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CHAPTER 1

ROSE

LAST SUMMER

N ot to be a baseball nerd, but sometimes in life you have to make a risky play. Especially when you’re trying to make things official with the star pitcher of a professional baseball team.

I make one last check in front of the mirror and nod to myself. My outfit is just in the range of librarian chic and playful, a red sundress with white polka dots that shows a hint of skin, under a light white cardigan that is cropped at my waist, paired with cute Mary Janes. Two simple pearl earrings poke from under my abundant curls. No one who sees me walk out to the parking lot would ever assume that I have a heart attack-inducing little number under this cute outfit.

But that’s because nobody in this building has any idea that I’m about to mount one final, hopefully fulminating attack on Ben Williams.

“Tú puedes,” I tell my reflection, closing one fist and pumping it.

Oh, hold on. My makeup’s a bit smudged.

I rummage inside my small but mighty makeup case, retrieving some essentials to fix up the whole area around my lips.

In all fairness, it’s way too hot to wear cardigans and I’m sweating. But the sundress is girlier than anything else I typically wear to hang out around a bunch of baseball players brimming with testosterone. I just put it on to see if it got any reaction from Ben.

The plan is flawless. There was no game today and we’re home, so typically what the guys do is just train and watch film. I was sure we’d run into each other in the corridors, at the cafeteria, or maybe while recording clips for social media… but we haven’t. Not even once.

It’s fine, though. That was just phase one of the big play that I’ve dubbed Operation Catch a Boyfriend. Now I’m ready for phase two.

After smacking my lips to test the tint, I return all my knickknacks back into my purse and zip it up. I finished my video edits early and scheduled a delivery of food and flowers at Ben’s, timed for my ETA. I know for a fact that he and the rest of the team have a meeting with the coaching staff to debrief for tomorrow’s series, so he’ll get home late. I estimate that I’ll have around an hour to set up and freshen up.

There’s some foot traffic on the corridor when I make my way out of the women’s restroom. What appears to be half of the team is being herded by part of the training staff.

That includes my roommate Hope Garcia, who waves her arms up and down from the rear. “Chop chop, we don’t have all day,” she says with clear annoyance. Nearby, her boss does the same.

One of the players notices me standing by the restroom door. “Hey, Mena. No videos this time?” he asks, almost disappointed.

“I’m off duty,” I respond in a far too serious voice as if I was a policewoman or something like that.

“Bummer, that would be way more fun than this,” he grouches and his buddies around all agree.

“What’s the deal?” I whisper at Hope when she pauses beside me.

Shaking her head, she explains, “Beau says we’re going to study yesterday’s game loss in detail, so you can imagine how excited these bunch of toddlers are about that.”

My mind whirs with time estimates. It’s not like they’re going to take seven hours deconstructing a three hour long game, but it does tell me that Ben may be delayed. I’m going to have to adjust my plans accordingly.

“How long does that typically take?” I inquire in what I hope is a casual tone.

“At this rate, it could be?—”

Someone wolf whistles and I don’t need two guesses to know it can be no one but Lucky Rivera, even before his voice reaches us. “Please, ladies. You can’t stand together like this. It’s way too dazzling.”

“Move along, Rivera.” Hope waves her hands without acknowledging him further.

The team’s most notorious flirt chuckles and finally appears in my field of vision, his arm slung around the shoulders of his taller buddy, Cade Starr. The latter is a relatively normal guy—relatively because he has the cowboy good looks that belong more in Hollywood than here, and also because he and Lucky often engage in silly prank wars that give me tons of social media content.

I shake my head to myself, glad that I don’t have private dealings with either of those two.

Not just because they’re unserious clowns, but also because they’re among the top of the team’s lookers. The amount of requests that the PR, marketing, and media teams get to do more features of Lucky Rivera and Cade Starr has become kind of a running joke. I can’t imagine how stressful it must be for their current or future partners to keep them interested.

Not me, I gravitate toward more normal guys that won’t bring out my myriad insecurities. That’s what attracted me to Ben in the first place. Yes, he’s an elite athlete boasting of a lovely musculature, but he has a boy next door face. He doesn’t get confused for an actor or a model, and the mustache he’s sporting lately makes him look like the average Midwestern man that he otherwise is.

Average looks, good upbringing, hardworking, and interested in me? Sign me up, baby.

I really thought that was all it would take to make me happy. Ben checks all those things and when he started to take notice of me, I thought I was set—that I had finally found the man of my dreams with whom I could start my own family.

