Page 13 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

“ C ome inside, Barbie. That hat is not enough to keep you from frying.”

I snort and just turn over my shoulder. Rose takes one peek at the visible lather of sunblock all over my face and starts chuckling. Yes, I look like a little kid whose overprotective mom went a bit too hard on the sun protection.

But this is a trick I learned from a severe sunburn I got when I was about ten, after sitting with my parents and my brother at a balcony seat in Monaco for the Grand Prix.

The adults didn’t mind the sun or the heat because they had alcohol to keep them entertained.

Meanwhile, I was still in my obedient phase so when I was told sit here , that’s literally all I did, and my chair was the one lucky spot that was in the sun the whole day.

I probably owe half of my freckles to that occasion alone.

Yeah, yeah. I know. Boo freaking hoo.

“The plants won’t water themselves,” I explain in my driest tone.

Rosalina shakes her head, glorious curls framing her face delicately. “You do know that there’s practically a daily monsoon in the Central Florida summers, right?”

“Not this week, according to the weather app.” I shift to hose the next potted plant. “Besides, it relaxes me.”

“What are you stressed about?”

The way she asks makes me feel a little guilty, because there’s absolutely no ulterior motive behind her question. Rose is clever and inquisitive, attributes that anyone would use to gain one cutthroat victory after the next in the way that my dad does business.

In contrast, Rose is one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met.

If she asks you something, it’s because she really wants to get to know you deep down.

It’s her secret sauce for making one viral video after the next for the team’s social media, because she has the talent to bring out the truest form out of everyone.

No wonder someone as closed off as Logan Kim fell for her so hard.

But I’m a vault.

More than once I’ve considered sitting Hope and Rosalina down for too-boozy margaritas, Trader Joe’s snacks, our Costco blankets, and telling them everything.

And I mean everything —from the sunburn that happened out of parental neglect, to how my brother started sampling Dad’s booze stash since he was a tween because he was also neglected, to how our parents still ignored him even when Adam was showing serious signs of addiction in his teenage years, to how that led to his death behind the wheel, and how that was the catalyst for me to finally leave home and become a family of one.

Also, to how I no longer feel alone since they’ve become my friends.

I bite my lip. Talking about all that would still not resolve the big issue for me—and non issue for literally anyone else—that I can’t find a way to cut my dad off without putting them at risk.

They’d kill me for it, and so I have to solve this on my own.

Or… or I take the lifesaver that Miguel casually threw at me.

I stiffen when I notice I’m practically drowning one plant, and move on to the next one. Conscious that Rose has been patiently waiting for me to say something, I break the silence with “just work. There’s a new sponsor that is a pain in the ass and I wish he’d go away.”

“I heard through the grapevine that he’s some rich guy.” I roll my eyes but she doesn’t see that, and she adds, “Could he be brother-in-law material?”

I manage the feat of spraying my own feet, but even that isn’t anywhere as annoying as the sudden urge to barf all over the backyard deck. “Ew! Don’t curse me like that. I sincerely wish I could take back every year of my life I’ve known him for.” Especially that moment during Adam’s funeral.

When there’s no response to that diatribe, I shut off the water hose just to confirm that she’s not speaking and I just can’t hear her. I find her looking at me in confusion, though.

“So you knew the rich guy from before?”

Oh. Crap. I did not intend to reveal that little bit. I was just so offended at the concept of getting together with that turd that I babbled.

I snap my mouth shut, schooling my expression while on the inside, I flip through any reasonable explanation I can give that won’t wake up the curiosity of this friendly reporter.

Fortunately for me, some noise attracts our attention. It’s not Hope coming to the rescue—she’s with the team tonight. Rose’s man is still recovering, so she’s making a quick pit stop after work to change before going out for dinner with him.

The one approaching us is none other than our neighbor—little Machado, that is.

She slides her home’s back door shut and comes with full purpose. Rose and I exchange a glance that seems to say, are we in trouble or…? This ten year old girl all but struts toward us, carrying some school tomes under one arm, and a Kuromi pencil case in her other hand.

“Hi,” she says standing before us, watching my hose drip pitifully as Rose scratches her head.

She’s the one who recovers to say, “Hi, sweetie. How are you doing?”

The kid responds in full honesty. “I’m about to pull my hair out, and you?”

Shocked, Rose pats her own hair protectively. “I’m good the way I am, thank you for asking.”

I mask a snort with a cough. “What’s got you so frustrated, Marty?”

“This.” Her expression twists even more as she lifts up her books. The word math is written in bold, red letters that are unmistakable.

“Ah.”

“I see.”

Marty tries to fold her arms but fails, since they’re busy. “Nanny Consuelo is good at many things. She makes a mean mondongo”—I blink at the unfamiliar word that she slides in with ease—“And is very nice, but she also can’t do math.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m a journalism major.” Rosalina raises her hands in defense. “Let me know when you need to write an essay or something that’s more about words, okay?”

They all look at me.

“I’m no rocket scientist.” I shrug.

“Can you do fractions?” Marty rounds her eyes in a big, hopeful expression that has nothing to envy of the Shrek cat.

