Page 3 of Wild Hit
“Fine,” I mutter, barely holding down the bile rising up my throat. “I agree to your terms.”
The predator leisurely leaves his spot by the window, where he was sunning when I barged in. He stops before me, extending his hand for a handshake. The moment his hand closes around mine is when the commentators in my mind announce that I’ve officially lost the game.
CHAPTER 2
MIGUEL
My daughter hates baseball, which is an issue when I’m a professional baseball player.
Her arms are like two noodles wrapped around her torso, small and skinny but mighty enough to contain the explosion of her temper. The air conditioner blasting in the car isn’t enough to cool it down. Even BTS, her absolute favorite boy band in the whole wide world—her words, not mine—isn’t powerful enough to soothe her this time around.
As the South Korean pretty boys crone in the background about a mic that keeps dropping, I mull over what to say. If anything. I’m not sure if to apologize for moving her across the country for a new start with a new franchise, to a rental apartment, and finally to a new home now, with a new nanny in the mix.
When put this way, yeah, I’m horrible. Worst dad in the world. Not worthy of BTS.
It’s for her own good, though. I squeeze my hands around the steering wheel, my shoulders bowing under the weight of my perma-guilt.
“I heard that we have a great ice cream place nearby,” I say with a lot more cheer than necessary.
A whole stadium full of fans from a team that hates me can’t rattle me, but Marty’s mean glare almost makes me start sweating.
“And your new school has a pool.” I stop at a red light and turn to her.
Her mouth is twisted into a sneer that makes her look like an angry kitten. Pretty sure this would be entirely the wrong moment to show any amusement.
“Hmph.” She looks out the window, in case it wasn’t clear to me how displeased she is.
Finally, I let a smile fly.
Martina Machado was born unimpressed by me ten years ago. It doesn’t mean I won’t spend the rest of my life trying. It’s why I read enough parenting books to get a degree from it.
“Since this is a fresh start for both of us, why don’t we redecorate the house?”
She perks up a tiny bit. But still doesn’t turn my way.
The light turns green and I welcome the sign. It brings us closer to our new home, and also to Marty’s mood changing. I can feel it.
The pretty boys sing about butter as we roll down a pretty residential street. The road has a canopy of old trees dripping some kind of moss, and if it wasn’t so sunny it would feel like we’re in another place that isn’t in the middle of Florida.
From the outside, moving here makes zero sense. The Denver Riders are the defending World Series Champions and again a top prospect this year. I was on track for breaking my personal home run and stolen bases records. I was selected for the All Star game for the seventh consecutive year—also a franchise record.
Breaking all that momentum with a sudden trade is not only senseless, but also potentially a harbinger of bad luck.
Pero… I have a good feeling.
That also makes no sense. I’m an old school baseball guy who knows the power of his little rituals, like rubbing the golden cross that hangs around my neck to calm me down—which I do right as I turn us into our new residence. Nothing skewers routine more than moving to a brand new place with a different weather, traffic flow, and even a different path to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I did it for my daughter, I’ve told the public,so she can be surrounded by more people who speak Spanish.
In truth, it’s because she was being bullied at her old school, and hid it from me for a year. I only found out when I went to her class for career day, even after she had told me not to—which, by the way, she still hasn’t forgiven me for.
“Here we are. Home, sweet home,” I announce, parking in front of the cozy duplex townhouse that I bought for us. “What do you think?”
I wish I could see her face, but the house is by her window and all I can do is guess.
The house looks like something that belongs in New England, red brick and white trim, complete with a porch and a swing, and the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. Her room is upstairs and even has a windowsill that overlooks a big tree that the real estate agent says blooms yellow in the spring. Better yet, her new middle school is a short bus ride away and boasts some of the best rankings across the country not just in academics, but in wellbeing and environment.
Who cares about my streak? My daughter will be much happier here.
