Page 2 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

MIGUEL

M y daughter hates baseball, which is an issue when I’m a professional baseball player.

Her arms are like two noodles wrapped around her torso, small and skinny but mighty enough to contain the explosion of her temper.

The air conditioner blasting in the car isn’t enough to cool it down.

Even BTS, her absolute favorite boy band in the whole wide world—her words, not mine—isn’t powerful enough to soothe her this time around.

As the South Korean pretty boys crone in the background about a mic that keeps dropping, I mull over what to say.

If anything. I’m not sure if to apologize for moving her across the country for a new start with a new franchise, to a rental apartment, and finally to a new home now, with a new nanny in the mix.

When put this way, yeah, I’m horrible. Worst dad in the world. Not worthy of BTS.

It’s for her own good, though. I squeeze my hands around the steering wheel, my shoulders bowing under the weight of my perma-guilt.

“I heard that we have a great ice cream place nearby,” I say with a lot more cheer than necessary.

A whole stadium full of fans from a team that hates me can’t rattle me, but Marty’s mean glare almost makes me start sweating.

“And your new school has a pool.” I stop at a red light and turn to her.

Her mouth is twisted into a sneer that makes her look like an angry kitten. Pretty sure this would be entirely the wrong moment to show any amusement.

“Hmph.” She looks out the window, in case it wasn’t clear to me how displeased she is.

Finally, I let a smile fly.

Martina Machado was born unimpressed by me ten years ago. It doesn’t mean I won’t spend the rest of my life trying. It’s why I read enough parenting books to get a degree from it.

“Since this is a fresh start for both of us, why don’t we redecorate the house?”

She perks up a tiny bit. But still doesn’t turn my way.

The light turns green and I welcome the sign. It brings us closer to our new home, and also to Marty’s mood changing. I can feel it.

The pretty boys sing about butter as we roll down a pretty residential street. The road has a canopy of old trees dripping some kind of moss, and if it wasn’t so sunny it would feel like we’re in another place that isn’t in the middle of Florida.

From the outside, moving here makes zero sense.

The Denver Riders are the defending World Series Champions and again a top prospect this year.

I was on track for breaking my personal home run and stolen bases records.

I was selected for the All Star game for the seventh consecutive year—also a franchise record.

Breaking all that momentum with a sudden trade is not only senseless, but also potentially a harbinger of bad luck.

Pero… I have a good feeling.

That also makes no sense. I’m an old school baseball guy who knows the power of his little rituals, like rubbing the golden cross that hangs around my neck to calm me down—which I do right as I turn us into our new residence.

Nothing skewers routine more than moving to a brand new place with a different weather, traffic flow, and even a different path to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I did it for my daughter , I’ve told the public, so she can be surrounded by more people who speak Spanish .

In truth, it’s because she was being bullied at her old school, and hid it from me for a year. I only found out when I went to her class for career day, even after she had told me not to—which, by the way, she still hasn’t forgiven me for.

“Here we are. Home, sweet home,” I announce, parking in front of the cozy duplex townhouse that I bought for us. “What do you think?”

I wish I could see her face, but the house is by her window and all I can do is guess.

The house looks like something that belongs in New England, red brick and white trim, complete with a porch and a swing, and the greenest grass I’ve ever seen.

Her room is upstairs and even has a windowsill that overlooks a big tree that the real estate agent says blooms yellow in the spring.

Better yet, her new middle school is a short bus ride away and boasts some of the best rankings across the country not just in academics, but in wellbeing and environment.

Who cares about my streak? My daughter will be much happier here.

Okay, I also care about my streak. I just have to pick it back up. My hand rises to the cross to soothe myself.

I nudge Marty with my elbow. “Vamos.”

Sighing, she unbuckles herself and opens the door. I turn off the car and show absolutely no sign of relief at the silence, instead making a quick circle around the car so I can take in her impression.

My daughter is a vault, though. She looks up at the house where we’ll live together for the foreseeable future like it’s the building version of me. Unimpressive.

Should I have bought one of the big ass mansions nearby? But I’ve always wanted her to grow up as normal as possible, even if her dad is an unmarried guy who plays with a ball for a living.

“Why don’t you go in to explore?” I ask her, producing the house keys from my pocket and offering them to her. Her little mouth is a downward arch even as she accepts the offering, and she stomps up the red brick walkway to the entrance.

Placing my hands on my hips, I drop my head with a sigh and wonder how to make things better. Do I need to buy her a freaking pony?

The sold out sign catches my eye, the red of it in high contrast with the grass background. I would drag my feet if I didn’t care about marring the perfect green blanket, but even when I’m careful pulling the sign off it damages that area.

It’s another metaphor to my life. No matter how good my intentions are with my daughter, I inevitably screw up.

