Page 100 of Wild Pitch
There’s no point in drying my hands after I left a whole trail on the floor, so I walk out of the men’s bathroom, thinking of ways I can tease the interest of a certain Latina, when I ram into someone.
Or rather, someone rams into me.
Someones.
“Cade! We love you!”
“Can you give us your autograph?”
My body freezes but my brain rapidly questions what in the actual hell are three fans doinghere?
“Cade!” One of them clings to my throwing arm. Just before she closes her claw around it, I jerk it free and lift it over my head.
“Um, excuse me ma’am, you’re too close to?—”
Another one runs her hand down my stomach, trying to go lower. I step back and crash against the door. I’m torn between dashing inside for cover, but they seem invested enough that they’d follow me in and I know the door doesn’t have a lock.
“Excuse me.” I try to side step them but that’s when the third woman tries to lasso me. She blocks the little space I could’ve weaseled out of, and this one reeks less of alcohol than her buddies.
She leans into my right arm, closing hers around it like a vise. “Hey, Cowboy. We’ve been waiting for a chance to talk.”
I have a sort of out of body experience right there, of watching myself being harassed by some fans in a hallway in the restricted staff-only area, and taking a closer look at them. And this third woman is the one who strikes a cord.
Right now she’s in an Orlando Wild jersey and jean shorts, but I’ve seen her before in bright leggings and tops, running right behind me in my neighborhood.
I shut my jaw tight to not call her out. It could set her off—I don’t know. I’ve never really dealt with stalkers and all I know is from what happens to celebrities.
Fortunately I have superb panoramic vision. Unfortunately I find that we’re alone. I also can’t defend myself the way I would if these were men.
And it’s like they know it because they keep trying to grab what is not theirs to grab.
I make my voice firmer. “Ma’am, I’m in the middle of a game. Can you please step aside and let me go?”
“But—”
Steps approach and I look up for Kim’s entrance. “Starr, did you get sucked in by the—What the—” He freezes for a quick second, eyes widening almost impossibly. Mine do too, trying to impart a message saying that we absolutely cannot lay our hands on fans but I really need help. He jerks a nod, sucks in air, and shouts over his shoulder, “Security! Can someone call security? Starr is being harassed by trespassers!”
The drunkest women giggle like this is all a joke. But the third one, the actual stalker, appears to be torn between fleeing or freezing. Except, as more people tumble out of the clubhouse, she freezes.
“Cade is what?” Lucky yells, charging like a bull until he sees what’s happening and gets to the exact same conclusion as Kim and I.
Fans. Women. Can’t. Touch. Shit.
“Calling security now,” someone says.
“Excuse me.” The familiar voice parts the sea of men from the team, and in comes one Hope Garcia and—what the hell is she doing? Why is she taking off her staff shirt?
She balls it up and slams it into Lucky’s chest, who somehow manages to catch the fabric before it falls. We all watch her in complete silence because none of us have ever seen Hope Garcia in her sports bra. I wish I was literally in any other circumstance than this because…
Hot. Damn. She isperfect.
The muscles of her sculpted arms work as she pushes Kim away, her eyes trained on the women. And then, in the calmest voice, Hope says, “I’m security.”
And in three more steps she grabs one of the fans by the elbow and yanks her with enough force that the woman stumbles back. The second woman tries harder to cling onto me and this time I cooperate, grabbing her wrists to pry her arms off my waist. Hope pulls the woman away by the jersey.
The stalker steps aside all on her own, hands up like she’s being arrested. But Hope doesn’t let her off, she jerks a thumb behind her, pointing at the stalker’s buddies. “The three of you, against that wall. Now.”
They stumble on their feet in their drunkenness and sag against the wall.
