Page 81 of Wild Pitch
My mattress.
I crack an eye open.
Yeah, that’s because Hope Garcia is, in fact, not in my arms. There’s nothing in them but air, and I’m lying alone in my bed. Groaning, I close my eyes. It felt so real. I could’ve sworn I was touching her skin. In fact, my pillow kinda smells like her.
And then the door opens andshewalks in.
“What the—” The two words spill out of my mouth like a scream. Pure adrenaline kicks in and I roll away from her, trying to hide any possible vestiges that I was really enjoying that dream. By a stroke of luck, the sheets wrap around my waist. Byan even bigger stroke of luck, they also prevent me from rolling all the way down the bed and crashing on the floor.
I balance myself against the opposite edge of my mattress and lift my head up. Her arms are folded and her tongue’s tucked against her cheek. I squeeze my eyes closed but when I open them, she’s still standing in the middle of my bedroom. Everything feels very real this time—the dip of the mattress beneath me, the hot bed sheets, the cool air—so I must be fully awake.
She tilts her chin down at me. “You may want to cover up.”
Oh, shit. Did I make it all worse?
Swallowing hard, I rise even more to look down at myself. The bed sheets tug at my sweatpants dangerously, instead of erm, protecting my modesty. If anything, I’m showing a hell of a lot more skin than I was trying to spare. I clear my throat as I grab a handful of the sheets and pull them up to my stomach.
“I, uh. Sorry about that,” I mumble in a rasp.
Garcia is cool as a cucumber, though. Which… yeah, it’s annoying as shit. I know she works around buff dudes all the time, but would it kill her to show some reaction?
“Where do you have your comfy T-shirts?”
It takes me a moment to process her question amid the fog of hormones and annoyance swirling in my mind. “Second drawer on the right side of the dresser.” That’s the drawer I’m one hundred percent sure doesn’t have underwear or jockstraps.
Her steps barely make any sound as she trods over to the dresser. Pulling open the correct drawer, she takes a look for a quick moment until she plucks out a yellow Orlando Wild T-shirt, with the team name in purple like it is in our alternate uniform. Then she tosses it at my face.
“Oof.” I grab a handful of the fabric and remove it from around my head. “That was pretty good, Garcia. You could be our new relief pitcher.”
“Get dressed and come to the kitchen when you’re ready. You need water and food desperately.”
I need other things that I can’t mention aloud without scaring her off. Instead, I snap my trap shut and nod, watching her leave the room and close the door behind her.
Collapsing back on my bed, my ever helpful memory recalls the exact moment I created a door code specifically for her and texted it along with my address. That was probably a minute before passing out.
The clock on the wall says it’s almost nine and on cue, this time my stomach gurgles with hunger. That’s gotta be a good sign.
Straining, I manage to drag myself out of the bed, balled up T-shirt in my hand, and head to the bathroom.
Some ten minutes later, I emerge from my room wearing the T-shirt. My feet are bare on the floor, and there’s a fresh smell of lemon that tells me Carmen was here today. She’s not in the kitchen, though. It’s just Garcia by herself, stirring the contents of a pot with a ladle while she holds the lid with her other hand.
I stop and stare blatantly. Whenever Carmen gives me food, it’s because she’s cooked it at her home since I hire her as a cleaner and not as a cook. The meal service I hire just delivers to my front door, and I barely ever make anything myself.
This is the first time anyone cooks in my kitchen.
I blink hard like my eyes are the shuttle of a camera, trying to preserve this moment in my memory forever. Garcia makes a little sound from her throat, like the smell of the food alone is enough to bring her satisfaction. My body is simultaneously too cold and too hot, and I have to steel myself against a shiver. My tongue turns into lead, though, and there’s no way I can speak.
Garcia notices me at last. Her eyes lower to my now clothed chest, before flying back up to my face, and I realize that I forgotto comb my hair. I wish I didn’t look like a sleaze right now. I wish I looked my finest.
But then again, she wouldn’t be here if that was the case.
“Sit down, I’ll fix you a bowl.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I drag my feet around the kitchen island as promptly as my weak ass allows. Grunting, I heft myself on a barstool.
Her back is to me as she reaches for a bowl she already had lined up by the stove. She must’ve rummaged through the entire kitchen to find what she needed, and I don’t judge. I use it so little that I’d have done the same myself.
She’s still in her daily training staff uniform, black joggers that hug her hips and her butt, and a tight purple long-sleeved shirt that clings to her tiny waist. My mouth waters, and it’s not precisely because of the incredible smell of hearty soup permeating the air. Her ponytail is half over her shoulder, half streaming behind her and obscuring the column of her neck, and I could swear I know exactly how it feels like against my face to the point that it makes me itch.
