Page 34 of Wild Catch
She shakes her head slowly. “Cade, they weren’t even friends to begin with.”
“It depends…” I give the half Korean, half Swedish, all American guy a side eye. “On whether he’s going to act up the next time I have to do my job and it involves him.”
“That depends…” His eyes bore into mine, no longer amused and more like inquisitive. “On how much saxophone plays in the background.”
“No saxophone.” I stick my hand out to him. “Deal?”
He dares to cast a dubious glance at my hand, like it could be hiding one of those zapping toys or something. But finally he takes it into a businesslike shake. “Deal.”
But instead of doing the same when he tries to pull away, I tighten my hold and keep him in place. “Cutesy Kpop okay?”
“Rose.” He utters my name in the same way as one wouldare you shitting me.
“Oh, he used her name,” Lucky whispers so loud that even the neighbors must’ve heard.
“Logan?” I return sweetly.
His lips curl into a smirk and he tugs my hand toward him, closing just tighter enough around mine that I can no longer equate this to a businesslike handshake. “I love Kpop so bring it on.”
Bring it on? Every cell in my body’s telling me to run away. Except, as I glance at the extremely entertained jerks around me, I have a feeling that I’m in trouble.
CHAPTER12
LOGAN
Inever thought I’d see the day when I thought this to myself: but this is what we get for not putting Starr as the starting pitcher for this game.
Granted, we can’t win every single one, and he also can’t play every time.
The Orlando Wild pitching staff is pretty solid—it’s one of the reasons why I came to this team in the first place—and they held us off at a score that isn’t embarrassing. But this tells me that some moves need to be made. A different training regime for a couple of the guys, maybe consider trading a third… I make a mental note to talk about this with Beau and Socci.
Or maybe not? I mean, I have one foot out of the door. The Wild will become my opponents whenever I go to a different team. So why should I help them?
Sighing, I catch the last strike that ends the game. Thomason looks dejected on the mound—like he truly believes that at his second season in the pros, he should’ve been able to hold off a stronger lineup to no runs. This at least I can do something about now.
I meet him halfway and remove my mask. “Hey, what’s with the wounded puppy face?”
“Ha.” He gives a watery smile. “This wouldn’t have sucked so bad for the team if only I was better.”
“Listen, kid,” I say like I’m not just six years older. “You played for three innings. You’re only responsible for your performance during those three innings, do you understand?”
“But—”
“No,” I cut in. “That’s it. The error Brown made in the eighth? Not on you. The runs that Mendez and Smith allowed? Not on you.”
“But I let them score two on me.”
I grin. “Yeah, those are on you. See what I mean?”
The guy blinks hard at me. “I… I see it. It’s both relieving and not.”
“You’re welcome.” I tap my glove against his chest and jerk my head in the direction of the dugout. “Now let’s go, I hear the menu for today is fish tacos and I’m starving.”
“Tacos?” That adds some extra pep to his step.
My stomach makes a fearsome gurgle that makes him laugh and hey, I may not have half of the charm of a Lucky Rivera, but at least Thomason’s head is screwed back on now.
But as I put my hand on my stomach, trying to get it to settle the hell down, something niggles at the back of my mind. Something about Mexico…
