Page 12

CHAPTER 12

LOGAN

I never thought I’d see the day when I thought this to myself: but this is what we get for not putting Starr as the starting pitcher for this game.

Granted, we can’t win every single one, and he also can’t play every time.

The Orlando Wild pitching staff is pretty solid—it’s one of the reasons why I came to this team in the first place—and they held us off at a score that isn’t embarrassing. But this tells me that some moves need to be made. A different training regime for a couple of the guys, maybe consider trading a third… I make a mental note to talk about this with Beau and Socci.

Or maybe not? I mean, I have one foot out of the door. The Wild will become my opponents whenever I go to a different team. So why should I help them?

Sighing, I catch the last strike that ends the game. Thomason looks dejected on the mound—like he truly believes that at his second season in the pros, he should’ve been able to hold off a stronger lineup to no runs. This at least I can do something about now.

I meet him halfway and remove my mask. “Hey, what’s with the wounded puppy face?”

“Ha.” He gives a watery smile. “This wouldn’t have sucked so bad for the team if only I was better.”

“Listen, kid,” I say like I’m not just six years older. “You played for three innings. You’re only responsible for your performance during those three innings, do you understand?”

“But—”

“No,” I cut in. “That’s it. The error Brown made in the eighth? Not on you. The runs that Mendez and Smith allowed? Not on you.”

“But I let them score two on me.”

I grin. “Yeah, those are on you. See what I mean?”

The guy blinks hard at me. “I… I see it. It’s both relieving and not.”

“You’re welcome.” I tap my glove against his chest and jerk my head in the direction of the dugout. “Now let’s go, I hear the menu for today is fish tacos and I’m starving.”

“Tacos?” That adds some extra pep to his step.

My stomach makes a fearsome gurgle that makes him laugh and hey, I may not have half of the charm of a Lucky Rivera, but at least Thomason’s head is screwed back on now.

But as I put my hand on my stomach, trying to get it to settle the hell down, something niggles at the back of my mind. Something about Mexico…

I recognize what’s happening after my body moves all on its own. Once more, pulled by instinct, my eyes zero in on something. And it moves me to action.

“Kim?” Thomason asks as I veer toward the home plate again. I wave him off and keep going.

There, on the lower stands right behind the home plate, is Rosalina Mena—Rose, I guess—surrounded by a bunch of women in white Orlando Wild jerseys, with the purple and yellow trims. It’s the fact that Rose keeps trying to move her phone and camera out of their reach what tells me this isn’t some harmless interaction.

“Hey!” I call out as I walk over. “What are you doing?”

The handsiest of the women eases off when she sees me, and her squeal propagates to the other ones. “Oh my goodness, it’s Logan! Guys, it’s Logan!” Something about the way she stretches out my name tells me she’s drunk off her ass.

“Oh wow, it’s really him.”

“Hey, Logan, can I have your autograph?”

“Better yet, what are you doing tonight?” A hiccup.

“Can I get on the list?” Then a flurry of laughter follows as they congratulate the owner of that zinger.

I shift my attention over to the team’s social media manager. She’s tucking her cellphone in the back pocket of her jeans, thinking more about the safety of her devices than her own. Or I guess, in protecting her job more than herself, based on what she said the other night at the cowboy’s.

“You okay, Rose?”

She’s surprised that I ask, openly showing it with wide eyes and parted lips. “I—Yes, thank you. It’s not a big deal.”

I raise my eyebrows. Not a big deal? She was just being harassed by five drunk women.

Too late do I realize my mistake. In getting Rose to talk to me, it attracts the drunkards’s attention again. The apparent ringleader turns to our social media manager again and points an accusatory finger. “Give it to us straight, are the two of you really in a relationship?”

“Huh?” The question slips from my mouth and goes ignored.

Rose sighs. “Ma’am, for the last time. I’m just a staff mem?—”

“Tell. Us. The. Truth!” the woman demands now jabbing her finger in Rose’s chest.

My muscles lock, primed for action. But it’s not like I can leap over the boards to the stands and then do what? Bodily handle these women and end up getting sued?

I glance all around and spot a few of the players coming over—they must’ve seen the interaction and put two and two. At the helm is Lucky and I shout at him.

“Lucky, call security— now! ”

He freezes for a second and then says something in Spanish that I don’t understand, but he turns back around firing instructions to our teammates.

