Page 3 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)
AUDREY
“ T here’s a woman who has been thoroughly kissed by her man,” Hope announces as Rose joins us at the cafeteria for a little coffee break.
I say nothing, choosing to cradle my little ice coffee like it’s my one lifeline, but discreetly noticing that Rosalina’s cheeks are bright enough to pass as neon signs.
“How do you know?” she asks with an airy laugh.
Hope jerks a thumb at me. “It’s the same face Audrey says I had when I walked in.”
“Do you guys not do any work?” I ask in a droll, shaking my head. “Is sneaking around with your menfolk all you do these days?”
“Yes.”
“Kinda.”
“Feminism is dead,” I announce.
Rose snorts, stabbing her cup with a compostable straw. “It’s not dead, but no one said it had to be miserable and lonely, especially not when you’ve found true love.”
I’m glad that at least I’m not the only one who cringes. Hope’s shoulders also rise to shield herself from the sap. However, she doesn’t counter the point, what with also being besotted and all.
It’s not that I’m jealous—even if I’m not building a compelling case right now.
I’m actually so happy that two of my best friends in the whole world were fortunate enough to find two of the few good men among a population sample of four billion plus.
Perhaps it should give me hope, or at least dial down my cynicism to a healthier degree.
But seeing Hope and Cade holding hands and looking at each other like the secrets of the universe are contained in each other’s eyes, or Rose and Logan stroking each other’s cheeks tenderly like that little touch is all they need to keep their souls alive, hasn’t fixed me.
And that’s the sad part, I really thought it would. These four are the first examples I’ve seen in real life of what love and partnership is really supposed to be like. I guess I’m too far gone.
I rest my chin on my fist. “I have a random question for you two.”
“Is it about work?” Hope’s eyes light up. “Please tell me it is, there’s only so much cringe I’m able to tolerate in a single day.”
She better brace, then.
“I know it’s very early to ask this, but I’m just curious…” I stretch the pause by taking a sip from my drink. The bittersweet taste is apropos. “If you end up marrying your beaus, will you change your last names or not?”
Hope freezes. “Whoa, I was genuinely not expecting that.”
“Me neither.” Rose swirls her cup to mix the milk and the coffee, humming under her throat as she ponders. “Hmm, I think I might keep my last name Mena, if only to protect Logan.”
We both stare at her and I prompt, “What do you mean?”
“It might keep weirdoes off him if I appear as Rosalina Mena on the screens once I’m officially part of the broadcasting team.”
I snap my fingers. “That’s the spirit.”
Meanwhile, Hope clears her throat and ducks to speak at her straw. “Is it bad if I would want everyone to know that Cade has an owner?”
“No.” Rose laughs. “Maybe that’s the right answer for you two.”
I lean back, staring at them with wonder. They don’t realize how special they are, or how blessed their circumstances. That they found men who would fight stalkers and bad exes to protect them, and whom they would do anything in return for, is nothing short of a miracle.
Meanwhile, here I am, with a form printed and tucked in a manila folder at my desk to change my last name again to my dad’s—arguably the worst specimen of the male species that I’ve encountered.
I’m not strictly of either camp, that every woman has to keep or change her last name. I think it should be their choice, based on circumstances like this. I wish I had a choice right now too, but I made a deal that I can’t walk back without destroying Hope and Rose’s happily ever afters.
Sharper than her fairytale princess persona would lead anyone to think, Rosalina turns to me. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” I shrug to downplay my interest.
Every line of Rose’s gorgeous face tells me she doesn’t believe for a second that that’s all there is, but she chooses not to press further.
Hope checks her watch. “Well, I better go dig my elbow into someone’s hamstring or something.”
A snort escapes from my throat and turns into a laugh.
“And I better go edit footage of professional baseball players acting like children,” Rose announces, pushing her chair back to stand up.
“You have the best job.” Hope chuckles.
I also get up and tag along as we walk out. “What are we doing for dinner? Tacos?” I ask before we all veer in different directions.
“Oh, sorry.” Rose gives me a sheepish look. “Since it’s a rest day, I was planning on going to the South Korean BBQ place with Logan.”
“And Cade and I are making dinner together at his place,” Hope adds.
I guess I don’t do a very good job at masking how bummed I am because I earn apologies and hugs.
Sighing, I wave them off and turn the opposite way, toward the back offices where there’s a corner reserved for communications and public relations.
That’s where I work, and also where unpleasant things await at my desk.
Once I get there, I push away the manila folder I’ve been trying to ignore for months and fire my laptop back up.
Dad’s growing impatient. There’s only so many times I can use the excuse that government bureaucracy is slow when I haven’t actually submitted the forms yet.
This morning I got a text from him basically ordering me to attend a gala with him tomorrow or else .
He probably suspects that I’m dragging my feet and is going to change tactics into a more direct approach.
Nagging me for an entire night.
Ugh, one of my desk plants is showing some signs of sadness, just like my soul. I spritz some water on the little pot, wishing I could fix myself that easily.
I hadn’t truly noticed how liberating it was to not be among the so-called high society all these years, if only going by the growing pit in my stomach. I wonder if I should make up some excuse like being on my period—I’m not—or having a severe case of diarrhea—can be arranged.
My computer pings with an incoming message and I pause from watering my desk plants to check it out. Karen Schmidt, my boss who doesn’t exactly debunk the reputation her first name has garnered online, writes to me on Teams.
Schmidt, Karen [15:23]:
Come to my office
I allow my expression to sour freely in the privacy of my cubicle. Hers is just a few steps away from mine. She could either drop by herself or ask like a normal person.
I find her typing on her keyboard like she’s the busiest person in the entire Orlando Wild organization. “I’m disappointed in you,” she says as her opening—loud enough for the entire office to hear, by the way.
Since it’s not our first rodeo, I mutter, “Is that so?”
Finally she tears her attention from the screen and swivels on her chair to face me. “How is it that we’ve had the best hitter in the entire league in our team for almost a month already, and you haven’t found him a campaign?”
I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “We already had one with Lucky Rivera lined up,” I explain.
“That was already shot last week.” She waves a hand, like the past shoot doesn’t require more work afterward.
“Bring me a proposal about Machado by the end of the day. And make it bigger and better than the previous campaigns we’ve ran.
I’m sure your SPORTY contacts will be happy to support,” she adds with a sardonic smile.
I guess she’ll never stop being annoyed that I’m the one who got us the SPORTY sponsorship through Camila Puig, my college roommate. A good boss would take it as her own win, but not dearest Karen. Ever since she’s been out to get me.
“You’ll have it by the end of the week,” I respond with a smile that would look friendly to HR, but raises Karen’s hackles.
“End of today, I said.”
I don’t respond. If she could fire me over this disagreement, she would’ve fired me ten times over already. And I’d take the SPORTY account with me wherever I go.
Wait, maybe this isn’t so bad. I can use the excuse of having too much work as an excuse to dip out of the gala early.
“There’s only one problem,” I mumble as I take a seat back inside my cubicle, resting my elbows on the desk and lacing my fingers.
“Miguel Machado,” I say against my hands.
My new neighbor, who I gave a black eye to last week that has caused many rumors.
And who still doesn’t know that I also work for the Wild.
Somehow I’ve managed to avoid the guy both at home and here, and I’ll of course deal with his agent to arrange a campaign. But eventually our paths will cross and I’ll have to give explanations that I’d rather not share.
Then again that’s my life, a circle of being forced to do things I don’t want to. I tuck the manila folder with my name change forms in my purse and get back to work.