Page 69 of Wild Hit
The choice is clear.
“Well, Mike,” I say, leaning closer to the microphone. “There are two reasons for that and neither are called slump. One, I really wanted to practice my base stealing, although that didn’t exactly go according to plan.” As a round of chuckles goes around the room, I reach behind the neck of my T-shirt and pull up the chain. “And also, because I’m not used to my new wedding ring yet.”
The press room sounds like a tomb at the strong whiff of even juicier stories than a slump.
“Thank you for your questions.” I pat the table in thatwelp, gotta go waythat is unique to dads, and make my way out of the press room wearing the shit-eating grin I contained during the game.
And now for people to start cussing me out.
CHAPTER 25
AUDREY
Nothing like working in PR and being the one to set off a PR storm for the team.
Technically, the author of the disaster was Miguel with his press comment about a sudden wife. But then Rose worked her social media magic and released the paparazzi-like pictures of us getting married and walking into a hotel room together, and now the baseball and sports internet is buzzing.
The best part is how my clever friend didn’t get my face captured on camera, only Miguel’s. My blonde hair is unmistakable, though, and I have no idea how no one at work has put two and two together.
Okay, maybe there’s one exception. And it’s not really the one I expected.
Instead of my father bursting into the PR team area and demanding answers from me, or even his latest minion doing the same, it’s my boss, Karen, the one who has spent the last two days giving me funny looks.
I haven’t heard any rumors, so I guess she hasn’t dared to talk smack with anyone. The way she looks at me, with the clear desire that she wishes I was anywhere else but in front of her, and also how she made me do most of the work the past two daysto put out the flames, give me a feeling that she’s really going to be pissed off when she confirms that I did, indeed, marry Miguel Machado.
Currently that doesn’t concern me though. I’m getting ready for the cocktail party where Miguel and I will reveal the identity of the slugger’s new wife to the public, including my male progenitor.
Meanwhile, Marty’s on her bed, head propped up by her hands as she watches me apply my makeup, feet swinging back and forth in the air with the innocence of someone who doesn’t fear for her life.
“Did your mom teach you to put on makeup?” she asks.
“No,” I respond truthfully but withholding the part about how my mother’s professional makeup artist is the one who taught me everything I know. Also TikTok, I guess.
“Why not? Isn’t that how most girls learn?”
I finish darkening my near transparent eyebrows with a pencil that makes them look properly blonde and full, and as I tuck it away in my makeup bag, I say, “Believe it or not, my mother cares about me even less than my dad does.”
“What?” Rustling comes as she shifts to sit at the edge of the bed, leaning forward for the tea. “Why’s that?”
I don’t know if speaking candidly to a child is a good thing, but from experience—and by that I mean the fact that my parents barely ever spoke to me when I was a kid—it’s probably not the worst thing in the world.
“She moved to Paris a long time ago and has basically stayed out of my life since.”
Right after Adam passed out, to be precise, leaving me alone with the same father who drove my brother to self-medicate with alcohol. This part even I know is too much for a ten-year-old girl.
Marty gasps. “We’re the same!” That tears my attention away from putting on blush. “My mom also abandoned me.”
I do a double take. Why does she seem excited about this?
“Is that so?” I ask to buy myself some time to rifle through my memories.
I don’t recall Miguel putting it in such harsh terms, but then again I can also see why Marty would take it this way. Not having your mom around, knowing she’s alive and caring about other things or people much more than you, frankly sucks.
“Well, she visits once a year but my classmates’s moms live with them, so isn’t that the same?”
Put that way, the truth is evident. And even though she appears to be fine with these facts, I’m not. My heart twists painfully for this sweet and grumpy child who has been hurt so early in her life. I want to squish her, but she would probably go angry kitten on me.
Instead, I scoot to one end of my seat and pat the minuscule open space. “Want me to teach you?”
