Page 40 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

T he worst part is that after all that, I had to come in to work the next day to help put out the PR fires that I caused.

They’re not so bad, though. We’re not losing any sponsorships—which is a bummer, because I’d really love to shred the contract between us and Henry’s company.

We’re also trending on social media as the baseball team of love, which for some fans it’s cute, for others it’s a crime against the players’s focus, and for the haters it’s a great source of fiber for their diets as hatred organisms.

The players? They couldn’t care less. A couple that I ran into this morning greeted me with hey, boss before they kept walking toward the gym. And that was it. I don’t believe their focus of getting into the postseason has been impaired.

It has caused more work for everyone in the communications, marketing, and PR teams though. I get that an advanced warning would’ve been nice, but I’m also not in the mood to explain why everything had to be done so hastily.

However, my boss seems to think otherwise.

Knocking on the glass door of the meeting room, I wait until Karen looks up from her phone to acknowledge my existence. There’s no way that this is gonna be a nice little chat, so the last thing I want to do is start it early by barging in. Sadly, she motions me in.

I drag my feet but there’s only so many seconds one can waste between a meeting room door and a chair. “Hi, Karen,” I greet noncommittally once we’re sitting face to face across a table, without the buffer of anyone else’s presence.

For the last few days we’ve survived pretty well by communication via email or Teams only. She commands in a rude way, I respond with thumbs up emoji, deliver the thing, and don’t hear back from her. It’s been a great deal.

Until now.

Maybe communications posting a family picture from the All-Star game where I’m described both as Miguel Machado’s wife and the team owner’s daughter was really too much.

While the players haven’t been interested in the news at all, the staff members have been. If stares could bore holes, I’d be a colander by now.

Karen’s proving my point by studying every one of my features like she has never really looked at me before. “Hmph, I guess you do have some resemblance.” She leans back and folds her arms.

Silence.

I wouldn’t say I’m uncomfortable, but I definitely want to go back to my cubicle covered in cozy little green plants. I regret not bringing over my apple green emotional support water bottle, so I can at least hydrate myself while I waste my time.

Finally, she can’t take the quiet any longer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

This is probably where the myth of blonde women not being smart came from, because I’m going to pretend like I don’t understand her. I just wanna hear her spell it out.

“Sorry, tell you what?” I tilt my head and widen my eyes a little.

Karen bites. “That Charlie Cox was your father. I would’ve never guessed it because you used the last name Winters for so long.”

Look at the point flying well over her head.

But also, since when does she talk to me in this sugary and calm way?

I wish I could find this funny, but it’s one of the smaller reasons why I didn’t want everyone to know.

There will be mass amnesia about the fact that I applied to my job, interviewed for it, and was selected by a panel of people who were not yet in Dad’s payroll.

I’ll never pretend like my great—and expensive—education didn’t give me an advantage, or that the way I look also buys me a lot more leniency than I deserve.

But I also could’ve been just one more rich bum who graduates from an ivy league college without any effort, and then straight up inherits the family’s business.

None of that is gonna matter now, though. I knew it the second Dad swooped in and bought the team. It was just a matter of time before it all came out.

However, the obvious attempt at tact in her comment, and the nosy nature of it, are a great opportunity to get some justice for years of Karen’s corporate bullying. And I’m not above carpeting the diem, like Marty said.

“How would that have changed things, though?” I let that dangle uncomfortably in the air.

Karen clears her throat. Rearranges her stuff on the table. Even brushes her hair back—all without meeting my eye. I press my lips not to burst out laughing.

Everything . Every request, every meeting, every little interaction. Everything would’ve been different. She would’ve been sucking up to me all the time, treating me better than any other employee.

And also nothing , because all that would’ve accomplished would’ve been driving the perceived chasm even deeper between my coworkers and I. She would’ve made me a pariah in a different way than she did in reality, in both cases for her benefit.

“I’ve been a fair manager.” She lifts her chin. “I hope you recognize that I was just guiding you into being the best PR professional in the organization.”

Amazing. Now she’s found a way to take credit for all the extra work I succeeded at that she didn’t give to anyone else because she liked them better. She must still think that the SPORTY sponsorship belongs in her resume.

I don’t acknowledge her sorry excuse. “Is there anything else we should discuss today?” I make a show of checking my watch—and no, it’s not an exclusive edition one or anything. I got it from a thrift store. “I actually need to go home to my family soon.”

Laying it a bit thick, the whole family thing. But eh, it’s a great reason to not continue swapping air with this weirdo.

“Nothing further, you may go,” she says, trying her best to maintain her previous sense of dignity in front of me. Without further ado, I push away from the table and am about to bounce when she speaks again. “Actually, there’s one more thing.”

I plop back on the chair. “Yes?”

She laces her fingers, then stacks her hands, then spreads them over the table, and finally pulls them away to hide under the table. She does the chin thing again. “What are you planning to do now?”

I point at myself and the door. “Go home…?” This time I don’t really get her meaning.

“Are you going to fire me?”

There it is.

I see why this conversation couldn’t have been an email but geez, it sure could’ve been so much shorter if she wasn’t trying to gaslight me the whole time.

“You’re my boss, Karen. How could I fire you ?” I cock an eyebrow for funsies.

She waves a hand. “That is irrelevant now that we know whose daughter you are. And we both know we don’t have the best relationship, unlike you and those two girls who are always around you.”

The way she says it is so snotty that I snap.

“You mean my friends? The ones who have always had my back and were my maids of honor?” I ask, barely containing my annoyance that she dares to imply Hope and Rose have been interested in my father’s privileges from the beginning.

“You know what I mean,” she grouches, the thin mask of politeness finally wearing off.