I turn my attention back on the women. Rose has her hands up and managed to put some distance while I was distracted, but there’s a drunk woman behind her blocking her exit. I have to do something, but what?

“Do you want to know the truth?” I blurt out, which has the desired effect of calling all attention to me. I fold my arms, stalling for crumbles of time where I can, and look at each of the women in the eyes. I have a feeling some of them see five of me. “I take it you’re my fans, right?”

“Oh, yes.” One of them melts over the barrier to give me what she thinks is a sultry expression that makes her look constipated.

“I’m the biggest fan,” one at the back of the group yells out.

“No, I am the biggest fan,” counters the one who propositioned me a minute ago.

“You’re all wrong, I’m the future Mrs. Kim,” jokes another one.

I’ve never been gladder for easily distracted people. As even the one blocking her way moves over to fight over who wants to get in my pants the most, I make eye contact with Rose and telepathically tell her to beat it. She gives me one nod and retreats ever so slowly, carefully, until she’s close enough to the stairs that she can bolt to the exit.

I wait even a moment longer, putting up with the most inane conversation that’s ever filtered to my ears—they’re now up to who wants to give me the most babies—when finally an army of security personnel barrel down the stairs.

Right before they arrive, I say, “The truth is that it’s none of your business who I’m dating or not. But regardless of my status, you’re not entitled to harass anyone on my behalf.”

A series of gasps follow after that, a second before the first security guy reaches them. “Ladies, I’m afraid I will have to remove you from the premises.”

“But Logan, we love you!”

“We just want to keep you safe from gold diggers.”

Rolling my eyes, I turn my back on them and finally resume my walk to the dugout.

This is when I finally notice the rivers of sweat trickling down my forehead, more profuse even than during the game. Like the stress of that little shitshow was somehow worse than losing a game with a five run deficit.

*

Later, my fuel tank is full of tacos and I’m almost content. I pull away the soft covers of my bed to sink into it, groaning in an R-rated way at the softness of the pillows beneath my head. Now I’m fully content.

Which is why my lizard brain needs to ruin it right away.

This is probably why my therapist says I’m addicted to cortisol. But even knowing that, I reach over to my night table and pluck my phone from the charger. I want to know what people are saying about the game we lost tonight, so I hop onto the social media accounts of the main sports news sources.

It takes some scrolling through posts about other baseball teams and even other sports. Pausing, I pull myself up to sit, letting the sheets slide down my bare chest to my hips, and pick up the phone again. My hair gets in the way so I tuck it behind my ears and there it is, the first video about the Orlando Wild loss.

The commentary starts out fine—harsh, but well deserved. One guy says, “For a team that has been showing some serious grit since Spring Training, tonight’s loss harkens back to the days of Ben Williams on the mound for the Wild.”

“Are you saying that the Wild were a much worse team with Ben Williams as the starter?” A second guy scoffs. “Because Williams is one of the top pitchers in the league right now, so that makes no sense.”

The first one responds, “Maybe. It does seem like this roster plays a lot harder when Cade Starr is the starter, which is really interesting when you think about how he was a relief pitcher for Williams last year.”

“Isn’t it?” I say as if they could hear me. Snorting, I add, “And that’s because you haven’t seen what happens when we bribe Starr with pizza.”

The video continues though, and their conversation shifts to something a lot less professional. “Now, what everyone on social media is talking about isn’t the Wild’s loss tonight, but an altercation that occurred on the stands once the game concluded.”

“Take a look at the footage that a fan captured.”

“What?” I bring the phone closer to my face because right on the screen is the group of drunk women bothering Rose. “ Shit .”

I can feel that sweet, sweet cortisol hitting me everywhere, and yet I don’t stop myself from watching.

Sure enough, some random fan in the stands caught the whole thing on camera, complete with peeks at me from below on the field trying to deescalate the situation.

The comments are a ridiculous mixed bag. Some people call me a hero for intervening. Others have made a connection that this is the second time I come to the rescue of the same staff member. The theories are running rampant already—everything from tame, like Rose and I are dating, to some dramedy Kdrama type where I’m Rose’s baby daddy and these are all the women I left for her.

But also mixed in between are comments calling Rose all sorts of nasty names, boiling down to how dare she get my attention. Kind of like what those drunks were saying to her.

I run my hands down my face. Have I screwed over her life when I was just trying to help her?