Page 47 of Wild Pitch
“I’ll tug my ear.”
“Last but not least, pitch nine,” he finishes.
“A heads up that you’re bailing me out no matter what I think.”
“Good girl.” Before I can react, Starr reaches over and ruffles my hair like I’m a dog.
“Hey! My roommates spent hours getting me ready.” I bat his paw away and comb my hair with my fingers, glaring at him all throughout.
“Is the receiver secure?” he asks as if nothing’s amiss.
“Yes,” I grumble, still glaring at him. “Rose used a million bobby pins to hold it in place just above my left ear and you almost ruined it with your greasy paw.”
“Greasy? I’ll have you know I showered.”
Yeah, I know. They had a game today and no doubt showered before even hopping on the plane back. It’s why their colognes have smelled so strong since they picked me up in Starr’s truck.
“Ready?” Kim asks. “Like, no pressure but I really need to breathe fresh air.”
“Me too.” Rivera straight up opens his door.
Starr’s face morphs into annoyance as he looks back at his bestie. “I told you to stop roughhousing while I was getting ready.”
“Not my fault you spilled your aftershave all over yourself, butter fingers.”
“Ohh, so this is why I’ve been almost choking,” I say, also opening my door.
Kim grunts. “I told you, you should’ve showered again.”
While turning off his car, Starr says, “Do you want me to turn into a prune like you, old man?”
I snort. As if Kim isn’t barely a year older than him.
I slide off the seat and my feet land on the asphalt before my dress skirt settles back down. Twirling around quickly, I find that Starr’s attention is still fixed on the backseat where more barbs are shooting his way. I exhale in relief, because it means he didn’t see my comfy boy shorts underneath.
“Well, wish me luck, you guys.” I clutch at the strap of the little purse Audrey lent me, but it gives me no strength back.
“You got this, mami,” yells Rivera from the back.
“We got you,” Kim says in contrast.
All Starr does is drag the sleeve of his bomber jacket up to show me the transmitter of the PitchCom around his waist.
This is the single most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my life: have someone else give me instructions on what to do in a date—and even more when they come froma guy.
But this is exactly what I’ve needed all along. I’ve sat paralyzed with fear of failure and fear of being hurt in too many dates. I admit freely that I don’t know how this game works, and the only reason I ever had one boyfriend was because I already knew him. Or thought I knew him… semantics.
I take a deep breath that brings more of Starr’s aftershave into my lungs and shut the passenger door. After smoothening the wrinkles off my dress, I make my way through the parking lot and walk into the restaurant.
A hostess immediately greets me with, “Welcome! How can I help you?”
“Um, reservation under Frank?” I hate the uncertain tinge in my voice, but I have actually come into a date in these exact circumstances, only to discover that the guy never made a reservation and of course didn’t show up at all.
“Of course,” she says in a peppy way, to my utter relief. “Please follow me.”
Welp. Like it’s a magic trick, my heart rate immediately rises as we walk across the restaurant. The hostess is taller than me and hides the view until we’re close enough, and I recognize Frank the high school chemistry teacher sitting at a table, head bowed down while he reads something on his phone. Props to him that his thumb isn’t swiping right or left while waiting for his date.
“Here you go.” The hostess stops by him, motioning at the free chair that will have me sit with my back to the door. I won’t be able to see the arrival of the three baseball stooges, but it is what it is.
