Page 27 of Wild Pitch
“Solid plan,” Kim deadpans.
My lips twitch. Unfortunately Rivera takes that as a cue to say, “I think she’s ready. Camera, roll, action!”
No one moves.
Starr gives me a literal push. “C’mon, Garcia.”
“Ugh.”
I’m petty enough to stomp my way between the tables. I know the cowboy is somewhere behind me by how people’s heads turn a moment after I pass. As glad as I am that he’s offered himself for possible rescue, I’m mortified knowing I’ll need it. They’ll never let me live it down, and yet I’ll be way harder on myself if I don’t even try.
“Hi,” I say boldly once I stop beside the test subject.
The guy jerks his head up from his phone screen and I’m relieved to note that he doesn’t seem drastically older than me. He’s also normal looking, which should make this easier than if I was trying to chat up some Adonis. The only reason why I’mimmune to the baseball boys is because I know how much them and their gear reeks after a game.
“Uh, hi,” the guy says, glancing around to make sure I’m talking with him.
The Texan accent sounds behind me. “Excuse me, sir, could I have a soda water with lemon?”
“Right on,” says the bartender.
Apparently, I’ve taken too long to add anything to the conversation and red shirt shifts his attention back to his phone, where he seems to be watching the news. The news always suck so that’s the last thing I want to ever talk about.
The weather? No, that’s so cliché it’s actually embarrassing. Besides, the Clearwater weather in February is chilly but boring.
“Um…” The sound spills from my mouth before I even find a sequitur, but even then the guy doesn’t seem to even notice.
My eyes follow a line over his shoulder and fall on the figures of one Orlando Wild catcher and a shortstop, both of whom are using the same freaking signals our base coaches use to tell a runner to keep going. I have the strongest urge to signal them back with a bird.
Heat nears behind me and suddenly, a too-warm voice whispers in my ear saying, “Just ask if he’s a local.”
My lips part in a gasp. Of course! How did I not think of that? Then I can ask him for some touristy recommendation or something.
“So…” I hear myself saying with a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. I lean my elbow on the bar, trying to look casual even though I’m shaking in my sneakers. “Are you local? I’m looking for some recommendations.”
That tears his attention from his screen. “Oh, I’m not. I’m just here on business.” And back to his phone he goes.
“‘Kay, thanks. No worries. Bye.” I swivel around and freeze.
Starr is way closer than I expected, and our chests don’t brush by a millimeter. He tilts his face down so I can receive the full blast of his disapproval via the subtle shake of his head. At least he has the heart to rescue me from this awkward situation, and I gladly allow him to pull me back to our group by my elbow.
He takes a casual sip of his new drink and announces, “She sucks worse than I thought.”
“Yikes.”
“Ay, bendito.”
Groaning, I throw myself at the high top table. “Kill me now.”
“No, I would like to keep my clean record, thanks,” Starr says and even though half of my face is smooshed on the table, I clearly see him take his cap off, run his hair through the perfect wave of his hair, and put the cap back on. The picture of exasperation.
Kim claps Starr’s shoulder. “Well, better you than me.”
Okay, he’s officially not my favorite of the three anymore.
“I’ve always said pitchers are patient people.” Rivera nods in a sanctimonious way. “That’s why you’re the right guy for the job.”
“Gee, thanks, guys,” I say, sounding very much unalived.
