Page 12 of Wild Hit
“In that case, allow me to steal my daughter away so we can bore each other instead.” Dad gives one of those curated laughs that sound warm and friendly to the untrained ear, and I know to just be a mechanism for him to get what he wants.
He offers me his arm, which, unlike Miguel’s gesture earlier, isn’t meant to help me out of an awkward situation, but the entire opposite.
“Of course.” Nothing in his neutral expression prepares me for what Miguel says next, “Please enjoy each other’s company.”
My jaw slacks.
That little jerk. He could’ve pretended like I was the most riveting creature he’s ever met.
But he did allow me to tease him earlier, so I mouthtouchéat him before Dad grabs my hand and steers me away. I do my best to keep my composure and not show Miguel or anyone else that I’m not comfy with my dad, even if it’s the truth.
I huff. “Did you have to say that in front of a random guy?”
“Random?” Dad glances at me. “You two looked pretty chummy.”
“Our definition of that word is clearly different. For example, anyone who sees us right now would think that we’re a chummy pair of father and daughter, and they’d be completely wrong,” I say with total calm.
That quiets him for only a brief moment. Dad isn’t a guy to turn the other cheek. “That’s going to change now that you’re making public appearances with me again, isn’t it?”
For once, I can’t come up with a clever comeback.
Unlike Miguel, who took me away from annoying people, Dad does entirely the opposite. As he takes me on a seemingly endless parade of small talk with strangers and familiar faces—most of them undesirable—I almost wish I could go back to talking about tutus with Miguel Machado.
And that’s when I have a sudden realization. No one at work knows that the team’s owner is my dad—no one but the new guy who is getting chummy with my roommates, who are the very last people on earth I want this secret revealed to.
CHAPTER 6
MIGUEL
“Damn…”
My steps fall like explosions on the treadmill, my thighs pumping at my maximum speed. The trainers told me to push hard to establish a very clear baseline, and that’s what I’m doing. My lungs burn, trying to send oxygen to my muscles at a violent pace. The altitude mask doesn’t exactly make it a comfortable exercise either, but if that’s not enough to confirm whether I’m going full throttle, the electrodes stuck on my bare chest around my heart probably give it away.
“Do you think he’s human?” someone asks.
The response is, “definitely not.”
I’ve heard a lot of yapping throughout my baseball career. One of the things that made me stand out since I was a kid back in my home country was that, despite my height and the weight that comes along with it, I was a pretty fast runner. That has definitely ensured my stolen bases record, but the less obvious thing is how having powerful legs is what has allowed me to bat the home runs that fans enjoy so much.
However, even though my legs are my secret weapon, my real talent lies somewhere else. Namely, in being able to worry about my daughter no matter what I’m doing.
Practicing my swings? Meanwhile, wondering if Marty’s liking Consuelo’s food or if we should hire someone else.
Running workout? Wondering if summer school is going okay and whether she’s making some friends.
Walking up to the plate with all bases loaded? Makes me wonder if she has realized that my walk up song is for her. I guess Mi Niña Bonita by Chino y Nacho would more widely be interpreted as a typical love song, but the only sweet princess in my life is Marty.
Except that these days she’s more of a sour princess. At first I thought that it might be because she’s not used to the new nanny, or that perhaps she wasn’t as amazing as advertised, but after a week of knowing Consuelo I can confirm that she’s everyone’s favorite grandma, and that even though Marty loves her, she’s still unhappy.
Which in turn makes me wonder if maybe things aren’t going so great at school after all. Losing so much of the previous school year with the move forced me to sign her up to summer school, so she can start the new year at the same level. And even though the teacher assured me that their summer program isn’t about punishment, maybe Marty’s still taking it that way.
Franklin, the head trainer, tells me, “You can begin to slow down.” He adjusts the speed a couple of notches lower, and I match the pace.
“Well,” this loud voice I recognize as coming from one Lucky Rivera, the mood-maker for this team. “I’m glad I’ve seen this while this guy’s already on our team, and not when he was still one of the Riders.”
I work to even out my breathing the more I slow down. Of course, I’ve asked Marty here and there what’s up. If homework’s hard, if her classmates are nice… But all she does is turn up her lower lip and ignore me. It’s easier to have a conversation with a wall than when she does that.
I’m still breathing rough even as the treadmill is fully stopped. Hope Garcia, the only female physical therapist who I know is the starting pitcher’s other half, makes for my mask but can’t reach. I step off the machine and lower my head, the electrodes pulling uncomfortably at my chest hair.
