Page 4 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

MIGUEL

M arty has a new nanny. Her name is Consuelo Gomez—sixty-one-years-old, with thirty six years experience taking care of kids, no criminal records, perfect credit score, recommended by our previous nanny back in Colorado, over two hundred five star reviews on the website of the top nanny agency in town, and apparently also cooks amazingly.

Mi Nina Bonita

Dad stop worrying

Or I’ll block you

What, she already knows how to block numbers on her phone? When did she learn that? She’s just ten . I didn’t know how to keep a damn Tamagotchi alive when I was her age.

I press my lips tight. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

I type I’ll stop worrying about you when I’m dead but Marty hates it when I’m a drama king—which is all the damn time.

It’s funny how I can be completely calm in a stadium full of fifty thousand screaming people, facing a ball that comes at ninety miles per hour with just a wooden stick, yet I have negative chill when it comes to my child.

I hate that I have to leave her in the hands of strangers all the time, but even more for a frivolous thing like this.

Except I can’t really say no to the owner of my new team when he invites me to some fundraising gala to show me off to donors. I’ll probably retire from the Orlando Wild when the time comes, so I have to play nice.

Me

I’ll check in again in fifteen

After hitting send, I wonder if she’ll follow through on her threat to block me. Joke’s on her, there are security cameras around the house, and if Consuelo were to not pick up her phone I’d call anyone from nine-one-one to the Army.

I tuck my phone in the pocket of my slacks and take in my surroundings again.

No one would guess that this place isn’t located in Manhattan but in Dr. Phillips, in the south of Orlando.

There’s more marble, gold, and crystal than I consider in good taste, but I guess the point is opulence.

I’m by far the poorest person in this place, which is saying something when I have a seventy five million dollar salary.

But I don’t come from old money like these people—rather, I come from a hot and forsaken city in a country called Venezuela that these people probably couldn’t point in a map.

My dad was a high school teacher and my mom a secretary, and they had two kids who in turn managed to have kids of their own way too young.

Not quite the pedigree that is expected in an event like this.

“Excuse me,” someone says nearby. “Are you Miguel Machado?”

I don’t even twitch at how badly my last name is pronounced, almost like saying mashed potato. I plaster on a friendly smile and turn to the stranger, a man in his fifties and in his cups. “Yes, hi.”

“Wow, I’m a really big fan. Let’s take a picture.” Dude hooks his arm around my neck, forcing me to bend down uncomfortably as he takes a selfie that no doubt will be a blur.

“I see you’ve met Robert Munn,” a familiar voice says. As I extricate myself from the tipsy man’s hold, my team’s owner strolls over, two champagne flutes in hand. “Robert here is a banker, and a very important friend to me.”

A.k.a. a very wealthy potential donor that we need to schmooze. If we weren’t here to gather funds for the team’s charity, which provides scholarships and baseball equipment to orphans, I’d have peaced out a while back and headed back home to my own kid.

I shake the banker’s hand. “Great to have your support for this important cause, Mr. Munn.”

“Call me, Bob, kid,” he says like I’m the one who’s ten, patting my shoulder. A waiter walks by with a tray of colorful canapés that distract Bob. “Will you excuse me? I’m a tad hungry.”

“Of course.”

As the man chases after the little food, Charlie Cox takes his place and tells me, “Thank you for that, just humoring him for a few minutes probably got us a million dollars for the charity.”

I blink slowly. I also donate to good causes, especially for the people back home, but I usually have to think about it longer than it takes to take a selfie.

Clearing my throat, I say, “No problem, I’m here to help.”

“Here.” He offers me one of the flutes. “Let’s cheer to a successful night.”

“I—Uh, I can’t drink alcohol in the middle the season, sir.”

“Wise.” Cox nods, clearly unperturbed. “As it happens, I’ve been sober for a while so this is non-alcoholic.”

“Then, thank you.” I accept the offering and we clink the flutes. Before the silence gets too awkward, he speaks again.

“I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, but she seems to have given me the slip again.” My eyebrows rise at the again , not only because it implies that she’s done this more than once, but also at the disaffected way he says it with. “Like you, she doesn’t really enjoy these things.”

I choke on the bubbly.

Billionaire businessman and philanthropist Charlie Cox laughs like any other man. “You think I didn’t notice? You’ve been checking your phone all night like you’d rather be elsewhere.”

