Page 88 of Wild Hit
“There you all are,” an unexpected voice cuts into my thoughts. I wipe every emotion off my system and turn to my dad. He’s motioning at some woman with a gigantic professional camera. “Let’s take a picture with the whole family.”
“Ugh,” I mutter under my breath. But I guess this is the price of freedom. We did agree that I was coming out of the figurative closet.
And then the first one to move is Miguel. He slings the bat over his shoulder like it’s a normal wooden one, and marches over to my Robber Baron father. He even wraps my dad in a one armed hug that ends with his big hand squeezing my dad’s shoulder.
What’s that all about?
“Go,” Rose whispers in my ear. “The quicker you’re done, the less pain you’ll suffer.”
True. I drag my feet, Marty-style, and then I find said little grump tagging along and dragging her nanny by the hand. My dad’s expression screams that this wasn’t what he had in mind, but even he knows better than to make a scene in public.
That makes me feel way better and I sidle up to my so called husband. Before the camera starts going off, though, he swings the bat and offers it to me.
“What?” my last neuron asks.
“It’s for you, my beloved wife.” Then he follows in the Consuelo books with a wink. The difference is that, mischievous as the gesture is, it also lands in my belly with an explosion of warmth.
With his free hand, he brings me against his hard side. He’s still hot and sweaty from the game, yet somehow the guy managers to still smell spectacular.
Marty and Consuelo get close, and as the photographer starts snapping pictures, something moves across my vision that catches my attention. It’s none other than Amber, the mean girl WAG, and she’s staring jaw dropped at us taking a picture with Charlie Cox, the untouchable team owner.
Guess what? She won’t even have the chance to gossip, because this is gonna be all over the news tomorrow. Let the social media games begin.
CHAPTER 32
MIGUEL
Idon’t know what I’ve done to deserve this but I also won’t question it because I’m having a blast.
My kid, blood of my blood, who refuses to do things the way others want her to, has found someone who matches her energy in the form of my fake wife.
The two are currently engaged in a singing contest of sorts, to the tune of BTS. Turns out that Audrey’s also a fan of the South Korean boyband, and she knows as many of the hits as Marty.
And by that, I mean they sing the parts they understand in English and Korean, and loudly hum ornananathe parts that they don’t. It’s kind of beautiful even when they go a completely different way from the music.
The current bop is about being an idol, and that’s as much as I catch while still keeping my attention on the road. Every chance she gets, Audrey turns back to pass an invisible mic to Marty at the back. We’re at a long red light, so I focus the rearview mirror on my kid, who for the first time in what feels like forever is being a free, careless little girl. She wiggles her torso and plays a cross between an air guitar and air drums as she shouts music, eyes closed and hair all over the place.
I could cry right damn now. My kid is happy. It wasn’t my own doing so I don’t know how to replicate this, but it doesn’t matter. I just wish this moment would last forever.
Audrey’s happy too. Her cheeks are red as apples. Strands of hair fly off the bun at the top of her head. Her bangs are spread out like a fan over her forehead. She half sings and half laughs. Right now, she tries to pass me the microphone but I can only hum—Marty’s made sure I listen to all the songs, but I don’t know them by heart. I’m not smart like they are. Too busy being a fool in love.
Oh.
The car behind us starts honking. I do a double take and find that the light is green. Maybe has been for a while.
Swallowing hard, I set us in motion again. We’re close to home, where I’m gonna go into my room to have a thinking session that will consist on hanging upside down from my pull ups bar. Maybe then I’ll have enough blood flow in my brain to figure out if… if I’m really…
Mierda, y más mierda. I think I am. I think I’ve gone and caught real feelings.
The song changes to something that sounds a lot more dramatic, and then the singers are screaming about a fake love. My eye twitches.
There’s still a chance that they’re not really real feelings. Obviously I care about Audrey as a person. I wasn’t lying when I asked her to be friends once upon a time. And I’d be lying if I said that I don’t find her the most attractive woman I’ve ever met, with her green eyes, the sassy curve of her lips, the taste of them, the feeling of her pressed against me?—
I squirm. This is probably it. I’m starting to confuse attraction for something bigger.
“Hey, Audrey?” My kid scoots toward the middle of the backseat as far as the seatbelt lets her. “Wanna come over to sing more?”
This catches my neighbor in the middle of a solo. She clears her throat and turns back a little. “I’d love to, but I’m sure your dad will want some peace and quiet for a bit.”
