Page 87 of Wild Hit
In fact, I bet Miguel would never smash cake in his bride’s face.
Damn, whoever he marries for real is going to be such a lucky woman. He also kisses better than he bats, and that’s saying something.
I sigh.
“Speaking of Miguel,” Rose says, and I jump in my skin. Did I have that whole monologue aloud? “What’s the next step in your marriage?”
Of course, this is the moment when the women sitting at the row below us decide to pay attention to our conversation. “Oh, are you planning on having a baby with Miguel?” this weird woman called Amber says, her eyes shining in something that isn’t happiness. More like she thinks she just got the century’s juiciest piece of gossip.
This is also when Marty decides to jerk to attention. “You are?” And unlike the weirdo sitting in front of me, Marty’s eyes are full of hope.
Welp.
“Chill, Amber,” Rose says in a direct tone. “We’ll know exactly who spread rumors about this if they start going around, you know?”
The woman’s smile dims and funny enough, her eyes stay the exact way they were before. Sharp but absolutely flat. Like a robot lives behind them.
She reminds me of the rich daughters who used to bully me in school. One time, it got so bad that when Adam found out, he burst into my classroom in the middle of an exam to put them in their place. He got suspended and the bullying didn’t stop, but it did get less loud.
People like this… they just can’t stand being shown up. Also like the Henry Voses of the world.
I lean forward. “So, Amber. What are your next plans with Mike? And is one of them exiting my personal bubble?”
“Nice,” Hope whispers and from the corner of my eye I see her offer me her fist. I bump it, and then way less discreet, Rose reaches out to do the same.
Amber’s thin façade of friendliness vanishes. “Ugh, just who do you all think you are? I was just trying to make polite conversation, since you’re all new WAGs and have no friends.”
“We have friends,” Rose chirps immediately.
“Yeah.” I motion at our row, from Consuelo to Rose. “Plural.”
“Guys.” Hope motions at Rose and I with her hands. “We don’t owe any explanations.”
“Damn right,” Consuelo says all of a sudden. We all look at each other and burst out laughing.
We’re so unserious that it bores the head honcho of the WAGs, and we all—except for Marty—return to watch the last of the game. The team our boys are in is winning by a mile, so there’s not gonna be a home run derby at the end. Probably a good thing, since Marty legit seems to be in need of a bed. I stretch to look at the field and spot her dad not too far from us. The number three emblazoned on his back is turned toward us. Well below it are the most perfectly rounded beef cakes anyone’s ever grown.
I rest back against my seat. Bad Audrey. That’s not what you should be paying attention to.
But then the game ends and everyone starts getting up, and the beef cakes are wholly inaccessible to view now.
I try not to think about it too much as we slowly make our way back to the family lounge, but it’s hard to erase the memory of Miguel and I making out in a car like teens after prom with a strict curfew.
What’s next in our marriage?
Sheesh, I don’t know, but it sure isn’t going to be another make out session that fogs up the car windows—although that was partially because of the storm. And the fact that that’s a big bummer worries me. It’s not like this whole arrangement is forever.
“Martina!” the star of The Show exclaims upon sighting his daughter, even elongating the last letter. And in his hands is the glass bat that is awarded to the MVP of the All-Star game. I shouldn’t be surprised, yet I am.
Rather, it’s more like he keeps surprising me every time.
Marty’s nowhere near as impressed. “Dad, we don’t have enough room in the house for another glass bat.”
My laughter transforms into a snort. It distracts the poor guy and when his attention sets on me, his smile widens even more.
Calm down, heart. No tripping on yourself.
It’s hard not to, though, when the man looks like that and he has a mouth that knows how to tease, smile, defend, and make one’s prudence fog up a car’s window.
