Page 73 of Wild Pitch
Using the pads of my thumbs, I start kneading the thick muscles of his forearm. The same part of his anatomy that yesterday made a clothing store clerk and I suffer brain meltdowns. Starr rests his right arm again and turns to watch what I’m doing, which adds an extra layer of I-better-not-embarrass-myself-right-now.
To keep my own damn mind centered, I ask, “Since when did you start feeling discomfort?”
He lifts those freaky eyes of his to mine. “I’m fine, really. Maybe just tense.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Cowboy.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” His lips curve in a little smirk.
I focus back on his slick skin—or rather, on massaging his muscles. I trap his forearm between my elbow and my ribs so I can use both hands to work the flexors at elbow level. Starr grunts, no longer able to hide that this muscle group demands attention. They don’t feel tighter than usual, so there’s a solid chance it’s a one-off. Maybe even the adrenaline of today. But even then, I’m not going to risk it.
I speak low because it feels weird to use a normal volume when we’re this close. “The good news is that it doesn’t feel terrible?—”
“Wow, that really makes a man feel special.” There he goes again, deflecting.
I ignore that. “—But I’m still going to recommend putting you on light duty for the next few games.”
He groans. “What? Right as things were finally getting good for me?”
“The team needs you in tip top shape to throw that cutter again.”
This lights up his entire face and even though I cast a shadow over him, his eyes are as bright as a clear noon sky. “Did you see that?” His smile is contagious and before I can latch onto my professionalism, I’m grinning down at him.
“It was pretty wild.”
“Yeah, that felt even better than at practice, actually.”
“Speaking of, how does this feel?” I press into the knot of tendons in the crook of his inner elbow.
Reflex kicks in and he tries to jerk his arm away, so I tighten my hold.
“Whoa, at least buy me dinner first if you’re gonna touch me like that.”
I’m rolling my eyes at his attempt to camouflage the real discomfort he must be feeling, now that my fingers found the problem spot, when a third voice comes from behind me.
“Garcia, are you flirting with a player?”
Starr and I freeze. Wide blue eyes find mine.
“No,” I respond through gritted teeth and continue massaging Starr’s arm.
Stretching forward, Starr glances around me and greets my prick of a coworker. “Berger—” I momentarily enjoy that Starr refuses to call Otto by his first name. “—No need to feel jealous,man. I’m the flirt here, and if you need some attention just let me—whoa.” He turns back to look at the spot where I dig my thumbs. “Do that again.”
“Please,” I remind him.
“Do that again, ple—yeahhh.” Starr slumps back against the chair.
“Well, be glad it’s me who walked in,” Otto says as he appears in my field of vision. “Anyone else who heard you two would think something inappropriate is going on.”
I gnash my teeth and refuse to meet his stare, even though I feel the laser beams on my face.
Starr speaks in a deadpan, “So glad.”
“Why are you here, Otto?” I ask.
“Steve sent me to bring a shoulder pack, they’re all in the dugout.”
The pitcher traps the spray can between his thighs and extends his now free hand. “Thanks.” After a moment of inaction, Otto hands it over to him.