Except there’s been one major obstacle: we work together. Ish.

I’m the social media manager for the team, which is fancy-speak for I create content, edit it, and post it on social media. It’s nowhere near as simple as it sounds because there’s a hierarchy of command I have to follow that includes my boss, the rest of the marketing team, along with the company guidelines, and it’s precisely the last ones that throw a wrench in here.

It’s not like I’m banned from dating withon the team, but it’s true that there aren’t many women in the organization and there are exactly zero public couples. Whoever goes first is probably going to get an amount of scrutiny that neither Ben nor I are interested in.

Thus, we’ve been dating in secret for almost a year.

And I repeat that: a year .

But I’m in this to build a life together—not to store a few titillating encounters in hidden corners in the back of my mind, to look back on them fondly from the rocking chair in a retirement home.

Based on the fight we had last week, I’m not sure that Ben is on the same page.

“See you at home?” Hope’s voice snaps me out of it.

I jerk my face up to offer her a smile, and she’s so busy herding the last of the guys that she doesn’t notice anything amiss about it.

How I wish I could tell anyone about what I’m going through with Ben. My roommates and I aren’t on pajama-party-every-night level, but I’m sure they’d have really good advice considering that both of them also work for the team.

And more than everyone, I wish I could tell my mom. She’s my best friend and confidante, my rock, the one person on this earth who sincerely cares about me.

I’m pretty sure none of them would have approved of a relationship where I’m kept a secret from the beginning, though. Which is why I think my only move left is to brave this with Ben, come as it may.

From there the plan was born: go to Ben’s fancy apartment downtown, set up a feast on the table complete with candles and rose petals, toss more petals on the beautifully made bed, lie on said bed and petals in my most show stopping lingerie set and…

Tell him that if he wants this to continue, it has to be official. No more being afraid. No more keeping us like a dirty secret.

Speaking of. There’s Ben rounding the corner behind everyone else.

My heartbeat flutters higher and higher at the sight of him, like a butterfly lifting into the sky. He hasn’t noticed me yet because he’s chatting with someone but it’s okay, he’ll definitely notice me when he finds me on his bed later.

Something gets my attention in the corner of my eye and my heart stops. I’m momentarily stunned by the contrast of feelings before my brain kicks in.

It’s Logan Kim, the main catcher of the team, and inarguably the top looker. He’s the one that Ben is chatting with as they walk over. Unlike Ben, though, Logan’s eyes are on me. Or rather, they shift from me to Ben, and back to me. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but he fixes a cocked eyebrow my way that speaks volumes.

I don’t know what expression I had on my face that gave me away, and I try to wipe it. But I know it’s too late and Logan Kim literally just realized I have a thing with the team’s star pitcher.

I’m supposed to head the opposite direction and now that the corridor is clear, I pick myself up to do precisely that. As I approach, Ben’s words drift to my ears at last and he’s so into his tale of how one type of pitch felt compared to another one during practice, that he doesn’t even notice when I walk by.

The farther I get from them, the harder my heart beats. I place a hand on my chest, willing it to calm down. I’m not sure if it’s because I just gave myself away to the unofficial captain, who happens to be the most shrewd guy on the team—or if it’s because my plan is officially a go.

I hop in my blue Toyota Corolla and do a few breathing exercises I’ve seen Hope do after her intense workouts. Turning the vehicle on, I figure that I still have to go to Ben’s to receive the catering order. Maybe I can watch a show to unwind as I wait.

See? The Logan Kims of the world are the reason why it’s imperative that Ben and I become public.

I don’t think he’s a blabbermouth like Lucky Rivera, but Logan is pretty by the books. It’s that quality what has made him the leader of the team, and I have no doubt he’ll pay more attention to Ben and I from now on. The second he catches us in one of those hidden corners that Ben likes, we’re toast.

I brave downtown traffic at rush hour while listening to my dad’s favorite salsa singer, Oscar D’León. I didn’t get to meet Dad, but Mom passed along enough of his idiosyncrasies that I can still feel him in my life. This is one—apparently Oscar calmed him down, and now he does the same for me.

The catering bags await outside Ben’s apartment door when I arrive, which is slightly annoying because they’re early. I take a deep breath and start humming Llorarás, one of Oscar’s most famous songs, and gather all the bags to bring them inside. The food and I are going to wait who knows how long, so I end up putting it in the fridge.