Humming as if in thought, I stand up and lean over the table, looking her dead in the eye.

“No, I’m not going to fire you for having bullied me.

” Relief flashes through her beady eyes until I add, “But I’ll keep you in observation.

That answer may change if I find proof that I’m not your only victim. ”

Gah, I’m so annoyed that this incredible high is being sponsored by my dad indirectly. I wish I could’ve shown her up all on my own.

Karen isn’t the type of person who changes her mind upon receiving excellent work, though, or she would’ve started treating me decently before.

The fact of the matter is that she’s never liked me from the beginning, and it’s killing her to have to pretend like she does now.

That’s enough revenge, even if it’s not super satisfying for me.

It feels bitter to wish her a good evening and leave, but I copy her chin thing and hold my head high as I make my way out of the facilities, even with dozens of eyes poking holes on my face.

*

After dreaming about nosediving into my bed during rush hour traffic, I get home and find a bunch of packed bags on the foyer. I blink at them slowly, riffling through memories until I land on the one where I agreed to move in with the Machados.

“Right, I did this in the morning,” I mumble, looking down at them.

Instead of getting the immediate rest I wished for, I make several trips between my house and next door, carrying all the bags, pillows, suitcases of things that I want immediate access to, to feel somewhat normal in Miguel’s home.

His car isn’t parked out front, but Consuelo’s is so I ring the doorbell.

Bumps come from behind the door until it opens to Marty beaming up at me. “Welcome home, Audrey!”

I feel it like an earthquake, the cute aggression that rises up my spine and threatens to make me lose reason. If I did, I’d be squeezing her against me until I deserve to be kicked.

“Stop being so freaking adorable, child,” I frown at her but we have a similar sense of humor, and all she does is chuckle.

“Come on in!” Consuelo calls out from the kitchen.

I obey, dragging the first couple of things I could reach. Marty starts working on a third one—a suitcase with operating wheels, like the smart cookie she is.

“Great timing,” the older woman says, wiping her hands dry with a kitchen towel. “I was just about to leave, but I really wanted to leave you all settled.”

“Thank you, you don’t have to bother?—”

She says something in Spanish that clearly means I should zip my mouth, and I do. “Miguel asked me to help the family, and so that’s what I’m doing.”

A true smile forms in my face. I love these people, not because of all the extraordinary things they’ve done and continue to do for me. But for the fact that they even did. That they have the heart to help a virtual stranger.

These are the people I want in my life, not the Karens of the world.

Between the three of us, we make pretty quick work of bringing everything into what’s going to be my room.

It’s on the first floor, the equivalent one that Rose uses next door, and it’s fully decked for comfort.

A large, plush bed sits in the middle, flanked by night tables.

There’s a dresser on the opposite wall, and enough floater shelves that this could be a very livable place.

And more notably, there’s a lot of greens.

In the bedding, the cushions, the carpet, and even plants that look pretty real. Everything is soft, pastel, and beautifully coordinated. Like something out of a catalogue.

“You like it?” Marty asks, her eyes the shiniest I’ve ever seen them.

“I love it,” I respond sincerely, with the remnants of cute aggression coursing through my veins. “Did you do all this?” I glance at her and Consuelo.

The latter responds, “Miguel told us what to get, so Marty and I went to a store in the morning, came home to wash everything and set it up.”

My mouth does a lot of flapping and none of the yapping. I throw myself at Consuelo and give her a bone-crushing hug. No matter what she says, her job is to take care of Marty, not to do things for me.

Patting my back, she whispers into my ear, “Save this for Mr. Machado.” When she pulls away, she’s laughing like a fairy godmother.

She leaves us settled in the living room with some background music for focus, snacks, and lemonade because—as I learn along the way—Miguel excused his daughter from summer school again for the sake of the shopping trip. So now I’m in charge of making sure that she finishes her homework.

And Marty doesn’t wanna.

“Let’s try to dance to ON instead,” she suggests, as if I didn’t know about the difficulty level of that particular choreography.

“Excuse me, Miss Martina,” I say with great affect, lowering my brow. “You might not have realized it but I have two left feet.”

“But Dad says you dance very well.”

I would trip on my two left feet if I wasn’t already sitting by the coffee table with her.

“Uhh, he was being very generous. Trust me, I wouldn’t even manage the first thirty seconds of Just One Day, and that choreography uses a chair.”

She taps her chin. “What if we freestyle it then?”

I point at her homework spread out in front of her with my lips, like her dad would. “Why don’t you freestyle your assignment instead?”

“Ugh.” Marty drops her head back on the couch seat.

“Tell you what,” I offer, shaking my head a little. “I’ll do some work too. For every task we finish, we eat one of those.” I point at the colorful bowl of chewy candies that is in- and conveniently placed between us.

“And then we dance?” she presses.

I guess there’s no avoiding making a fool of myself. But honestly after the day I’ve had this will be fun.

“Deal.” I offer my hand and she shakes it solemnly.

Now that this is a binding contract, we get serious and fire up our iPads.

Hers is loaded with more math questions.

Mine with my little investment account that I’ve been trying to grow all these years, to see if it was enough to escape my controlling father.

It still isn’t, even after all that’s transpired, but I check it every night out of rote.

Marty grabs a candy and unwraps it. I peek at her notebook and confirm that she did, indeed, just finish a problem. And I confirmed that I’m still not rich all on my own, so I also take one candy.

The ten-year-old spitfire gives me a look like she can’t believe I’m matching her pace, and I click on something random on my iPad, pretending like I just completed another task.

Grabbing another candy lights up a fire under her, and next thing we know, we’re competing for the prizes in the bowl, and chugging lemonade to make space for more.

She works, I work, and it all seems like harmless fun…

Until it isn’t.