack when it comes to salary among pitchers though, because so far that’s also what my performance has been. Until now. And I hate to admit it, but a lot of it has to do with Logan Kim.
I have only the deepest admiration for his ability to manipulate me—I mean, not letting me quit even when I think there’s no more gas in me. I have no doubt that making a battery with him was the reason Ben Williams even reached the heightshe has, because in his previous position of starter pitcher he got the lion’s share of Kim’s attention.
Right now we’re in the middle of a game with the worst conditions for me. It’s chilly and rainy, my uniform is soaked through and heavy, and my grip on the ball is shot. Yet Logan Kim won’t let off me and keeps making one wild call after another.
The fact that it’s working pisses me off the most.
When the inning ends with no runs, I do my very best to not sigh in relief because the ball didn’t fly off my fingers wrong and kill anyone.
Because guess what? I’m competitive as hell and if he wants to goad me, I’m not gonna back down like a wuss. So I keep throwing my hardest to scare off all the batters.
“Decent job,” he has the nerve to say as we job to the dugout.
“Screw you.”
All that does is make him smirk. I’m starting to learn his patterns because there are different levels to his manipulations. Level zero is the one he applies to Hope and anyone not in the team: it’s the one where he’s legitimately a decent freaking person.
Level one so far is reserved for the prospects, and it consists of a few innocent sounding quips to drive their performance up. That “decent job” comment actually falls in this category, it’s meant to piss me off and induce me into an “I’ll show you decent” mentality. I don’t know what it says about me because it works every time.
Level two is the much more subtle but nuclear shit like whenhedrove me into a corner by using Miguel Machado—a.k.a. a common adversary—to push me harder than ever before. The promise of pizza was just his way of letting me know what he had just done, and honestly if it wasn’t because of that I wouldn’thave even noticed that the whole scenario happened because of him.
So he’s a master manipulator with integrity and I respect that, but I kinda wanna punch him in the face too. It’s complicated, especially when I can already feel myself growing into the pitcher of my childhood dreams because of his calls.
The dugout offers a much needed respite from the rain. The swooshing sound behind me tells me it’s bad enough that the umpires might consider pausing the game, and I’d truly love them for it. As it is, all I can do is change my clothes for the third time in the course of four innings. I pinch the fabric of my shirt off my body and it legit makes a gross squelching sound.
I look up to locate Beau or any of the other coaches, but instead my eyes fall right on Hope’s. Her lips are peeled back in a cringe as she watches me, like she understands just how uncomfortable I am right now. I wrinkle my nose in return so she knows that yes, I am, in fact,yuck.
Socci appears in the corner of my eye so I tell him, “Be right back, going to change and to the restroom.”
“All right, hurry up,” he says while chewing gum like he wishes it was tobacco instead.
For a brief second I ponder suggesting to Kim that he should do the same, but he’s getting the gear removed and someone holds a helmet out for him, which reminds me his at bat is next.
Shrugging, I head into the tunnel and instead of stopping at my locker to change, I go to the bathroom first because I’m a man of priorities.
Once I’m done and I’m washing my hands, I chance a peek in the mirror and confirm that I look like a wet rat, uniform clinging to every nook and cranny. Between this and what will be seen in theSPORTYmagazine pictures, there’s no need for anyone to imagine anything. I’ve basically shown it all.
I wonder what Hope thinks about that. Like, she did cringe earlier so maybe that’s not a great sign. Or maybe she doesn’t think about it at all.
“Hmm.” But I want her to think about it. I’m starting to hope the rain doesn’t stop—pun intended.
