Page 16

CHAPTER 16

LOGAN

T here’s nothing intrinsically odd about Mena—I mean, Rose, was it?—waiting outside the team bus to greet the players. The thing is that normally she records our descent from the bus on her phone, maybe asks a few silly questions of the get-to-know-the-player variety, and potentially high fives the willing guys who are by far the majority.

This time around there’s only some high fives and no camera, and she zeroes in on me like someone who just sighted their suitcase on the conveyor belt at baggage claim.

I check over my shoulders, but there’s no one around me that would typically produce such a stubborn look on her pretty face.

She starts striding over as I join the line of players and staff to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk at the bottom. I keep her approach in my field of vision, but pretend like I’m not paying attention in case she actually was sending that hostile look at someone else.

Except that she stops right beside me and says, “Hey, Logan. Can I have a moment with you?”

And of course one of the stooges that calls himself a professional baseball player hears this and says in a sing-song voice, “A secret lovers rendezvous?”

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. And pin him with my patented I-collect-teeth-for-fun look. “One more word out of your mouth and I’ll make sure you can’t eat solids for a month.”

The clown makes a zipping motion over his mouth but it’s too late, the damage is done. An avalanche of wolf whistles and laughter ensues.

Clapping of the annoyed variety starts behind me, followed by Hope’s voice. “C’mon. No need to make your jealousy hold the line. Get your suitcases and go—home or to find a date, I don’t care. Chop chop.”

My head turns by reflex and I meet Rose’s amused eyes like we do this all the time. It sends a jolt down my spine and I clear my throat. “I best get my bag before the scary trainer scolds me.”

“You do that,” Rose plays along with a serious manner. “She can be terrifying when she wants.”

“Hey, I heard that,” the alluded tosses over her shoulder as she passes us, fully skipping the line. We all let her because, yeah, Hope Garcia is the strictest trainer. She won’t even let her boyfriend eat pizza ever since the season started.

The social media manager camps on the sidewalk for a few minutes while I join the luggage retrieval fray. Meanwhile, I rack my brains trying to figure out what she wants to do with me now. Is she still pissed at me? Because I already admitted that I acted like a jerk. Verbally. With witnesses. So what else is going on?

“Hey, Kim,” a familiar voice calls out me while I shrug on my travel backpack. I turn to face Rivera with a cocked eyebrow. “Behave.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

But then he uses his lips to point somewhere behind me. When I turn over my shoulder, I spot Rosalina Mena still watching me. Her arms are folded and she’s tapping her sneaker on the concrete impatiently.

Facing the shortstop again, I ask, “What the hell do you mean with behave ? When do I ever not behave?”

“Hmm.” His mouth curves like he’s an old man thinking about his bills. “True. Maybe in your case I should tell you to misbehave. But like a gentleman. Know what I mean?”

“Literally I have no idea what you’re yapping about. See you in two days.”

Huffing, I break apart from the waning mass of players. I don’t follow their pattern of beelining from the bus to their respective vehicles. Rather, I walk over to the social media manager waiting for me.

Every step feels weirder. Like the air closest to her is charged and I’m gonna get zapped.

I stop at a safe distance from whatever this storm is and slide my hands into the pockets of my black joggers. “What’s going on, Rose?” My voice is raspy but I refuse to clear it because that could be perceived as a sign of nerves. And I’m not nervous. I’m just a little mystified, that’s all.

“Well.” She leans to the side to look behind me. “There’s something kind of private I need to talk with you about. But a bunch of players are taking a surprising amount of time retrieving their suitcases, what with them getting distracted by us every thirty seconds…”

I run my hands through my hair to massage my scalp, just trying to get ahead of the headache my teammates give me often. “I know a good place where we can talk without witnesses.” Something about her demeanor changes and I add, “But still public.”

“Great.”

She relaxes. Another guy would get angry that he was distrusted.

Me? I can’t help but seeing her in a different light. Her usual sunny disposition led me to think that she’s a happy-go-lucky, slightly ditzy woman with terrible taste—as anyone who goes out with Ben Williams probably is.

But it turns out that Rosalina Mena is smart. I respect that.

“Take out your phone so I can give you the address,” I mutter. “That way you can confirm that the place is safe first.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, yes. Thanks.” She’s still blinking at me as she palms her pockets and finds her phone on one at the back. I’m about to tell her the name of the place when she just unlocks her device and hands it over.