The noise of a door opening distracts me from my private pity party, but it’s not from Marty coming out of the house.

Rather, a woman steps out of the duplex next door, in a long-sleeved pajama top like it’s not a million degrees and a hundred percent humidity.

She yawns so wide that I can almost see her shoe size, and she scratches her head vigorously, making her mess of blonde hair even messier.

If she notices the random 6 foot 4 guy staring at her from the yard next door, she ignores me.

I shrug. So what if our neighbor’s a bit quirky? As far as Florida Woman headlines go, one who wears long-sleeved pajamas in the middle of Florida summer ranks as the milder sort.

I tuck the sold out sign under my arm and head back out to my white RAV4 to get our suitcases out and put the sign away.

A soft little grunt comes from somewhere behind me and I try to ignore it…

until it comes again. Glancing over my shoulder, I find the neighbor in a one-on-one battle with her mailbox.

“You—friggin’—” She’s pulling at the mailbox’s door with all the power in her body and it doesn’t budge, but if she keeps going she’s going to get herself hurt.

“Excuse me,” I call out. “Can I help you?”

“I’m fine,” she snarls.

“Okay…” I hesitate for a second, but I’m starting to put my money on her and not on the mailbox so I return to my task. My daughter’s suitcases come out first and?—

Something snaps.

The Florida Woman squeals.

It happens in slow motion. The mailbox finally opens—that’s the snapping sound—exploding with more mail than the minuscule box should fit.

She loses her grip on the handle and her bunny slipper slides off the edge of the sidewalk.

Her arms helicopter around her but the outcome is inevitable.

She’s gonna start her day with a bruised tailbone. Unless I catch her.

Before my thinking brain kicks in, the one that rules over every reflex takes over. I’m not far. I can catch her right before she hits the pavement. I stretch out my arms. She can’t see my heroics and keeps trying to save herself.

“Oof!” Me.

“Shit!” Her.

I see stars from one side as her flying hand lands a wild hit on my eye. Stunned, I don’t exactly succeed on my quest and she falls anyway—on me. And I’m the one who lands ass first on the pavement.

After a still second where my face throbs in tune with my butt cheeks, and the figurative dust settles, I run a quick inventory of the rest of my body parts and find: limbs, safe. Head, safe. Family jewels, safe. Pride, very much injured.

Neighbor gasps and scrambles off, finally turning to meet her failed knight.

And her jaw drops.

Not gonna lie, that’s what finally makes me panic. “Please don’t tell me that my eye is hanging out of its socket or something?” I ask, my voice an embarrassing octave higher.

She gasps. “You’re Miguel Machado.”

I snap my own mouth closed. I suppose she wouldn’t care about that if my eye was doing really bad. “Um, yeah.” I clear my throat, forcing my mouth back to normal. “Are you a baseball fan?”

“I, uh—S-Sorry.” She pushes off her hands to get back up, the fight completely gone off her body as she stands there for an awkward moment, clutching at her pajama top. From this close, what seemed like boring polka dots in a light green background are actually tiny bunny heads.

She coughs a little and I look up at her face, and I’m met by the greenest eyes in the planet.

I mean, of course I haven’t personally inspected the eyeballs of every person currently alive, yet the statement holds true when the perfect lawn behind her pales in comparison.

“Please don’t sue me, I can’t afford it,” she blurts out.

My jaw drops for a second. “Shouldn’t you at least ask if I’m okay first?”

“Are you?”

“Well, now. That sounds forced.” I sit up and brush dirt off my hands. “Are you okay?”

After a moment, she responds, “I think I broke a nail.”

“That’s rough, buddy,” I say, quoting a line from Marty’s favorite cartoon.

“Did you just quote Zuko?” she asks with the same air of having heard someone recite every decimal in the number pi.

“Dad, there’s no food.”

The tiny and grumpy voice of my tiny and grumpy daughter captures my attention.

I jump to my feet, give one last look at the awkward blonde, and give her an even more awkward wave that intends to portray both that I’m fine and that it was good to meet her, even though it really wasn’t.

She ducks and turns back to her scattered mail.

I touch my face and confirm that my left eye is in its rightful place, and even though the fridge is empty, I sure hope it has some ice.

“I know, honey. We’ll have to go shopping later. First we have to unpack.”

“Fine.”

That’s the fifth word she’s directed at me all day, which is a huge improvement and tells me that she at least must’ve liked the house.

As I wheel her suitcases up to the porch, I sneak another look at my neighbor who is now rushing to her own door, using her loose hair as a curtain to hide her face. My cheek twitches.

As far as signs go, this weird welcome to my new home shouldn’t bode well. Yet the good feeling hasn’t left me.