“I—er…” There’s no way I can tell this cute kid no when she’s looking at me like I’m her last resort. “I may need a moment to brush up on it before I try to help.”

“Yes!” She pumps her pencil case-holding fist in the air.

Rose sends me an amused smile. “Surely this will keep your mind off your mysterious worries, huh?”

*

It works like a charm. Not only is my mind off my weird conundrum, and not only did I manage to evade capture from Rose’s curiosity, but my stomach is also singing with joy after eating the most incredible soup I’ve ever had in my life—the famous mondongo—and I’m fully focused on defeating Marty’s homework.

“I remember now,” I declare after reading her textbook chapter like three times. We’re sitting together at her kitchen table, while nanny Consuelo loads the dishwasher. “We used to do two big Cs like this to know what the operation was like.”

I grab a loose piece of paper and jot down two random fractions that are going to be divided, drawing a big C from the top number to the very bottom one—the fourth—and then a smaller c between the middle numbers.

Marty leans closer, eyes wide like I’m showing her what stardust is made of. “And you do that every time?”

“Yep, until you don’t need to draw the Cs anymore because you know exactly what to do.” I slide her textbook with the math problems back to her. “Try it.”

“Hmm.” She gets to work, sticking her tongue out the corner of her mouth.

I smile. What a little weirdo.

Something grabs my attention from the corner of my eye. Consuelo looks down quickly at the glass that she’s rinsing before putting it in the dishwasher rack. I push away from the table and get up.

“Can I help you with anything?” I ask the older woman once I reach her.

“It’s fine, mija. I got it.” I’ve been around enough Latina friends to know what mija means, and this woman is so grandmotherly that I almost melt.

“I would love to help. You did feed me for free, after all,” I insist.

“Okay.” She glances around. “Then, can you help me put the leftovers away?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I start flipping cabinets open until I find some airtight containers and go to town distributing the leftover soup.

“You’re very good with the kiddo,” the woman says besides me, as she collects more used utensils from over the stove.

“I am?” I ask, not because I’m fishing for compliments but because I’m genuinely surprised.

She leans closer to whisper. “She seems to get along better with you than even her dad.”

I shake my head. “In my experience, it’s a daughter’s duty to be a pain in the neck to her dad. Marty’s just carrying on a long legacy.”

“He’s a pretty good fellow, though,” Consuelo says, passing me a kitchen towel when I spill a bit of the soup on the marble countertop. “I don’t actually understand why they don’t get along when he loves her so much.”

A little groan pulls our attention behind us. Marty’s facepalming with gusto, and it’s not because her homework is frustrating. “Dad is so embarrassing,” she says.

Consuelo turns to me slowly, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes intensifying with her amusement. Pretty sure I look the same.

“How so?” I prod with a light tone of voice, even though I’m curious as hell to see what ammo I can use to tease the unsuspecting All-Star.

“He’s just so…” Marty makes the universal expression for yuck. “ Sappy .”

Of all the things I could’ve expected, that one wasn’t it.

Does she know that pitchers tremble when Miguel walks up to the plate?

That he makes outfielders move back without even noticing that they’re anticipating a canon blast from one of the most powerful hitters in the history of the sport?

Does she have any idea how much my father had to shell out to entice Miguel to join our team?

And also, does she know that he’s this untouchable giant everywhere else, but is a sap only for his baby daughter?

I think it’s the cutest freaking thing. I wish my dad had cared a fraction of this for me.

“Besides,” Marty adds, lowering her hands as she looks on at us. “I really hate this thing that he does…” Consuelo and I lean toward her, two very curious cats. “You know, where he tries to also be my mom because I don’t have one.”

Well, there goes Consuelo’s and my amusement. That’s just heartbreaking.

Tentatively, I say, “I heard that he tried to talk your school into letting Consuelo or him go to the tea party with you.”

“I know. He promised he would.” She looks down at her scribbles and pushes around her mechanical pencil. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going.”

I tuck my tongue against my cheek.

It’s been at least a week since she first mentioned this, and clearly the poor kid can’t stop thinking about it, which means she really wants to go. She doesn’t want to be the odd one out, the kid who’s different, the one everyone will point at and pity.

I’ve been there, albeit for an entirely different, also heartbreaking reason.

It wasn’t like my acquaintances were actually my friends, but they endured me well enough so they could hang out around my brother, who was the real star of the show.

After he was gone, their tolerance turned into pity, and then into condescension and bullying.

According to Miguel, his daughter has already gone through that. It would suck if it happens again.

I know what to do now. It’s feeding two birds with one scone. Miguel’s a good person, and he’s also well off. He has no reason to get weird or greedy if I go along with his idea. Marty will get to not miss out, and maybe that gets him to score some points with her too.

And my own problem will go poof .

“Hmm,” I say, and nothing more.

I need to talk with Miguel first. If he’s still on board with the wacky plan of us pretending to be in a relationship for our own purposes, he’ll first have to clear it with the school to ensure that I can escort Marty.

And then we’ll tell her that she’s not going to be the odd one out after all. Not on my watch.