Page 6

CHAPTER 6

LOGAN

F reaking Beau and freaking Starr and freaking everyone, especially she of the puppy dog eyes. Out of the abundance of caution that Rivera cited offhand, Beau decided to sit me out of game one of the series, even though my hand is in perfect condition.

Now it’s the morning before game two, and I’m making a point of showing the trainers that nothing is amiss by lifting some weights. I admit to my status of little shit because I make eye contact with Garcia, and then pointedly glance at the sixty pounds I’m curling my right bicep with, supported by the hand I used to catch the fly ball.

Because that’s all it was. It wasn’t the kind of rocket that smashes through the window of a car at the parking lot behind the stadium.

Garcia snorts at me and keeps going on her round. We’re getting some early morning training before the press junket to talk about last night’s game, the expectations of today’s, and also how gracious the hosts have been.

And they have been. The food has been so outstanding that I kinda don’t want to go back home. Maybe I should get Kaplan to trade me to a Mexican team.

“Attention, boys,” someone calls out from the middle of the floor.

I see the movement through the corner of my eye and set the weight down to watch what the deal is. To my surprise, the top dog of broadcasting for the team stands before us. His name is Julien Chen, I remember once bonding with him about being in the select club of Asians or half Asians—like me—in the organization. What’s he doing here?

“The following individuals have been selected for a special event.” As he lifts up an iPad, movement behind him reveals our social media manager, who at least doesn’t look shaken this morning. “O’Brian, Rivera, Starr…”

I put two and two. This is some marketing shenanigan I have no interest in, which they surely know about since I never volunteer.

Dismissing them, I bend my knees to grab the weight again and?—

“And Kim.”

I snap my face up. “What?”

My question goes unanswered.

Nearby, Miller comments, “Oh to be popular and get saved from training.”

“You still have eight reps left,” says Franklin, the head of the personal trainers.

“Ugh.”

That’s what I should be saying.

“You have fifteen minutes to shower and change into your uniforms,” Chen instructs with more authority than I expect out of anyone who isn’t a coach. “See you at the charter bus.”

Great, whatever this is will be offsite too. Fantastic. Not exhausting at all.

I grumble my way through the gym and even during the shower. It truly is a curse brought upon me when, on the way to the parking lot, Rivera hangs himself from my shoulders and Starr’s.

“I bet this is going to be fun,” he yaps in my ear.

Across from him, Starr muses, “Dude, are your feet even touching the floor?”

“I’ll have you know I’m six-one. Not my fault you two are giants,” the Boricua returns in outrage.

“Get off me,” I warn with a glacial tone, rooted firmly on my spot and not moving a single step.

“Aye, captain.” Slowly, he slides all the way to the floor and I’m able to keep going.

I park myself at the seat right behind the driver, ready to bounce the second the bus stops. I don’t use the middle school logic of the cool kids sitting all the way at the back. People can think whatever the hell they want about me. All I need is to have immediate access to the exit.

Unfortunately, the two stooges sit right behind me. Rivera asks, “Dude, why so close to the front when we have the whole bus to ourselves?”

“I bet it’s because he wants to tell the driver how to do his job,” Starr responds.

O’Brian and Mena hop in together, and both of them do a double take at finding us so close to the front.

She’s first, and as she sweeps her eyes down the expansive corridor all the way to the back, I can almost see her brain calculating what her next move will be. Then she takes the seat across the aisle from me, also at the front. Sighing, O’Brian takes the spot behind her.

Last is Chen, who stands by the driver for a second to say, “Thank you for your collaboration, gentlemen. We’re now headed for downtown Mexico City to take a tour bus. The plan is very simple, Rosalina and I will record your impressions about major monuments around the city, hopefully meet some fans along the way, and then we’ll come right back for warmups. Traffic permitting, this should take no more than two hours.”

“Oh…” Rivera elongates the word in his excitement. “Do we get any food?”

Chen nods. “I believe the trainers packed us some snacks.”

“Boo,” Rivera grouches, and I admit even I was looking forward to street food.

“All right, kids,” Mena says in a much more informal way compared to Chen. “Brace yourselves, for I will record every detail.”

“Then stop picking your nose, Cade,” Rivera jokes.

“Pff. I was doing no such thing.” The offense in Starr’s voice makes O’Brian explode in laughter.

I stifle a groan. These are going to be a long two hours.

And of course, Mena is capturing the annoyance in my face with her cellphone camera. “Today’s challenge is to see if we manage to get a smile out of the ultimate grump.”

I turn away only to find the curtain drawn. I push it open and settle in to watch the scenery as we roll away from the sports city, merging into traffic.

The drive to the drop off point is quite short, and all throughout Mena takes advantage of the close confines to do Q&As with the other guys. Mercifully she spares me. I have no doubt that it’s because she feels indebted after yesterday, but I also know it won’t go far enough to spare me the rest of the day.

Sure enough, as we do the swap from the charter bus to the tourist one, she trains her cellphone back on me. “Have you been to Mexico before?”

I may be a grump as she said, but I’m a professional one. The sooner I answer her questions, the sooner she moves on to the other guys.

“Yes, a few times.”

“Really? What did you come to Mexico for those times?”

Shit. I should’ve left it at yes only. Now I’ve stoked her journalistic curiosity.

She’s walking backward into the bus, angling for the stairs that Rivera already took to the open top of the bus. I react before I can stop myself, grabbing her waist to stop her. Mena gasps.

I explain, “You’re not going up the stairs backwards.”

“Oh.” She glances over her shoulder. “Good point, thanks. Let’s finish this upstairs.”

I wrinkle my nose but nod.

“Beep beep,” an obnoxious voice says from behind me. “You’re blocking traffic.”

