Page 31 of Wild Hit
I know what to do now. It’s feeding two birds with one scone. Miguel’s a good person, and he’s also well off. He has no reason to get weird or greedy if I go along with his idea. Marty will get to not miss out, and maybe that gets him to score some points with her too.
And my own problem will gopoof.
“Hmm,” I say, and nothing more.
I need to talk with Miguel first. If he’s still on board with the wacky plan of us pretending to be in a relationship for our own purposes, he’ll first have to clear it with the school to ensure that I can escort Marty. Andthenwe’ll tell her that she’s not going to be the odd one out after all. Not on my watch.
CHAPTER 14
MIGUEL
Being mic’ed up at a game is both an honor and a curse. Consuelo had just sent me a text when the broadcast team came into the dugout to outfit me with the mic equipment before the next inning. I know that this treatment is given to favorite players who are also not going to drop accidental f-bombs on live broadcast, but I really wanted to see what the text said.
Is Marty okay? Did something happen? Or is it a simpler thing like running out of toilet paper? Although that would also be horrifying.
“—Don’t you think?”
Mierda, I wasn’t paying attention to what the broadcast guy was saying. My lucky star is shining though, because this is exactly when the ball is hit my way.
“This is going long!” the announcer says in my ear and to everyone watching at home. “Machado takes off and?—”
I stop listening, every fiber of my being focused on making the play. I can read the exact trajectory of the ball arching in the air, and after years and years of mapping the outfield of every stadium in the league, I know just where the projectile’s going to land. The runner on first is shooting to second and even thoughthere’s no one on third, if I don’t catch this damn ball they’re going to get excited.
Not on my watch, son.
My thighs pump with the force of sledgehammers, my steps light on the green while I track the ball. I don’t even reason it out—I launch myself at the padded fence, finding purchase against it to propel myself up one step, two. This is one of the softer fences in the pro stadiums, which makes this child’s play. I reach with my glove at a full stretch, right in time for the ball to nestle inside my glove. I’m not sure how high I am, so I soften my knees for the landing and roll with it. The world spins and I let it, in the meantime reaching for the ball in my glove. The second that the green is below me and not above, I throw the ball at Lucky Rivera’s general direction with all the power of my hips.
The ball is a white streak and the clever shortstop reads the play like we’re of one mind. He makes the catch and slides head first to tag the runner trying for third. Laying on the base, he throws to first and with that gets the batter out too.
Noise explodes all around.
This never gets old—the rush of dopamine and serotonin and any other happy hormone that engraves every successful play in my soul. I can’t believe I get to do this for a living.
“Unbelievable!” the guy exclaims in my ear, reminding me that I’m mic’ed up. “This is going to make the highlight reels for a week, and it all started with your superhero catch! How are you feeling right now, Machado?”
“Hungry.” It’s probably a better answer than saying how pleased I am to retire the inning this way, even if my shit-eating grin doesn’t hide it.
The second announcer laughs. “You definitely deserve a snack for that play.”
Something I’ve learned about the Orlando Wild is that, since Spring Training, this is a team that is highly motivated by pizza—especially if it’s paid for by the main catcher. I’m sure this inning will qualify for that special treat, and that alone is wroth bragging about.
However, if you’ve been a professional baseball player for longer than two games, you know that there’s an unwritten code of conduct. You simply don’t show other guys up, not even if you’ve just done something that’s going to be part of baseball history.
That’s the tricky part about being mic’ed up, that it makes it a lot harder to contain your own self-satisfied glee and not alienate everyone else in the league. I already have enough with how irrational some fans are on social media, so I have to rein myself in and be as bland as possible right now.
“Thank you, guys,” I respond with a good natured chuckle, and pull out the receiver from my waistband as I head toward the dugout. As I turn it off, I breathe a relieved sigh out that I didn’t screw up—the game or the broadcast.
And now for the main thing—I grab onto the pendant hanging from my neck. Players and staff alike manhandle me as I enter the dugout, and by rote I return the high fives, the ass pats, the chest bumps, slowly making my way deeper to the shelves that house the batting gloves and pads, where I also left my cellphone.
“Dude, that was freaking amazing!”
“You flew like two meters, bro.”
“What are two meters?” someone asks. “I don’t math.”
Me neither, I want to say. Instead, I swipe my phone screen and find Consuelo’s chat.
The pretty blonde neighbor is teaching math to your daughter, it reads.
