Page 5 of Wild Pitch
To his credit, the waiter remains impassive. “Certainly.”
That’s when first date guy throws his napkin on the table and shoots to his feet. I haven’t seen him exchange credit cards with any of the wait staff, which gives me the impression he’s not only leaving mid-date, but also saddling her with the bill. What an asshole.
“Excuse me.” I turn to the waiter leaving my table. “I’ll also pick up her tab.” I point at the stunned woman still sitting ramrod at her chair.
“Ah, y-yes. Of course.” First time the waiter’s not smooth like the house aioli, but I guess it’s not often he sees a woman get dumped on a first date at this joint.
As he pivots away, I zero in on any signs that she may be crying or something. That’s always uncomfortable as hell because I don’t know how to make anyone feel better, and maybe it’s best if I don’t even try. She might want to pretend like tonight never even happened. Fortunately, Lou will foot the bill of hermistake because she shouldn’t even have accepted the invitation from that waste of hair gel.
Finally, she turns to grab her purse from the back of her chair, and we make eye contact. She freezes.
Meanwhile, I can feel my lips curve.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here.” I fold my arms.
None other than Hope Garcia, athletic trainer of the Orlando Wild Baseball Club, who opens her eyes as wide as they go.
“Starr,” she all but hisses my last name.
“Garcia.”
Her dark eyes check the exit. “Did you see that?”
“Every bit.”
Her shoulders slump. But after one breath, she straightens back up and lifts her chin. “What can I do to make it so that the whole team doesn’t find out about this?”
“Please, darlin’.” I place a hand on my chest delicately. “I would never.”
“Wasn’t you who told everyone that Rivera cried while watching Titanic?”
“In my defense, that was right after he dyed my eyebrows in my sleep.”
“Starr.” She frowns.
“Your secret is safe with me, woman.”
“I don’t believe you for a second.”
“Here is your order, sir, and the check.” The waiter places a large bag on the table, along with a fancy little folio with the check. “Oh, I’m afraid I nearly forgot the orange juice. I’ll be back in a second.”
“Thanks,” I say absentmindedly, running my eyes through the tab. Garcia’s jerk of a date also ordered the wagyu and was going to make her pay for it. Meanwhile, she had only ordered the side caesar salad.
I scribble a decent thirty percent tip and crumple the receipt in my fist.
When I look up, Garcia’s by the register. Someone gets in the way again and it’s my waiter with the to-go drink. I use him as a cover to gather my stuff and high-tail it before she realizes what’s happened.
CHAPTER 3
HOPE
“Are you taking notes?” Steve asks over his shoulder with the same air of polite indifference people use to saybless youafter someone else sneezes.
He’s my boss, though, so I have no choice but to offer a serious nod and reply with a well-timed “yes, sir.” The question is extremely annoying when he assigned me to update the player charts in real time while they get their preseason physicals. That includes not just fitness records but also nutrition, because as the youngest and only female in the whole athlete care department, I’m obviously responsible for all the menial tasks.
Obviously.
On the outside, baseball has been making big strides to be more inclusive and recognize that it doesn’t have to continue being the boys club it’s always been. Heck, there are female umpires now. I wouldn’t have gotten my athletic therapist job if I’d applied ten years ago—although I was in high school but that’s not the point.