All right, I guess this is faster. I find her browser and key in the name. The correct result pops up right away and I pull up the website before returning her phone.

When I lift my head, I find that she’s still watching me. Her head is tilted, eyes slightly narrowed like she’s trying to categorize me. Good luck with that.

I motion with her phone again until she takes it. As her attention drifts down to the screen, I say, “See you there in fifteen.” And with that I set course to find my Paningale V4 R.

*

I leave the Orlando Wild facilities before she does and beat the worst of the rush hour traffic. This little joint is not on a main road, but it’s still part of what is considered Mills 50, an area where Asian businesses abound. This place is where I come when I want a really good Korean BBQ like the stuff you find in San Francisco, where there’s a pretty big Korean community. I’m not looking for that aspect, but merely for the food. Sometimes I just crave a killer kimchi.

So, even if Rose decides that what she wants to talk about isn’t important after all and prefers to head home, I’m still going to feast like a king tonight. And I deserve it after scraping a win in this series.

“Annyeonghaseyo,” the owner greets me without further ado. I’m a regular. He knows who I am. He doesn’t care to profit off my fame beyond what I can pay for bulgogi servings and endless banchan. It’s a perfect arrangement. I nod at him and he nods back, which tells me my usual table is free.

However, I add, “There may be a second person this time.”

“Twice the servings then?”

“I don’t know. She may want something else.”

His eyebrow twitches. I’m always by myself and I know what’s going through his mind now that I mentioned that my possible dinner companion is a she. But I shake my head. Rose isn’t a date. Or a friend. I guess we’re coworkers, except she said that this topic is private, so it can’t be work related.

I grunt, forcing myself out of my overthinking. Without further ado, I sort through the tables to find the farthest booth at the back, taking the seat where I can see the front door easily.

I’ll give her exactly ten minutes, then I’m ordering enough food for an army. But I’m only checking sports news on my phone for two when some movement at the corner of my eye gets my attention.

It’s her. She’s talking with the owner at the front, maybe asking about me—or not. Suddenly she’s laughing and the old man joins in. This is the first time I even hear his laughter since I’ve been coming to this restaurant.

Then she spots me, and her amusement ebbs away pretty drastically.

“Geez.” I squirm on my seat. Guess I found the one woman who sees right through my objectively handsome face and down to my rotten core.

Finally, she tears herself away from charming the crap out of the owner and makes her way over. Rose takes the seat across the table, dropping her little purse beside her. She folds her arms and leans them on the table, propping herself up to get a better view outside of the booth.

“Wow, this place looks like we’re in another country. How did you find it?”

“I’m a regular.” I look away from her and wait to make eye contact with a waitress. I never need the menu, but Rose definitely does.

It takes a tense minute for the menu to arrive and another one while I wait for her to acquaint herself with it. I try not to stare at her, but it’d probably be even ruder if I just go back to perusing my phone.

Her hair is something else, a voluminous mass of light brown ringlets that frame her face. She twists her lips as she reads the options and they’re surprisingly full—her lips, not the options. But what snags my attention is her button nose.

I can see myself booping it.

I tuck both of my hands under my thighs just in case.

“What’s your favorite dish?” she asks with a soft, distracted voice.

“The bulgogi BBQ. It’s marinated beef.”

“That sounds great.” She slams the menu closed and lifts her head. “And also something with alcohol.”

I tilt my head. “They only have beer and soju.”

“What’s soju?”

“Uh, it’s liquor. Mostly from rice.”

She nods. “Then I’ll try that.”

Far be it from me to tell her what she should or shouldn’t drink.

The waitress returns and I end up placing the two orders of bulgogi, plus water for me and soju for Rose. She waits for me to explain how soju is supposed to be drank—including how I’m the one who should pour it for her—and then tosses two shots straight.

“Whoa, whoa.”

“It’s okay, I need it for this conversation.” Her entire face is still scrunched up, the second shot hitting her harder than the first one. “This is unexpectedly strong.”

“It’ll get you shitfaced if you’re not careful.” I fold my arms and lean back against the booth. “What in the actual hell is it that you want to say that you need to get drunk for?”

She exhales a soju-smelling breath, fills her lungs again, and looks up at me. “Logan Kim?”

“Yes?” I drag out the word.

And then she drops a bomb on me. “Would you date me?”