That only burns me ten minutes at most. Whipping around, I take in the dark of the apartment and flutter about turning lights on, fluffing pillows, lowering the thermostat five degrees so I’m not sweating through my makeup anymore. I finally chuck the cardigan off and flop on the couch, grabbing a couple of cushions to I make myself at home.

I palm around searching for the remote, but maybe being so comfortable finally makes my adrenaline crash because my body slacks, I become one with the soft velvet, and close my eyes without ever turning the TV on.

*

The darkness is pierced by a giggle.

My brain latches onto that anomaly and starts to focus. I remember having turned on all the lights, so it shouldn’t be so dark. With a little groan, I turn my face and find myself breathing better. It’s because I had buried my face into a cushion. I open an eye by a slit and shut it quickly. The overhead lights almost gave me a headache.

That’s when I notice the giggle again. Did I leave the TV on?

I crack the other eye open and it falls on the black TV screen. Yeah, that checks out. Pretty sure I faded away before even finding the remote.

“Oh, Ben.”

Wait a second. That’s not my voice.

I spring to a seat, opening and closing my eyes to catch my bearings. Another sound comes next, this one different. The same one that people make when they eat really delicious food, or when…

My head whips in its direction.

There, up against the door, are Ben and a woman tangled together. All I can see is his back from here and for some reason, I latch onto the fact that he’s wearing one of his favorite date outfits. Fancy jeans and an expensive polo that makes him look like a frat boy. He’s wearing the woman’s legs around his waist like a belt, using his hands to keep her in place while he devours her mouth.

For a moment, all I manage is to swallow the cotton in my mouth.

Trembling, I reach for the coffee table where I left my phone. It’s a few minutes past nine, which means I was out like a light for three hours. But as the screen lights up, I notice a text that Ben sent me around two hours ago.

James Bond BF

Hey babe, we’re finishing up pretty late here and I need some rest. See you in tomorrow’s flight?

Rest?

I glance back up and the woman’s hands are now working his polo up, while he buries his head against her neck.

My hands are still unsteady as I center my phone’s camera and take a quick video of the action, and snap a few pictures.

Occupational hazard, maybe, but I’ll need proof that this happened so that I never consider being a guy’s secret ever again.

They’re so involved in each other that they don’t even hear me get up from the couch and grab my things. It’s only when I’m a few steps away from them that I clear my throat, say, “Excuse me,” and they stop.

By this point, Ben is shirtless and his jeans are unfastened. The woman’s legs slide down until she stands behind him and before the door I need to exit. Slowly, my ex turns over his shoulder. His eyes widen.

“B-Babe?”

“No,” I snap through gritted teeth. “Miss Mena to you.”

“Er, I can explain it. This?—”

“Excuse me,” I repeat even louder, leaning to the side until I find the woman.

There’s only marginal relief that she’s someone I don’t know at all, but the confusion on her face tells me she literally didn’t expect another woman to be here. Which tells me this asshole obviously didn’t tell her he had a girlfriend.

Is this why he really never wanted to make us official?

Heat rushes to my eyes and I have to steel every muscle in my body against the visceral need to break down. Instead, I set my attention on her in her date dress, similar to mine—tight, short and pretty. “Can you please step aside? I need to leave.”

“I—I—” Her jaw slackens. She looks up at Ben Williams and back at me. “Did you just call her babe?”

“No, I…” He grunts. “Rose, wait a moment.”

He dares put his hand on me and I jerk free right away. I cast a withering glare at him that works—he does, in fact, shrink a little. “I guess I should thank you.”

“What?” He scrunches up his face.

“You just saved me from humiliating myself for you.” I shrug as if none of this was important. As if my heart wasn’t breaking into a million pieces. “We’re over, Ben Williams. Don’t you talk to me or touch me ever again.”

“But—” he splutters.

“FYI,” I tell the other woman. “He dated me in secret for almost a year. I don’t know if it’s because you’re his official girlfriend or if it’s because he has a dozen of us, but you should dump his ass too.” With that, I turn to the door and open it.

He makes a grab for me but it’s almost comical. His jeans choose that moment to slide down, which is right when an elderly couple walk by out in the corridor.

“Honey, isn’t that Ben Williams, the Orlando Wild pitcher?” the woman asks.

The old man shakes his head. “Nah, that’s clearly some sleaze.”

Spurred by the comment, the other woman leans down to grab her heels and purse. Without dallying, she follows me out of Ben’s apartment in her bare feet.

That’s the moment I decide that I’m done chasing the happily ever after that my parents enjoyed briefly.

I’m done with dating and men—period.