Page 72 of Wild Pitch
“Strike! Batter out!”
All I can do is scream the lettera. In Spanish. In English. Onlyaaaaaa.
This freaking asshole just struck out the Eagles’ three-hole. Their best batters. Without conceding even one hit. In a game where he’s completely shut them out for six whole ass innings.
I need to breathe or I’m going to faint from the excitement.
Our boys return to the dugout at an easy jog, as if they hadn’t just basically declared war on the entire league. Logan says something that makes the pitcher smirk, and then they’re greeted in the dugout by an avalanche of paws jostling them around.
“Starr,” Beau barks. “Good job. Go get iced.”
Starr’s shoulders droop but he knows better than to challenge our manager. However, one by one, starting by Logan,the nearby players clap Starr in the back on his way to the clubhouse.
I lower myself carefully back to the stool and then to firm ground, and the motion catches Rob Beau’s attention because he pins me with a look. “Garcia, go ice him.”
“Yes, sir.” I check around me but the trunks are too deep into the dugout, where Steve and Otto are busy taking care of a couple of other players. So I guess it wasn’t so much that moving drew attention to me, or even my screaming earlier, but the fact that I’m closest to the clubhouse tunnel. I head into it, sure that I have what I need in the clubhouse and don’t have to fight through an unruly dugout for ice packs.
Most of the stadiums where Spring Training games happen are much smaller than regular season stadiums, sometimes a little more rundown too—like this one. The clubhouse is smaller than our home one, the furniture less comfortable. I walk into the room right as Starr is pulling his jersey over his head. The fabric messes his sweaty hair, because he’s already tossed his hat in his locker.
“Any issues?” I ask as I keep crossing the open space toward the small training room where the rest of our junk is. The walls encasing it are made of glass, and as I rummage around a couple other trunks, I can still see him peeling off the yellow undershirt.
“Nah, I’m good.”
I stop. I can definitely say Starr está bueno, which literally translates to what he just said. Except in Venezuelan slang it means he’s hot.
And uh, yeah. He really freaking is.
Sweat trickles down his back, sorting the ridges and valleys of cut muscle to disappear under the waistband of his pants. When he shifts to turn, I make sure to stick my eyes to what I’m doing. I find the cooling spray he likes to be doused with before I fit himwith the ice pack, but I don’t find the shoulder pack itself so this will have to be a two-part job.
As I step out to the open, Starr is lowering himself to the chair by his locker, facing me. He throws his head back as he slumps and I have to tighten my jaws to not scream like I did a few minutes ago.
I don’t care, I tell myself in my mind.I’m a professional. This isn’t the first time you’ve seen him shirtless. Nor will it be the last. And other guys in the team are just as attractive or more.
Except I can’t fathom that right now. Not while the thick column of his throat is exposed, corded muscles standing out as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He props his forearms on the armrests, one leg bent and the other one stretched out—but both spread out confidently. His chest rises and falls with breathing that’s still more labored than baseline, and a drop of sweat trickles down the hollow under his jaw to the deep ridge between his pecs that are dusted with almost blond fuzz.
Scratch that. I feel completely unprofessional right now. The things I want to do to that drop of sweat shock even me.
I clear my throat so loud that we both startle. Starr lifts his head, eyes widening in surprise like he forgot I was here too. Then he looks at the can in my hands and that reminds me of what I’m actually here for.
“Right, sit up straight.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His mouth twitches as he complies. Since he knows the drill, he turns away as I begin spraying all the way from his neck to his elbow.
I grab his heavy forearm with one gloved hand as I spray toward his back. His skin feels really hot even through my gloves. “You pitched a lot in the first innings. Any discomfort?”
“Nope.” He squirms a little, as if finding a better angle on the ratty chair.
And then he winces a little.
I stop moving altogether. That could be because of literally any reason, but I wasn’t hired by a professional baseball team for being pretty. In my mind, I retrace every single thing I’ve done. Lifting his forearm didn’t cause that reaction, so there’s no issue in his shoulder. But I just adjusted my grip for a second so I do it again.
There’s the little wince again.
I do my best not to show any big emotions. This isn’t the moment for that. Starr just threw the best pitches of his career so far and I’m not going to let them be the last.
Calmly, I twist to offer the spray can to him. “Can you hold this for me?”
“Sure,” he mutters, taking it with his right hand.
