Page 33 of Wild Pitch
Biting my lip, I whisper, “He said he was no longer attracted to me because I’m boring, like one of the boys. I hate to admit that his words swirl in my head every time I try to talk with a guy.” I push away the half eaten, quickly melting ice cream away. “Every single time without fail, I worry that the guy finds me too bulky, too loud, not cute enough, not feminine at all. Or worse, boring. And guess what? So far my dating track record confirms that.”
“Hey.” His voice is harsh enough it snaps me out of my funk. Starr leans his face lower to meet my eyes. His hair is wet and he’s not wearing his usual baseball cap, so the while halogenlights make his eyes glint like the waters of the Caribbean sea. “Cut that shit out.”
I snap my mouth closed.
“You don’t let a bad ex take you away from yourself.”
Oh no, my eyes are welling up for real now.
I only have enough strength to contain the quivers of my chin, but tears start streaming down. Starr reaches for the pile, sees my fists balled up around the hem of my windbreaker, and pats my face dry himself.
After the worst is over, he leans back on his chair, sighing and running his hand through his brown hair. “I have a very simple question.”
I sniffle. “What?”
“Have you ever thought about just maybe… dressing more feminine?” He lifts his hands as a protective barrier the second I start glaring. “I’m not saying you should change yourself or anything like that, just that maybe you should try some armor. Just like how our team uniforms are the armor we go to battle with, you know?”
“I think the issue is deeper than what I wear.” I fold my arms.
“And I don’t see an issue at all.” Starr shakes his head. “I wear an Orlando Wild uniform by day, sweats by night—” here he pinches the fabric of his hoodie, “—dress suits for galas, cowboy boots at a bar. And yet I’m the same Cade Starr every single time.”
“I get your point.” I huff and tighten my arms around me.
“Men are simple, in both good and bad ways,” he says, resting his jaw against his fist. “The first thing we notice is what we perceive with our eyes. I just think if you hold your date’s attention that way, you’ll have an easier time unwinding and showing who you really are.”
“And then if he doesn’t like who I really am anyway?” I ask, getting to the core of the issue.
“You throw the whole man in the garbage can where he belongs,” Starr says with a lopsided smirk. “Then we find a new candidate until you succeed.”
I run the tip of my index finger down the wall of the plastic cup, following the trail of condensation like it’s another tear I’m trying to clear. “Or we give up.”
“We’re the Wild, darlin’, we never give up even when all the odds are stacked against us.”
That springs a small smile on my face. Historically, we’ve been one of the bottom feeder teams of the league, with more hecklers than fans. And yet the lineup consistently tries their best in every game, even when facing superstar pitchers from historical franchises like New York or Los Angeles.
Taking a deep breath, I extend my hand. “You’re right. I won’t give up, but that means you’ll have to put up with me longer for literally nothing in return. Are you in?”
Starr studies my hand, as if deciding whether to tie himself up to someone who is clearly not normal. But then he shrugs. “It’s more entertaining than TV, so I’m in.” He wraps his much—much—larger hand around mine for a strong handshake and I pretend like I don’t notice the calluses in his hand, the texture and heat of his skin.
Pretending like this isn’t the huge deal it actually is.
CHAPTER 12
CADE
“Another one like that,” Pirela, our second catcher, says as he stands to throw the ball back at me.
I catch it, annoyed as hell that he has me on a fastball regime. I think I have the pitching form for the cutter down, and every cell in my body itches with the need to test it in a real game. Except that won’t be today because I’m under clear instructions to not play. We started out one of our reliefs, followed by a prospect that still can’t grow facial hair, and two solid guys from the minors.
My whole role today is to be in the bullpen throwing fastballs for the last two innings of the game just to screw with the opponent’s mind. Unfortunately, I’m the one whose mind is being screwed over by the audience flanking the bullpen.
“Show us something worthwhile!”
“This is embarrassing, Starr. You should be making us proud!”
“Is a boring fastball all you got?”
“Boo!”
