Page 105 of Wild Hit
This is the man version, not the dad. The one that makes my tongue so thick I can’t even swallow. Whose skin is still printed on my hands from two wild opportunities to touch him. The one that makes my body feel hot, my knees buckle, my lips tingle, my hands itch. Thedaddyversion.
The final form that doesn’t allow me to keep pretending like I’m immune to him.
Why’s he walking so damn slow? Or is my heart beating way too fast?
When he’s close enough, his lips stretch into a smile I’m familiar with, one that is only reserved to the apple of his eye. Miguel spreads his arms wide and bends to one knee. “Mi niña, ¿cómo te fue?”
My rudimentary Spanish skills allow me to get the gist, but the fact that his voice is even deeper in his mother tongue almost knocks me over.
Fortunately, he’s very distracted by the fact that, for a change, Marty willingly complies and wraps her arms around his ribcage with enough strength to make him grunt.
“Dad, it was amazing! Audrey was amazing!Everythingwas amazing!”
Miguel laughs the proudest dad laugh I’ve ever heard, and picks her up for a twirl that normally she would grouch about. “That’s fantastic, Marty. I’m so glad.”
Gosh. I want to join them so bad. I want to be able to squeeze the tar out of the two of them. To tuck myself against his side. Kiss Marty’s nose like I have a right.
I almost jump out of my skin when Miguel suddenly turns to me, fearing that he’s read my mind.
Instead, he leans toward me to whisper, “We’re being watched. What do we do?”
“Kiss me,” I blurt out, not even flinching. And also not acting.
I just want his lips on mine. If that’s all I can get, that’s all I’ll take.
But Miguel is the true MVP of this play. He smoothly brings me against him with the free arm and places a soft but firm peck on my lips, like a normal husband would everyday. My hands areon his chest, over his heart beating strong and steady—just like him.
Marty chuckles a little while her father still carries her, and that’s how I know I’m toast.
CHAPTER 38
MIGUEL
“Miguel, how do you feel, coming into this first game of the postseason when you’re about to break a historic record?” Steve Boateng, the face of the Orlando Wild broadcasting team, asks me minutes before the game starts.
The crowd is larger than ever and buzzing. Even though I’m not on social media anymore, I’ve caught whiff of the wild amount of talk about what potentially may happen today. Two home runs would tie me with Barry Bonds and his historic 2001 season, with seventy three home runs. An extra one would surpass it.
But people throughout my life have called me weird for many reasons, the main one being this: that I don’t focus on these things. It’s also why I don’t do social media. I have no need to feel important or better than anyone else. All I want is to be better than I was yesterday, and I think that’s what keeps me sane in this career.
With that as my north star, my answer to him is “Steve, the most incredible thing is seeing our home stadium fully packed with fans who are excited for the game. That really feeds the team, and I think we’re about to make some magic tonight.”
“And we are all really looking forward to it, thank you for joining us,” Steve says with his unwavering anchor voice.
I nod and offer a smile for the camera. “Thank you for having me.”
“Back to you, Greg,” he says to the camera, shifting the transmission back to the studio.
After shaking his hand and the camerawoman’s, I jog back to the dugout to gear up for a potential turn at bat. The game starts with us on the offense, and I’ll be in the classic cleanup spot. Enough energy to power the whole state courses through my veins, and it’s not so much for the home run record—after all, if I don’t break it tonight, I might break it in tomorrow’s game.
It’s because my wife is watching from the clubhouse.
Er, my fake wife. The woman I have real feelings for.
I wish I didn’t have this childish need to prove myself to her, but I can’t help it. I want her to pick me, and I’m not above using a home run world record to achieve that.
When I arrive, McDonald, the hitting coach, brings me into the circle of players, managers, and staff members. Rob Beau, our manager, looks at each one of us before speaking. “We all know what’s happening tonight. It’s our first go at the postseason in a long time. Records could be broken tonight. There are more eyes on us than there’s ever been. We could easily crumble like crackers with all this pressure, and certainly our rivals are banking on that.”
Some expressions around me darken. Grudges are very much real in the world of baseball, and there are two teams that have earned that eternal distinction from this organization.
