Page 18 of Wild Pitch
Turning my face, I stay still as Starr puts his snacks between his thighs and reaches into his pocket with his free hand. I try pulling at my wrist but his grip tightens enough to prohibit it, but not to hurt.
Then he produces a piece of paper from his pocket and slips it into my hand, finally releasing me, and tackling his snack as if nothing happened. I blink at the top of his purple cap with the Orlando Wild logo in yellow.
Somehow my body doesn’t betray me. I stick my hand back in the grocery bag and dump the note, grabbing the next snack pouch to finish my job here. And luck is finally on my side because the last three guys have their full attention on a single iPad that is playing who knows what, and they barely even notice I’m trying to feed them.
I keep my eyes toward the front of the bus as I make my way out. There are no sassy comments from anyone, which means that really no one saw that. My heart hammering in my throat is the only vestige of what just happened.
And why the hell is it even working that hard? Yeah, it was surprising. But c’mon, it’s not my first time a guy touches me.It’s just been a long while,I think once I take my seat a row right behind my boss.
I unwrap the plastic bag from around my fist and stretch it out. The note is crumpled up inside. After a quick glance around,confirming that literally no one gives a fudge about what I’m doing, I take it out and spread it open.
Let’s talk about this after the game.
That’s it. Not even a signature.
I fold it back up and face the window, racking my brain. Talk about what? What is thethishe’s referring to? Does he have a complaint about my snacks? No—I guess he’d broach that openly during office hours.
Then what? Is he truly worried I’ll sue Rivera for kind of asking me out?
Or… I rest my elbow against the edge of the window, and jam my fist against my mouth. Has he changed his mind about being my dating coach? Did I look pathetic enough this morning?
Great, now I have to wait the two hours plus of the bus drive, another couple of warmups before the game, and then some three hours of playing ball before I can get my answers.
CHAPTER 8
CADE
Ahand falls on my shoulder and stops me right as I intend to climb out of the dugout. “Hold on, son.”
I turn to Rob Beau, our manager, and he motions me to the corner, so we can let a couple of the outfielders out. Beau folds his arms, and the coarse nylon fabric of his purple and yellow team jacket crinkles audibly. I fiddle with my cap while he observes me in complete silence, only chewing gum like a cow eating pasture.
“The trainers tell me you’re in top condition.”
“I feel good.” Immediately the old timey song starts playing in my head.
His head jerks in a nod. “Good. But no cutters today.”
The song comes to a scratching halt in my mind. “But?—”
“It’s still not refined enough and I’m hoping it can be a real weapon when it counts.” He points a firm finger at my face. “No cutters today, Starr. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.” I sigh in my heart—can’t show anything else but obedience to the boss on the outside.
“Now, go out there and do some damage.” He pats my shoulder strong enough that it forces me to pivot back to the exit.
I let the momentum keep me going until I emerge into the sun. It’s funny how out here the atmosphere is drastically different. The shade of the dugout right before the game starts is a crush of people trying to do last-minute things, setting up equipment, doing some stretching, saying prayers, talking strategy, watching film on iPads, even spraying on sunblock.
Outside, the sun blares bright and hot right above the field, and the perimeter is packed with fans from either team watching your every move. All the anxious energy inside the dugout turns into real pressure out here.
And I live for it… because I’m a massive weirdo.
“I don’t like the look on your face,” Logan Kim says as I approach the mound, where he’s waiting for me. The Orlando Wild doesn’t have an official captain but if we did, it’d be this asshole.
“Well, I don’t like your face,” I spit right out without much bite.
His mouth twists in annoyance. “You’re too calm. Why is that? I don’t like it.”
I bend my glove against my chest, trying to soften it up after traveling inside a duffel bag. As response, I shrug and say, “Would you rather see me freaking the hell out or what?”
