Page 21 of Wild Pitch
I plop on the bench, finally releasing a heavy sigh.
“Shirt.”
Garcia looms over me with the shoulder ice pack in her hands.
“Gee, darlin’. At least buy me dinner,” I deadpan but still make quick work of my shirt buttons. I dig for the seam of my compression undershirt and peel it off over my head, tossing the yellow garment on top of the purple shirt.
Rolling her eyes at me, she says, “I probably couldn’t afford it.”
I slide my arm into the opening of the ice pack and hold still as she fastens it, first around my arm, then grabbing the loose strap that goes around my chest. She leans closer to circle the strap around me and I keep my eyes firmly on my lap because I’m a damn gentleman—who still can’t help but notice that she smells like vanilla and something else. Something that should be bottled up and sold for top dollar. My traitorous nostrils expand to catch one last whiff of it as she steps away.
“Any discomfort anywhere?” she asks. I lift my eyes slowly, first stopping at her waist, where her hands rest, finally making one quick swoop up to her face.
“Nope.” I pop the p with gusto.
“Hungry?”
Since I’m a well-trained dog, my stomach gurgles loud enough that I needn’t answer verbally. I grin as Garcia cringes.
“Wow, okay. Gourmet snack coming right up.” Her ponytail swishes as she turns to dig in one of her trunks.
Meanwhile, the team rotates back to defensive positions. I watch as Thomason, another relief pitcher, takes to the field. Or maybe I shouldn’t say another, because right now I’m not one and I’m manifesting that it stays that way. Thomason is a good kid, straight out of the minors, but not among the top of our pitching staff. I have no idea what Beau and Socci are thinking about, but the fielders are gonna be busier now.
“Here you go.” Garcia’s back next to me, offering a brown shake that does not look appetizing at all.
“Wow, looks better than a burger.” Unfortunately that makes my stomach roar again, and I have no choice but to start chugging the weird concoction.
She folds her arms. “So, you wanted to talk?”
I choke. Somehow I manage to not spew a brown deluge out of my guzzler, but keeping it in does make the recovery harder. The good news are that first, I don’t die, and second, nobody seems to care about my close call. Everyone is focused on what’s happening on the field. At least Garcia has the decency of handing me a towel to clean whatever spillage is on my face.
“Yes,” I rasp out. “But not while I could die from it.”
“Pitchers are such drama kings.” She shakes her head slowly, clicking her tongue at the same time.
I grimace. “Shouldn’t you be nicer if you’re the one asking me for a favor?”
Her mouth opens. She takes a seat next to me and places her hands on her knees, all demure like. “Wait, does this mean you changed your mind?”
“Not quite.” I make what I know is an obnoxious pause to drink some more of the protein shake. “I just have one question.”
“Yes?” Her eyes open wide, shining with eagerness.
I slide farther from her because that whole energy’s weird—much more eager than I’m equipped to handle. She slides closer again and I lean away.
“If Lucky hadn’t tried to flirt with you, would you have taken him up as your dating coach or whatever?”
Garcia blinks several times and also leans away. “Yes, probably.”
“So basically, anyone can do.”
“Not anyone. It has to be someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“Don’t you have friends for this?” I ask.
Something hardens her expression. “Not really. Not anymore.”
Oof, there’s a story there. Not that I care, but some weird shit has to happen for a woman to be desperate enough to find anyone to teach her about the dating world. And that’s the problem—as much as I’d rather say no again because I have no skin in this game, she could end up with someone who has ulterior motives. Worse than Lucky, who’s just a harmless flirt.
