Page 7 of Wild Pitch
I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him—which means not far at all, because he’s 6 foot 4 and two hundred one pounds of solid muscle. I have to find a way to shut him up for good.
Except obviously I can’t kill him—that would get me fired, tempting as it is. I can’t bribe him either because that would also cost me my job. What can I possibly do?
*
The opportunity presents itself during lunch break. One thing most male specimens have in common is how their logical brains shut off when presented with food. With other stimuli too, but those don’t figure in this situation.
What this means is that once we park ourselves at a table to eat our lunch, my boss and coworkers forget my very existence. None of them notice how I pick a seat that allows me to keep a strategic lookout for my target: one Cade Starr, prospective starter pitcher for this season.
I wait like a lioness among the bushes until, halfway through lunch, Starr pushes his chair away from the table and stands. Leaning to one side discreetly, I confirm that there’s still food on his plate, which can only mean one thing in the world of ravenous athletes: this man is going to the restroom.
And now so must I. “Excuse me,” I mumble as I stand, but my colleagues are too enthralled by the chicken tacos to acknowledge me.
I take the exit closest to the kitchen and dawdle in the hallway, because it’s not like I’m gonna fully stalk the guy while he does his business. I pluck my phone from my back pocket and check my email as I slowly inch closer to the restrooms. I’ll save some special time later tonight to feel bad about being such a creep, but right now my focus is on survival—because I’d really expire if he decides to run his mouth.
“Whoa.”
I lift my eyes, stopping abruptly when I find myself face to face with Starr. Turns out I moved a lot closer to the men’s restroom entrance than I intended, and he almost bumped into me on his way out.
“Are you stalking me, darlin’?” he asks, still drying his hands with a paper towel. All the points I could’ve given him for hygiene poof upon his words.
“First of all,darlingdoesn’t figure in the name field on my driver license.” I fold my arms and spread my feet at hip width. “And second, yes. We need to have a word.”
He blinks those bluish eyes of his slowly. “In the restroom?”
“We’re outside of it.”
“Semantics.”
“Starr.” I frown. “What the hell was up with that smug look earlier?”
“Garcia, I’m gonna need you to use more words than that.” He waves circles in the air as if encouraging me.
I take a deep breath. “Are you planning on holding my humiliation over me forever? Or worse, are you waiting for the best moment to mock me in front of the whole team?”
“Huh?” His brow twists in pretty convincing confusion.
I check the hallway. Confirming it’s still empty except for us, I speak through gritted teeth. “About the other night.”
After one second of processing those words, Starr’s face morphs. To my surprise, it’s into annoyance. “Wait, you really think I’d make fun of you for suffering through a bad date?”
I tilt my head, waiting for the catch.
Nothing comes and now I’m the one who’s confused. “Huh?”
Starr shakes his head. “The answer is no, I’m not going to give you any crap about your bad date.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, no need to follow me to restrooms about it.”
“We’re outside,” I repeat, huffing. “Anyway, you won’t change your mind?”
“No,” he deadpans. “Can I go finish my tacos now before the vultures polish them?”
“Sure…” I fall back as he passes me by and for some reason, blurt out, “I’m watching you, Starr.”
He halts and slowly turns to look over his shoulder. Sunlight spills through the windows down the side, making his eyes look like turquoise glass mosaics, and for a second I’m mesmerized. Until he opens his mouth. “Apparently even in the restroom, huh?”
