Page 54 of Wild Pitch
“Your question made me think two things. One, you were into me—thank heavens that’s not the case. Or two, this is somehow related to this whole whacky night with Garcia. What’s the deal, then?”
My fists tighten in my pockets. I have a short moment of hesitation. Am I doing the right thing here? Coaching her on how to act during dates is one thing, but this is entirely different. This is getting into her business. And yet, I can’t help thinking that it’s the best thing I can do for her. Like maybe it’s not a bad idea, even though the pizza is rioting in my stomach.
“I hate it to admit it, but you’re the most gentlemanly dude I know,” I start with, speaking through my teeth. Kim’s eyebrows rise and his eyes narrow, the picture of disbelief. “And it seems to me like you care about her to some degree. Enough to tag along tonight.”
“Are you suggesting…”
“Yeah, you should go out on a date with her.” Wow, saying it aloud is even worse than keeping it in my head.
“Hmm.” Kim tilts his head as if that gives him a better angle to observe me. I stay still because I have no idea what he’s looking for. I’m not joking here, I really think he’s the best candidate for her.
I shrug. “Wouldn’t that be the old school way you were talking about earlier?”
“Right.” He tucks his tongue against his cheek. “Well, it’s true that I care about Garcia. She’s pretty cool and she deserves to be treated right.”
I nod, unable to produce even one word while I wait for the verdict.
“So… sure. I can date her.”
My eye twitches. Dating her is different from what I suggested, which is taking her out on a date. But I guess that would ultimately be an even better result. With the way she looks at him sometimes, I’m sure she’d love to show him off at Friendsgiving this year and beyond.
“Cool, I’ll arrange it,” I say, my voice sounding all kinds of weird.
Kim rightfully guesses this conversation to be over. Without further ado, he walks over to his bike and I climb back into my truck.
I sit there long after Kim has left the premises, wondering just what in the actual hell I have just done. Even more, wondering why I feel like I’m gonna barf all over the dashboard.
CHAPTER 19
HOPE
Amy’s first reaction when I started working for the Orlando Wild was gasping and saying, “Oh my gosh, you’re going to be surrounded by so many hot menall the time!” Followed by squealing.
What she didn’t know is that the hot men are sweatyall the time. With sweat comes a certain stink that you can’t unlearn, and some of them don’t shower properly so they have some B.O. that clings to them on and off the field. That’s aside from how rank their uniforms and equipment get with use. This one time I made the mistake of cutting through the laundry area, and I haven’t recovered yet.
And oh, guess what, Amy? Some of them fart while exercising. Sometimes a lot. I’m not gonna judge them for that because hey, so do I—so does everyone with intestines—but sometimes they compete over whose fart stinks the worst like middle school children. And sometimes such competitions make it really hard to breathe in here.
Like right now. O’Brian’s face is redder than usual for an elite athlete who is only doing the last stretches for the day before hitting the showers, which very clearly signals him as the culprit.
Lucky Rivera can’t stop coughing beside him because he was probably the receiver of the worst of it, and I never thought I’d feel this bad for the bubbly guy.
“Dude can you just point your gas hole in literally any other direction?” Lucky demands, pointing toward the window.
“Sorry, man. The breakfast burrito must’ve been kinda stale.”
Somehow I find the strength in myself not to gag.
What probably saves me is that I get distracted by one of the younger guys half assing his stretches. I march over to him, thankfully removing myself from the area with the biohazard, and say, “You really need to get that full extension in. Otherwise you’re teaching your muscles to stay tight. Like this.” I sit down on the mat beside him, spreading my legs wide and reach for my big toes with both hands. “And then hold for thirty seconds at least.”
“But…”
Slowly, I ease back up. The fact that he’s avoiding my eyes raises a red flag right away. “Where does it hurt?” I ask with a calm tone.
He jerks his face up, eyes wide. “I—How did you know?”
“It’s what I went to school for.” I grin and it has the effect of relaxing his shoulders.
“I think it’s my hamstring. It started bothering me after the sprint to second in the fifth.”
