Page 15 of Wild Catch
“That’s a good boy.” Cade drops a hand on Logan’s shoulder, who shrugs it off right away.
Lucky gives me one last look—serious, for a change—inspecting me for any damage. But I’m unscathed except for my nerves, so he finally follows his teammates back out to the field and I’m left alone.
Then I melt on the chair.
My heart is still hammering against my ribcage from the fright, and as my hands drop on my lap, my phone lays face up and I realize that I’m still recording. I scramble to stop it.
“Wait a second,” I mumble with a shaky voice. “How far back does it go?”
I tap at my phone to find the last video. It starts as Logan and Cade jog over to the water coolers and I watch transfixed as it morphs from just another cute video, to my almost death.
The way Logan moved is even more shocking when seen on camera—because other than the randomwatch out, there was no other warning of where the ball was coming from. It’s like the dude had eyes in the back of his head and knew exactly where the ball would land. Impossible. But I guess it’s why he’s routinely labeled the best catcher in the league right now.
And he just saved my life.
The camera shakes wildly during the microseconds between him reacting, catching the ball, and dropping it to make sure I’m okay. I jump in my skin as the camera inverts all of a sudden and captures my shellshocked expression.
A groan tears out of my throat. Why did I have to sound drunk instead of straight up saying I was okay? Ugh.
I make duplicates of the video to splice Cade’s little interview and Logan’s thirst trap out of it. There’s no way I’m sending the whole thing to my boss, when what I need to do is bury this moment in the back of my mind, along with every other embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life. Right up there with dating Ben Williams in secret, and getting pantsed in the seventh grade.
CHAPTER6
LOGAN
Freaking Beau and freaking Starr and freaking everyone, especially she of the puppy dog eyes. Out of the abundance of caution that Rivera cited offhand, Beau decided to sit me out of game one of the series, even though my hand is in perfect condition.
Now it’s the morning before game two, and I’m making a point of showing the trainers that nothing is amiss by lifting some weights. I admit to my status of little shit because I make eye contact with Garcia, and then pointedly glance at the sixty pounds I’m curling my right bicep with, supported by the hand I used to catch the fly ball.
Because that’s all it was. It wasn’t the kind of rocket that smashes through the window of a car at the parking lot behind the stadium.
Garcia snorts at me and keeps going on her round. We’re getting some early morning training before the press junket to talk about last night’s game, the expectations of today’s, and also how gracious the hosts have been.
And they have been. The food has been so outstanding that I kinda don’t want to go back home. Maybe I should get Kaplan to trade me to a Mexican team.
“Attention, boys,” someone calls out from the middle of the floor.
I see the movement through the corner of my eye and set the weight down to watch what the deal is. To my surprise, the top dog of broadcasting for the team stands before us. His name is Julien Chen, I remember once bonding with him about being in the select club of Asians or half Asians—like me—in the organization. What’s he doing here?
“The following individuals have been selected for a special event.” As he lifts up an iPad, movement behind him reveals our social media manager, who at least doesn’t look shaken this morning. “O’Brian, Rivera, Starr…”
I put two and two. This is some marketing shenanigan I have no interest in, which they surely know about since I never volunteer.
Dismissing them, I bend my knees to grab the weight again and?—
“And Kim.”
I snap my face up. “What?”
My question goes unanswered.
Nearby, Miller comments, “Oh to be popular and get saved from training.”
“You still have eight reps left,” says Franklin, the head of the personal trainers.
“Ugh.”
That’s what I should be saying.