Meanwhile, I return the world’s most awkward laugh. “Sorry, I’m just worried about my own daughter.”

“Right, Martina, was it? Is she getting along at her new school?”

I don’t know why I’m surprised that he remembers.

When the first thing he asked me when my agent contacted his team was why I wanted the trade, I answered very honestly and didn’t get much commentary about it in return.

I figured that a player’s family issues would be beneath the notice of a man whose focus is on the several zeroes in his bank account.

Or bank accounts. Trust funds? Whatever rich people have, then.

“So far so good,” I admit despite my own worries. “She’s with her new nanny right now. Doing great. I think.”

That causes the powerful man to laugh again. “So that’s what has you so preoccupied.”

Busted, and so I say nothing.

I’m saved by something catching his attention, and for a second I wonder if it’s the elusive daughter. Instead, he says, “I just spotted one of my business partners. Shall we go get another million out of her?”

Cox only frees me after three more rounds of schmoozing, and only because he gets a phone call from some diplomat who was unable to attend the event.

I leave my flute on a tray of used cups and find an isolated spot behind some potted plants.

I’m a tall dude and have no hope that I’m truly hiding, but hopefully it signals leave-me-the-heck-alone well enough.

I take my phone out and my heart nearly stops when I see that I have a text from Marty already.

Mi Nina Bonita

I’m still fine

The text came exactly fifteen minutes after I last said I’d check in. This kid , I think to myself, shaking my head.

Me

Good. Did you have dinner already?

Mi Nina Bonita

Yes

She offers no further commentary, and so I text her once more.

Me

What did you have?

Mi Nina Bonita

*Arepa emoji*

Hmm, maybe I’ll also have one when I get home. The posh finger food is nowhere near enough to fill me up.

A burst of laughter nearby distracts me. My eyes travel over the potted plants to a group of people, all on the younger side of the invite list, but decked in outfits that probably cost twice what my car does. I’m about to return my focus on the cellphone screen when I notice something familiar.

I tilt my head, wondering how that can even be possible, when I spot her—the blonde woman who gave me the black eye I was forced to cover with makeup tonight, and who has been missing in action since.

I narrow my eyes. I better steer clear of her lest she gives me a second black eye, or breaks my nose instead.

Me

I’ll be home early

We can watch some Percy Jackson before you go to bed

Mi Nina Bonita

I already watched them all

“Ugh. Ruthless.” I press my hand against my chest.

But can I blame her? I spend two thirds of my time traveling for games or training, and everyday Marty grows more independent as result. It’s hard not to feel some type of way.

I’m about to text again when I hear something strange. “—Like, bigger , since the last time we saw you.” The emphasis is what beckons my attention.

“Do you mean fatter ?” another woman adds, laughing in a mean way. “Why, Audrey, you’ve really let go since high school.”

Call me a drama king, but after what my kid has gone through, I’m so not here for the damn bullies. I tuck my phone away and prepare to leave my hiding spot.

My neighbor tosses her goldilocks over her shoulder and folds her arms. “And you guys are bigger douchebags than I remember, which is quite an impressive feat.”

My feet stop. An amused snort comes out of my chest.

And finally the ultra green eyes lift to find me.

They widen like she can’t quite believe what they’re registering, and a touch of alarm lights them up.

Is it because she recognizes me as the guy she randomly boxed at first sight, or because it’s clear that I heard the insults she’s trading with these people?

What was it that they called her, again?

“Audrey,” I say, recalling at the last second. I let my lips stretch into what’s a surprisingly genuine smile, and every pair of eyes in the vicinity turns to my arrival. “Here you are, I’ve been looking for you all night.”

You have? her large and expressive eyes convey. Next thing, she catches up to the ruse and plays along like a smart cookie.

“Miguel,” she exclaims, a veneer of cheer falling over her face. I nearly double take that she knows my name, but she already knew who I was last week. “You owed me a dance so this is perfect timing.”

“Shall we?” I offer my arm like I indeed have made such a promise.

One of her companions—rather, bullies—scoffs in open annoyance as my neighbor passes her by to take my arm. Her dainty hand grabs me with surprising strength, which tells me that she really wants to escape this group. And so I whisk her away.

To the safety of the dance floor.