Page 28 of Wild Pitch
Said pitcher studies me as if I was an animal trapped in a glass cage. “Yeah… this may be a bit harder than I thought.”
And somehow that’s the comment that hurts the most.
CHAPTER 10
CADE
The absolute best thing about living by myself is… that I can do whatever the hell I want in my house. A rave? Sure. Pool party that doesn’t get contained to the pool deck? Totally. Boozy book club? Hell yeah.
But I mostly employ this freedom to start shucking off my clothes the second I walk home.
After almost a week on the road, we have a couple of upcoming games within comfortable driving distance. I push my suitcase away, not even minding where it stops, and rip off my jacket to toss it over my head somewhere in the vicinity of the couch. Who’s gonna tell me I can’t do that? No one, that’s who. I also leave my sneakers in the foyer and slide on my socks all the way to the kitchen.
Carmen, my housekeeper, keeps it stocked depending on my schedule. When I’m going to be away for a long stretch, she makes sure the fridge isn’t teeming with stuff that’s gonna go bad. When I have a few days at home, she stocks it with all my faves. I grab a carton of orange juice, uncap it, and drink straight from it.
Again, who’s gonna tell me no?
I return the carton back to the fridge and peel off my long sleeved shirt, then scratch my side for a second while I think.
“I stink. Thus, I shall shower,” I declare to the void and the void doesn’t answer back.
My kitchen is pristine, every granite and steel surface gleaming with some sort of lemon scented polish. The counters are clear of any debris, aside from a basket with fresh fruit. It’s like no one lives here and yeah, that’s kind of the case. All those parties I joke about don’t happen because aside from Carmen, and the odd plumber or electrician, I never have anyone over. Not friends, not girls.
This is the result of growing up in the system and never having a space I could unequivocally call my own.
That changed in my second year in the majors, and only because it took me a year to build this house to my very particular specifications. Unlike normal houses, I wanted my parcel to be fully fenced in, with no possibility to be seen from the outside. It’s why I can walk around my house buck ass naked if I want. That’s my revenge for having been the zoo animal at school.
“Look at the orphan kid.”
“Ew, I bet he has cooties.”
“I heard if you touch Cade you might lose your parents too.”
Those were some of the things I heard in middle school, at peak shitty-kids age. Now they watch me from TV screens and I get to show them what I’m really capable of.
And look at me now, on my way to a full walk-in shower with jet streams that come from every direction.
I pause in the hallway to discard my socks. My jeans take marginally more effort so I can empty the pockets on my bed, but then I ball up the garment and pitch it like a fastball to the chair on the corner. By rote I grab my phone and walk into mymassive bathroom and get the shower going to build up some nice steam.
My phone goes off with yet another spam call and I take a moment to block it. It’s been getting worse lately, no matter how many privacy protection services I try to join. A quick scroll shows me that today alone I’ve got upward of fifty.
“Maybe I should hire someone to manage my phone,” I mumble, my voice still echoing from the tiles.
Whatever. I’m going to relax and go to bed early. I don’t play tomorrow but I did today, and since I already had dinner, all I want is this shower and to slide into my silk bed sheets.
My whole body relaxes under the shower spray. This is luxury—not having to rush through a shower because there are a million other kids waiting for the one stall to clear, or because I’m an athlete on a tight schedule while at the team facilities.
Of course, the second I start lathering up is when my phone starts ringing again, and no matter how loud the shower is I can still hear it. I should’ve left the damn thing in my room.
I wait, muscles locked, until it stops making noise. “Finally,” I grouch and turn my face up to the water spray.
Then the freaking phone starts going off again.
“That’s it.” I turn off the water spray and, still dripping suds, slide open the shower door and walk around to the vanity where I left the phone.
But instead of turning it off like I intended, I do a double take at the name that appears on my screen and before I can think, I answer the call.
“Cowboy?”