“Sorry, Cade!” Grinning, Mena twirls around to take the stairs.

“Well?” Starr asks behind me. “Aren’t you moving?”

I sigh in the most exaggerated way I can manage, but follow up the narrow stairs. I have to twist myself so that I’m basically climbing sideways, because this contraption wasn’t made for me in any sense.

I lift my eyes, trying to convince myself that I’m not willingly walking into a straitjacket—and come face to face with something worse.

Mena’s butt.

She has stopped near the top of the stairs, one foot much lower than the other. This is a cruel angle—for me, not for her—because I can now see that she has very shapely thighs. Not small at all, thick enough that I could wrap my hands around them and still have left over, just the way I like them.

I swallow hard and try to look away, but all that’s left to see is the metal walls enclosed around me with their chipped trims and edges from many bodies brushing against them over the years.

“Get out of the way, man,” her muffled voice is saying to Rivera, who as far as I know is the only one at the top so far.

My eyes rise again, hoping that Mena is finally clearing the obstacle. But she’s still planted in front of me.

My throat works with a heavy swallow because my traitorous eyes have now fallen on her butt again. Of freaking course it’s perfectly thick too, two round mounds that I could?—

Nope! Not going there. Not going there at all .

I close my eyes. My teeth are gritted so tight that my voice sounds animalistic as I say, “Mena, tell Rivera that I will toss him into oncoming traffic if he doesn’t move away in thirty seconds.”

She dutifully repeats my words verbatim, and sure enough she finally emerges into the open air.

I gasp a lungful of it and claw my way the rest of the way up, making a point to look at anything but she of the perfect behind and thighs. Maybe I’m the one I should toss onto oncoming traffic.

This time I take a seat near the middle, which is the closest to the straitjacket stairs. The rest of them pile onto the front, except for Chen who scoots all the way to the back so that he can’t appear in Mena’s videos.

I’m glad I had enough presence of mind to bring sunglasses to this expedition. I pluck them from the pocket of my uniform pants and slide them on. And you know what? The day isn’t unbearably sunny and being early April, it’s still relatively cool and breezy. I should’ve brought a hair tie but I don’t mind it too bad that my hair whips around with the changes in the wind. I lean back and fold my arms, legs spread wide enough to fit between the seats and preventing anyone else from joining. This isn’t so bad after all.

At the front, the three stooges and camerawoman take in all the sights. Rivera makes big expressions that delight our social media manager. I don’t know if it’s because she has a particular affinity to the guy or purely from a professional perspective. She did forgive him quite easily after he nearly took her out yesterday.

Meanwhile, Starr is a notch or two more subdued, but just as excited to be here. And O’Brian is chatting up a storm, providing hours of content in a matter of seconds.

I wedge my elbow between the window and the seat in front of me, bending it so I can prop my chin against my hand. The bus rounds a plaza with a massive monument of an angel sprouting from it, and it paints some impressive perspective on a shockingly straight avenue flanked by buildings that look three hundred years old, with even older trees.

“So, what did you do in Mexico before?”

I lift my eyes from the street to the woman now sitting in front of me, her cellphone pointed at my face.

One of my eyebrows rises, debating what to say. I came once as a kid for one of my mother’s fashion events, and spent the whole stay at the hotel room. Another time, when Lewis and I were teens, we came to Acapulco to be seen in public as a happy and joyful family. That was right after my parents had such a huge fight, I thought they’d really divorce at last. I spent the whole time at the beach sitting under a shade with my clothes on, hiding the bandages that their fight left me with, after my mother threw a crystal vase on the ground and shards wedged in my skin.

But then there’s the time I came in the off season with someone I was dating. That one was supposed to be for fun, including things I wouldn’t share on social media, but also ended up in some kind of drama that resulted in a breakup.

Food was excellent each time, though.

With that, I straighten out and look right at the camera, “For the food. It truly is even better than everyone raves about.”

“Isn’t it?” Mena returns with excitement. “What is your favorite dish so far?”

“Uh.” I brush my wild hair away from my face. “I’m going to butcher this but the tacos de flor de calabaza.”

“That sounds intriguing.” But just when I think she’s going to ask more questions, she presses a button on her screen and lowers it.

The expression on her face is so unexpected that my whole body grows stiff.

Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to read me between lines.

I’m a professional catcher, for goodness’s sake. Nothing gets by me that I don’t let it. I know for a fact that I kept my expression neutral while those pathetic memories circled my brain. My eyes are even hidden behind shades.

And yet she murmurs, “You don’t have fond memories of Mexico, do you?”

I realize my mouth is hanging open when I snap it close. Even then, I admit, “None. Aside from the food.”

“Fair.” She nods and does as if to stand, but at the very last second changes her mind and turns to me again. “For what it’s worth, I also have a lot of things I don’t want to talk about. Ever. Especially about a certain ex of mine.” Here, she gives me a pointed look.

Amusement creeps through the cracks of my composure, and my lips twitch. “How long were you waiting to throw that heavy handed hint at me?”

Color rises to her cheeks, which is interesting to watch.

Mena clears her throat. “Let’s just say I regretted everything the second it spilled out.”

“Ah.” I return my chin to my hand and turn back to the window. “The good news is that I’m not a talker so…”

“Thank you,” she says with more vehemence than necessary, before sliding off the seat and making her way back to the front.

My eyes lower to her behind for a second before I force them back out to the street.

I can definitely see how tangling with a piece of shit like Williams would be embarrassing for someone somewhat normal like her, but I have exactly zero skin in that game. She needn’t worry about me babbling. Especially not when, a day later, I learn that everyone and their mom is talking about her and someone else—me.

A video taken from the stands that shows me saving her from a fly ball is going viral on social media.