Page 29 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

MIGUEL

I march from the on-deck circle toward the batter’s box, ready to make my daughter proud.

Noise from the crowd rises to decibels that would be dangerous for someone whose eardrums aren’t used to this.

Twirling the bat a couple of times, I cast a sweeping glance across the diamond and outfield.

Then I make a big production of getting ready while I observe the position of the players in both teams.

I’ve been asked by the press about my jinxes, if adjusting my hat, then pulling my pants up, tapping my shoes with the bat to get the sand out, pulling up my left arm sleeve, swinging the bat three times, and then holding my bat upright in the same non-aggressive position all the time is the recipe for my success at bat.

First of all, no. The only reason I do all this shit is because it buys me exactly two minutes.

During that time, I make a mental map of the game.

I know that the outfielders have pushed back as much as they can, expecting either a long hit or a home run, which makes them very unprepared for a simple hit or even a bunt.

Those are also tools I employ occasionally, when they best suit me.

For example, right now I’d really like to work on my base stealing record, so a home run isn’t convenient.

However, Lucky’s on second and our captain on third. We’re scoring no matter what happens.

Lucky’s lead is bold—dude’s nearly half of the way to third base. Meanwhile, Logan’s conservative. Not because he’s a chickenshit but because he knows the exact same thing I do. He runs his hand across the peak of his helmet—our code for going wild.

Has anyone realized how many incredible puns can be made with the name of the team?

Anyway, the pitcher has a certain gleam in his eyes that gives some red flags.

What would a normal person do? Be careful, stand back.

What do I do? Stand as close to the catcher as the batting box allows.

“Dude, are you sure?” the catcher asks me.

I don’t respond. I’ve studied enough film of this team to know that their first baseman runs very well, but can’t jump high enough. Their second baseman is mid, and the real challenge is the shortstop. That’s gonna be Lucky’s problem first, so I’m gonna target the first base.

And here’s my real jinx: I cross my self and touch my crucifix. Then the music stops playing.

Ah, yes. This is actually my fave kind of pitcher. The ones who are young and don’t know any better.

Sure enough, the first pitch spins the ball into a pink dot. Quite easy to predict. It whiffs by close enough that I get a nice breeze, scented like leather and all.

“Ball!”

The sweet frustration on the kid’s face… I manage to keep my expression immutable out of sheer practice but if I could, I’d have the biggest shit-eating grin in the world.

I stay put exactly just inside the line of the batter’s box. The catcher mumbles something that sounds close to concern for my wellbeing. How mindful of him.

Enough bravado has slipped from the pitcher that the next pitch slips early.

My body moves by itself. I lean back from my waist, enough to change my center of gravity.

My tree trunk legs pick up the slack and keep me put even as I swing the bat like a hurricane.

Sound comes like an explosion—probably because my bat just disintegrated in my hands from the hit.

I take off.

I’m almost halfway through first base when the ball appears in the corner of my eye, flying at the first baseman.

It rockets right over him. My legs pump full force, balls of my feet digging into the dirt as I go.

His glove falls short by maybe an inch. The ball lands inside bounds as the poor sucker runs after it.

I step on first base. There’s roaring in my ears.

My legs keep going. I make a bet that they’ll target tagging Lucky out.

Play keeps going. It’s chaos ahead of me.

Lucky’s chased by the ball. Third baseman’s afraid and stays put on base, reaching to catch.

Lucky honors his name as the ball passes him by— and the third baseman.

I run faster. Harder. Stronger. The roaring’s louder.

Base coach windmills his arm. I press even harder.

Tunnel vision takes over. Catcher’s too far from home.

I don’t slow. He’s preparing to catch. I tilt back and slide.

The momentum is so strong that it pulls me up on my feet like I’m a spring, and I walk away from home after wiping the floor with the opponent.

Only know do I notice the stadium exploding in noise.

“Hot! Damn!”

“Are you—What are you?”

“Can you give me your autograph?”

That one makes me snort while I’m in the middle of bumping someone else’s chest. Then two high fives. A low one. Bumping forearms. Getting my helmet tapped and then tapping back. A hug. Getting my ass slapped. Baseball boys be like this.

When the manager says “that was savage,” to you and pats your shoulder, you know you did a good job.

If so, why is something bothering me?

The nearest person now is Logan Kim as he’s putting on the easy catcher pads first. I tell him, “Hey, I’m heading inside real quick.”

He gives me a side glance and zero words, and yet a whole conversation passes.

You okay?

Yeah. Just need to check something.

You better not be hurt, you jackass.

I’m sure it’s nothing.

One minute. Then I’m coming for you.

Thank you, Grandpa.

Shaking my head, I head into the tunnel and when I’m far away enough from cameras, I remove my batting gloves and flex my fingers.

“Ohhh,” I say, finding the issue right away.

