Page 14 of Wild Hit
“Great, thank you for making my job easier,” she says in all seriousness and offers her hand out for a very belated handshake.
I make sure that my hand is dry before I return the gesture, wrapping my massive paw around her smaller, more delicate hand. Right as I start debating whether this is getting awkward and long, the woman grabs on tighter.
“Also, one more thing.” She pauses. “Actually, two.”
I can’t help but letting my eyebrows fly. It’s the first sign of uncertainty from her throughout this whole interaction. “What’s up?”
“Have you told anyone?” she asks like I know what she’s thinking.
“Told anyone what?”
Her eyes narrow. She squeezes my hand a notch harder. “About me being the owner’s daughter.”
Listen, I’m very bad at math—which is fine, because baseball is all about physics—and sure enough, my jock brain can’t compute why this is important enough to cause a wrinkle between her eyebrows. “Don’t they know?” I ask, testing the one theory I come up with.
“No.” She leans closer, lowering her voice to what should sound menacing. “And they better not find out.”
With my free hand, I slide the towel down around my neck for her benefit, to see the confusion on my face. “Why’s that?”
Smiling in a suddenly too saccharine way she responds, “Not your business.”
“Fair, but…” I point at my hands with my lips. “Can I take that back, at least?”
“Sorry.” Audrey drops my hand like it’s a burning coal and takes a step back. Then another. And she points at somewhere behind her. “Okay, I’m gonna go email the contract to your agent and… yeah.”
“Wait.” Now that my hands are free to be twitchy, I stuff them in the pockets of my joggers. “What was the second thing?”
“What—Oh, right.” Her eyes blaze a trail down to my bare chest, my stomach, and stop shockingly low for someone who is virtually a stranger. She points with her index. “Your pants are about to fall.”
With that, she twirls around and leaves.
I glance down and sure enough, my joggers are showing the waistband of mySPORTYunderwear. As my face flames, I suppose that they’ll be happy to hear from the PR lady that I’ve been a customer all along.
CHAPTER 7
AUDREY
Aginormous package sits outside the front door once I get home from the office. Fortunately, there are no witnesses as I walk up the steps, grinning like the evil clown of a horror movie who’s about to commit murder. That’s my intention—upon the mailbox that is the bane of my existence. At last I’ll be able to replace it for a brand new one.
It’s just way larger than I expected. Maybe this will be a job for more than one person. I palm around my pockets until I find my phone and send a text to my roommates, asking when they’ll be home. Today is a rest day, so if I want their help I better recruit them today before they join the team on the road tomorrow.
That done, I better empty the damn mailbox one last time before I send it tumbling down the residence’s trash container, where it belongs.
I skip around the package at the front and head inside to change into something comfortable and with short sleeves, it’s the only way to brave the stifling cold of a June afternoon before the daily monsoon. I grab a tool set I don’t know if I’ll need, and walk back out to face the enemy.
In all fairness, this inanimate object is the lesser on my list of evils, but is really the only one I can solve.
Now properly armed, I pluck a wrench from the tool set and pry it into the lip of the mailbox door. To be safe, I check around me for any potential baseball players whose eyesight I could potentially jeopardize.
“Coast is clear,” I mutter, finding that the only other sign of life is a gecko scampering across the hot sidewalk into a hedge.
Grunting, I pull at the door with all my might. This time the wrench offers enough grip that I don’t have to struggle too hard. I don’t even lose my balance as it finally opens—no one behind me would’ve been maimed. It also wouldn’t have made me realize that Miguel Machado is a decent guy who just might keep my secret. And if not, I know where he lives.
Kidding. Or am I?
Among the pieces of mail addressed to me is an envelop that looks like it costs about as much as my monthly mortgage, signaling right away that this belongs to my dad’s world. I tuck it in the back pocket of my bike shorts so that it can ruin my mood later. I stretch my neck, roll my shoulders, and crack my knuckles. Then I fish for the drill to tackle some screws.
“What are you doing?” a soft voice asks somewhere behind me, and since the last time something like this happened I nearly knocked someone out, I stop cold turkey before checking for the speaker.
