Page 41 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)
MIGUEL
I ’m singing on the way home. It’s one of those songs that produce the deepest cringe in my daughter—heck, probably even in my parents. It seems like no one listens to joropo anymore, but occasionally I like to remind myself that so far, I’ve still spent the larger portion of my life in Venezuela.
Today’s jam is Toy Contento by Mario Suarez. Hummingbirds kissing flowers feels apropos when today is day one of Audrey rooming with us.
Am I—the hummingbird—going to kiss her—the flower? Who knows. Probably not. But am I going to wish I could? Hell yeah, every freaking moment.
“Calm down, dog,” I tell myself.
The music stops, replaced by the amplified sound of my phone ringing. I take it as a sign that I was about to go down the path of misbehaving in my thoughts. After checking the caller ID, I answer using the steering wheel controls.
“What’s up, prima?”
Amelia makes a sound of pure disgust. “Ugh, why do you sound so happy after giving me so much work?”
“If it makes you feel any better, I was planning on giving you a generous bonus to express my gratitude.”
“In that case.” She clears her throat and flips the script. “I was calling to tell you that the legal team’s on the case and you have nothing to worry about. The one who should be sweating it out is the maladjusted jerk who put a snitch on you.”
Sadly, I doubt it. No interaction I’ve had with that Vos guy has led me to believe that he’s capable of regret.
“That’s good,” I say, all things considered.
“However…” My cousin drags the word enough that I almost drive a mile in the silence.
“If you’re not gonna talk I’d rather go back to listening to joropo while I drive.”
She sighs. “It’s just, I don’t know how to say it because I already know what your reaction will be. But you really should start considering some extra security.”
Ah, yes. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.
Ever since my career hitting a ball with a big stick really took off, and the associated fame and salary started catching public interest, Amelia has been suggesting that I get some bodyguards or something like her clients who are soccer players or celebrities.
They’ve been all over the world, and that brings a heavier layer of scrutiny than I can imagine.
The thing though, is that even though baseball is still ‘Murica’s sport, I don’t get accosted by people when I go to Trader Joe’s. The risky moments are before and after games, when tipsy fans are closer to us than ever. And the team and stadium staff have that fine tuned to an art.
“No.” Before she protests, I add, “Not for me, at least. Can you get someone to watch my girls from a distance? They’ll panic if they know another dude is following them, even if it’s someone looking out for them.”
“Your girls?”
“Look at that, I’m arriving home already,” I mention in my most innocent tone, but there’s no hiding that little blooper there. My agent just caught onto something I’m not even willing to admit to myself—shit.
“Hmm. Fine, I’ll get two guys on the case. Let me know if you change your mind for yourself.”
Not gonna happen.
“Bye, Amelia.”
“Bye, you insufferable goodie-goodie two shoes.”
With that, she ends the call and the music returns. It’s a shame because I’m already pulling into the driveway, and I can see that Audrey’s car is parked out front. I turn off the engine and take a few deep breaths, one after the other.
Finally, I smack my cheeks and say, “no te hagas ilusiones, papá,” as if I was talking to some other dude and not myself.
My heart drums as I get out of the car, forcing myself to move at a normal speed that won’t betray my excitement and nerves.
I grab my duffel bag from the back, stuffed with dirty clothes I wore for practice earlier, and more empty food and drink containers than a regular person would believe.
The Mario Suarez tune escapes from my lips as a jolly whistle, and I manage to key in the door code without fat fingering.
A blast of entirely different music hits me as I walk in.
My—er, the two girls who currently use my last name are in the middle of the living room.
They’ve cleared out the coffee table and are jumping around the carpet…
dancing? And doing some more of that singing that is a mix of words and sounds.
The TV screen behind them shows a music video from the South Korean boy band they don’t get tired of.
Glad that the events that happened yesterday didn’t ruin the band for them.
I close the door behind me with my butt, standing here, wondering if they’ll notice me or if I should say honey, I’m home . That would probably make them both grimace in secondhand embarrassment, so I stay mum. And they still don’t notice me.
That’s great, because I’m gathering fodder for teasing them in the future.
Amusement spreads across my face as the two of them, their backs turned to me, keep shaking everything they got to an upbeat rhythm. They’re still doing the air microphone thing, pointing it at each other in turns. Then, while shaking her bootie, Audrey finally turns and spots me.
She chokes on her spit.
That gets Marty’s attention who peeks over her shoulder. “Oh.” She slows down. But even while she tries to act cool, I’m her father. I know what the hotter cheeks mean.
I’m full on grinning now. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Marty nudges her grown friend. After a few more coughs, Audrey finds enough strength to say, “Welcome home, Miguel.”
The duffel bag slides off my grip. The pretty boys singing in the background dampen the sound of it landing on the floor.
Heat explodes within my chest, spreading to every corner of my body and even deeper, finding a hole that I didn’t know I had. A hole in the shape of someone I can love.
“H-Hi.” Now I’m the one struggling for words.
Meanwhile, Marty bends down to pick up the remote and bring down the volume. As she rises back up, she opens her mouth to talk when something unexpected—and horrible—happens.
Whatever’s in her stomach rises back up.
She barely manages to hold it in with both hands.
Now no one’s amused. Everybody’s eyes are wide like saucers. Another wave hits her and Dad instinct kicks in. I rush toward her and lift her up. “Hold on, Marty! Keep it in!”
She makes muffled sounds but her little body makes another attempt to empty itself, this time on me.
Audrey’s steps follow closely behind. I make the decision in a split second—this is gonna be a very stinky welcome, but we won’t make it if I try to get us upstairs to Marty’s bathroom. Audrey’s it is.
Bless the heavens, for the doors are all open. My sneakers screech to a halt in the pristine bathroom floor tile, and I manage to set Marty down. I press my hand against hers on her mouth as I turn her to aim, and thankfully Audrey has already lifted the toilet lid.
Rainbows explode out of my daughter’s mouth.
I blink a couple of times to clear my vision, just in case I’m hallucinating the whole thing. But nope. All sorts of colors keep coming up. My poor kid’s about to fall into the toilet, so I wrap an arm around her and with my other hand I clumsily gather her hair.
“Erm, there, there. Let it all out,” I mumble, not knowing what else to do. I glance up at Audrey but the confusion, even the worry I expected in her face, isn’t there.
Instead, she looks like she’s about to throw up too.
I know she loves green, but I’ll never tell her she looks kinda like it right now.
I swallow hard, which is a feat when the air is permeated by regurgitated rainbow. “Um…” My voice trembles. I’m hoping that she doesn’t projectile vomit on us, but if that’s how it’s gonna be, then I guess my fate is sealed. Miguel Machado, record-breaking All-Star hitter, dead by drowning in puke.
Somehow, I manage to jerk my head at the shower. “Maybe try going in there?”
The poor woman has tears in the corners of her eyes as she nods. She squeezes in by me, pushes the curtain aside, and off she goes. I lean for a peek and, sure enough—more rainbows.
“What the hell did you two do?” I ask, half scared and half intrigued. The only response I get for a long while is the sound of more arching, barfing, and groans of pain and suffering.
Yep, this is officially a family, a’ight. Nothing like being sick together to real bond.