Page 8 of Wild Hit
I tuck my phone in the pocket of my slacks and take in my surroundings again. No one would guess that this place isn’t located in Manhattan but in Dr. Phillips, in the south of Orlando. There’s more marble, gold, and crystal than I consider in good taste, but I guess the point is opulence. I’m by far the poorest person in this place, which is saying something when I have a seventy five million dollar salary. But I don’t come from old money like these people—rather, I come from a hot and forsaken city in a country called Venezuela that these people probably couldn’t point in a map. My dad was a high school teacher and my mom a secretary, and they had two kids who in turn managed to have kids of their own way too young. Not quite the pedigree that is expected in an event like this.
“Excuse me,” someone says nearby. “Are you Miguel Machado?”
I don’t even twitch at how badly my last name is pronounced, almost like saying mashed potato. I plaster on a friendly smile and turn to the stranger, a man in his fifties and in his cups. “Yes, hi.”
“Wow, I’m a really big fan. Let’s take a picture.” Dude hooks his arm around my neck, forcing me to bend down uncomfortably as he takes a selfie that no doubt will be a blur.
“I see you’ve met Robert Munn,” a familiar voice says. As I extricate myself from the tipsy man’s hold, my team’s owner strolls over, two champagne flutes in hand. “Robert here is a banker, and a very important friend to me.”
A.k.a. a very wealthy potential donor that we need to schmooze. If we weren’t here to gather funds for the team’s charity, which provides scholarships and baseball equipment to orphans, I’d have peaced out a while back and headed back home to my own kid.
I shake the banker’s hand. “Great to have your support for this important cause, Mr. Munn.”
“Call me, Bob, kid,” he says like I’m the one who’s ten, patting my shoulder. A waiter walks by with a tray of colorful canapés that distract Bob. “Will you excuse me? I’m a tad hungry.”
“Of course.”
As the man chases after the little food, Charlie Cox takes his place and tells me, “Thank you for that, just humoring him for a few minutes probably got us a million dollars for the charity.”
I blink slowly. I also donate to good causes, especially for the people back home, but I usually have to think about it longer than it takes to take a selfie.
Clearing my throat, I say, “No problem, I’m here to help.”
“Here.” He offers me one of the flutes. “Let’s cheer to a successful night.”
“I—Uh, I can’t drink alcohol in the middle the season, sir.”
“Wise.” Cox nods, clearly unperturbed. “As it happens, I’ve been sober for a while so this is non-alcoholic.”
“Then, thank you.” I accept the offering and we clink the flutes. Before the silence gets too awkward, he speaks again.
“I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, but she seems to have given me the slip again.” My eyebrows rise at theagain, not only because it implies that she’s done this more than once, but also at the disaffected way he says it with. “Like you, she doesn’t really enjoy these things.”
I choke on the bubbly.
Billionaire businessman and philanthropist Charlie Cox laughs like any other man. “You think I didn’t notice? You’ve been checking your phone all night like you’d rather be elsewhere.”
Meanwhile, I return the world’s most awkward laugh. “Sorry, I’m just worried about my own daughter.”
“Right, Martina, was it? Is she getting along at her new school?”
I don’t know why I’m surprised that he remembers. When the first thing he asked me when my agent contacted his team was why I wanted the trade, I answered very honestly and didn’t get much commentary about it in return. I figured that a player’s family issues would be beneath the notice of a man whose focus is on the several zeroes in his bank account. Or bank accounts. Trust funds? Whatever rich people have, then.
“So far so good,” I admit despite my own worries. “She’s with her new nanny right now. Doing great. I think.”
That causes the powerful man to laugh again. “So that’s what has you so preoccupied.”
Busted, and so I say nothing.
I’m saved by something catching his attention, and for a second I wonder if it’s the elusive daughter. Instead, he says, “I just spotted one of my business partners. Shall we go get another million out of her?”
Cox only frees me after three more rounds of schmoozing, and only because he gets a phone call from some diplomat who was unable to attend the event. I leave my flute on a tray of usedcups and find an isolated spot behind some potted plants. I’m a tall dude and have no hope that I’m truly hiding, but hopefully it signals leave-me-the-heck-alone well enough. I take my phone out and my heart nearly stops when I see that I have a text from Marty already.
Mi Niña Bonita
I’m still fine
The text came exactly fifteen minutes after I last said I’d check in.This kid, I think to myself, shaking my head.
