Page 10 of Wild Catch
Yet, I want to go.
For all the trust Beau has put on me, I haven’t done much to show for it. Nothing ties me to the team, or Orlando, or literally anywhere. I don’t know what I’m even searching for, but I can viscerally feel that it’s not here and that’s disappointing. I’m tired of that feeling, and I need something different until I find it.
The plane lurches, almost as if to sayoh yeah? Here, have some nausea, you little shit.
I press my lips tighter and try to swallow. My throat feels like it’s clogged because the saliva isn’t going down. Maybe it’s too late to take the handy dandy pill I was prescribed to keep anxiety attacks at bay. But the literal last damn thing I need is to have an attack on this plane and?—
“Kim?”
The familiar voice cuts through my mounting panic. I crack an eye open and it takes some processing to understand what’s happening. First, my eyes fall on Rosalina Mena standing on the hallway, looking down at me with a pinch between her eyebrows. Concern? Annoyance? Who the hell knows what the expression really means.
Her arm is linked to Hope Garcia who stands closer to me, and she does show some clear worry on her face. “Here you go, big guy. This will set you to rights.” She offers me a can of ginger ale that is so cold, the tiny condensation beads dull the brand colors.
Oh, yes. This might actually help. If anything so the gas helps me open my throat back up.
But relief after drinking this will show that I have a problem.
I clear my throat. “I’m all?—”
The seat beside me shakes as an insufferable pitcher uses it to prop himself up.
“Who are you calling a big guy?” Starr interrupts in mock outrage before I’m able to finish my sentence. “Oh. This thing? He’s not a guy—he’s Sasquatch.”
On the other hand, trading to another more professional team might be just the remedy I need.
“Not my fault that you can barely grow a mustache,” I mumble in return while working the tab to open the can with a fizzy hiss.
“Burn,” Rivera teases his buddy.
“As if you too could grow a mustache,” I grumble and take a swig. A sigh escapes my mouth as the bubbles hit.
Rivera blows a raspberry that turns into full cackling.
Fortunately, Garcia is a bit more mature. She rolls her eyes at them and says to her friend, “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that these are grown men and not middle schoolers.”
“They make great content, though.” Mena grins. As I drink, I notice over the rim of the can that she has dimples in her cheeks. “Maybe I’ll do a series on who grows the best mustache on the team.”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m running my hand down my face, feeling the soft bristle of my facial hair. I keep it trimmed and tidy so that I don’t look precisely like Sasquatch, and I’m kind of proud about it.
Mena’s eyes return to me for a second, zeroing in on my face. I drop my hand, not really meaning to get her attention or turn this into a competition, and turn back to the window.
Well, this has effectively distracted me for a few minutes.
The women continue chatting with the two clowns behind me for a while more, until the seatbelt lights come on and everyone has to return to their seats. Ironically, the closer the plane gets to the ground and to the prospect of me exiting, the easier I can breathe. I tuck the now empty can of ginger ale into my hand luggage to toss it later, and close my eyes for the landing.
The good news is that the Alfredo Harp Helú stadium is a normal, fully open one, unlike the one in Tampa for example—which I can’t stand. Even better, we’re headed straight to it from the airport without stopping at a hotel.
Fresh air, here I come.
*
I underestimated traffic as I tend to do every time I’ve come to Mexico City. By the time we get to the stadium, I’m drenched in sweat from the effort it takes to keep the claws of panic at bay.
I sit near the front of the bus, and I’m just the third person to get out. My lungs can’t grab gulps of air quick enough as my teammates file out.
“Dude,” O’Brian says to me as he passes by, “It’s kinda hot today, but notthathot.”
Grunting, I march over to the luggage compartment to find mine, doing my best to pretend like my team polo and joggers aren’t sticking to my skin with all the sweat.