“Miguel Lucas Machado,” a feminine voice says all of a sudden.

My eyes snap up and there she is, goldilocks herself descended from her throne to this humble away-clubhouse. “Hmm, my middle name isn’t Lucas.”

“Jose?” she guesses a second time.

I don’t confirm it but that is, in fact, my middle name.

Instead, my eyebrows rise. “What brings you to this sweaty place?”

She leans forward, hands on her hips and expression as furious as it probably gets. “Are you hurt?”

I look backward. Did Logan say anything? But the way behind me is clear of any snitches.

“No,” I respond as I turn back. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why are you doing that with your hand?”

I glance down. I’m still flexing my fingers. I turn my hand around again, palm facing up. The impact that blew up the wooden bat in my hand made my new wedding ring dig into my finger, and a blister’s already forming.

That’s it. That’s the big injury. Boo hoo.

A shadow falls over me and then her hand is on mine. She spreads my palm wider and gently taps at the annoying little blister.

“Oof, that looks bad.” She’s frowning like she just got really bad financial news. Then, just as tragically, she meets my eyes and says, “Take it off.”

I splutter.

Her eyes narrow. “The ring, you perv.”

“Right.” She has no idea that sometimes—often—she makes my brain short circuit. I grab the ring and start twisting and twisting.

“Don’t tell me…” She gasps softly, enough that I feel it everywhere I have bare skin. “Is your finger swollen?”

The question comes out in horror. It takes me a moment to understand that this is coming from concern, that she may be wondering if I hurt my finger or something.

I clear my throat. My voice is a bit too thick when I explain, “Well, yeah. But so is everything else.”

Silence hangs heavy as her eyes widen.

“I mean!” Now my voice is but a squeak. “Blood flow! When you work out hard. It just goes up—gets faster, I mean. Uh…” I clear my throat again, nearly hacking out a lung in the process.

“What’s going on?” A dude’s voice comes from behind me as my coughing fit starts to ebb away.

Audrey turns a very red, yet serious face toward the team captain. “Hey, Logan. Miguel’s hurt.”

“No, I’m not,” I choke out, thumping my chest.

“Where?”

The pretty snitch points at my hand. “Finger.”

I voluntarily raise my hand up so he can assess the damage. “It’s just a damn blister. Everything’s fine.” My lungs aren’t. Neither is my heart rate. Blood flow is excellent, though.

Logan clicks his tongue several times in a row. “This is why guys take them off entirely or replace them for silicone rings.”

I refrain from pointing out that Audrey had the same immediate solution. However, my mind, ever so useful, decides to run away with a dream scenario—one where my fake wife and I are taking off our very real clothes off. That’d be nice.

More than nice.

“Anyway, I have it under control.” Barely. I keep twisting the ring though, until it finally comes off my very uninjured finger. I keep it nestled in my palm as I raise my hands and find the clasp of my chain and pop it open.

Audrey’s voice sounds more relaxed. “That’s a good idea, too.”

I slide the ring into the necklace until it bumps with the crucifix.

“Pop the blister and come out, the next inning’s about to start,” Logan commands.

“Aye, captain,” I say as I’m clasping the chain back in place.

“What do you mean pop the blister?” And now blondie sounds horrified.

Chuckling, I follow after Logan, tossing over my shoulder a very poetic “it’s cool, sugar. A little blood never hurt anybody.”

*

The embarrassment of that phrase is still haunting me as I sit with Beau and a couple other players for the press junket after the game. We won with a whopping 13-2 and five different team records were broken.

Turns out I got one of them. The speed of my bat for the blister-hit is the fastest in the team’s history. And also of the league—in all its history. A whopping 123.1mph.

“Machado,” one of the journos calls out. “Why do you think the hit that clocked the fastest swing speed in the league’s history wasn’t a home run? Are you entering a slump?”

Once again, I employ my best acting skills and give him nothing with my body language. My hands are laced over the table, and no one can see how I’m fingering the Band-Aid over the hole left by the popped blister.

I have a couple options here. One, I could tell him where to shove it for his sensationalist take, but that works exactly zero percent of the times. Two, I could be honest and piss a lot of people off even while saying things gently.

The choice is clear.

“Well, Mike,” I say, leaning closer to the microphone.

“There are two reasons for that and neither are called slump. One, I really wanted to practice my base stealing, although that didn’t exactly go according to plan.

” As a round of chuckles goes around the room, I reach behind the neck of my T-shirt and pull up the chain.

“And also, because I’m not used to my new wedding ring yet. ”

The press room sounds like a tomb at the strong whiff of even juicier stories than a slump.

“Thank you for your questions.” I pat the table in that welp, gotta go way that is unique to dads, and make my way out of the press room wearing the shit-eating grin I contained during the game.

And now for people to start cussing me out.