Page 42 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

I would really like it if a hole opened up right under me and swallowed me whole, please and thank you.

There is no moment in my life where I recall feeling more embarrassment than I do right now. Not even when my brother burst into class to defend me from mean girl bullies because I wasn’t able to do it myself.

But this? It’s a million times worse. And it’s not about the part where I emptied my guts on the shower floor of the place I’m staying temporarily at, and in front of the owner—who will never want to kiss me again now that he knows what kind of art piece my mouth is capable of.

No, it’s because I made his daughter barf half of her body weight.

We’re all sitting on the bathroom floor, probably sharing in the same wish I have of just disappearing forever after this.

Marty leans back on her dad, limp as a wet noodle and letting out a continuous little groan.

Miguel provisioned himself with an entire roll of toilet paper, and he’s currently using a wad of it to clean his daughter’s face.

His head is tilted down to watch what he’s doing, and his shoulders shake with absolute rage.

Well, I guess I’m glad I didn’t unpack already. I hug my legs against me. I can just go back home next door, hide under a blanket, and never be seen or heard of?—

Miguel lifts his head and it’s worse than I expected because he’s laughing .

The spams all over his body aren’t from an effort to contain the volcanic rage of a father whose beloved daughter got intoxicated with candy and dancing.

No. It’s because he’s struggling to contain what would appear to be great guffaws that would decimate our delicate eardrums and what’s left of our egos.

I groan and bury my face between my knees. “Kill me now.” My own breath makes me wanna barf again.

“Me too,” mumbles Marty.

Meanwhile, Miguel sounds like he’s choking. “C’mon, party girl. Let’s get you washed up and in bed, okay?”

His daughter dramatically throws herself at him and Miguel settles her against his shoulder, as if she was but a puppy and not a ten-year-old who’s going to pass me in height in two years or so.

This mountain of a man gets up without any effort, his black joggers straining against the incredible power of his thighs.

He catches me staring and I blurt out, “Can I help? Even though I’m technically the one who caused this mess?”

Miguel’s still biting his lips to contain his amusement, and barely manages a “sure.”

My old lady bones creak as I unfurl myself from the tight ball I was in, and get up to follow. We make a very slow trek upstairs, me clinging to the banister and dragging myself in turns. Miguel leaps like friggin’ Legolas in the snow and waits for me to make it upstairs.

“Maybe I should’ve carried you too?” he says under his breath once I’m next to him.

I just give him a look. I have no doubt he could, but whether he should is a different matter entirely.

Because I may barely be taller than Marty but I sure am several times heavier, and the thought of this man tumbling down those stairs because of me makes me want to puke my legitimate guts out, not just the content in them.

Finally, he sets the poor kid on her two feet in her bathroom. It’s all black and white but I see pink towels and a matching shower curtain. It gives the same grumpy and cute energy that she does.

“Here.” Miguel reaches for her toothbrush and hands it over to her. Then he turns his focus on me. “Can you please help her out? I need a quick second.”

Probably to laugh at us against a pillow or something.

“Of course,” I croak out. Luckily, he leaves before he can see that I’m shaking like a leaf. “Marty, I know you won’t trust me with anything after this because I suck, but where can I get your pajamas?”

Sass has left her body and she points feebly toward the door. “In the dresser with the cats.”

That sounds like something I’ll be able to find even in my addled state.

I grab onto the doorframe, a chair, and even the wall to keep my balance on the way to the dresser.

The cats are stuffed toys of all sizes and colors, some more realistic and others adorably cartoonish.

Now I know what to get for her birthday if the Machados give me the time of day after this.

“Ugh.” She’s finished washing up and dragging herself out of the bathroom. “Next time less candy and more dancing.”

Somehow I find it in myself to laugh a little. “I don’t know that there’ll be a next time. Your dad’s gonna toss me out to the curb.”

“He wouldn’t dare to do that to my best friend,” she says in a very casual way as she takes the pajama top from my hands.

Kids, man. They can just casually say the best thing you’ve ever heard in your life, injecting a rush of pure warmth and tenderness into your shriveled heart, bringing it back to life and causing your eyes to tingle, all without missing a beat.

That’s when Miguel strolls into the room, carrying two bottles that everyone on earth probably recognizes.

“No,” I whisper in horror, staring at the electrolyte drink bottles for kids. One is pink and the other one transparent.

“Do I have to?” Marty asks, voice muffled as she puts on her pajama top.

“Yes, the two of you have to.” He raises both options. “Who wants which one?”

There is something incredibly restorative about these drinks—not only in the electrolyte sense, but also in that it restores every memory of feeling sick as a kid.

The staff were always the ones who fed me these, not my parents.

But here’s Miguel, probably tired and hungry after all the work this week, and making sure to take care of both of us.

Marty turns to me. “I’m fine with either,” she mumbles.

“Um, same.”

“All right.” Miguel sets one down on the night table, and works on opening the other one. He does it easily and without needing pliers too, hmph. “Marty, you get the berries and Audrey, you’re getting the tutti frutti.”

Various noises of reluctant agreement.

He waits until Marty’s done changing to give her the bottle, which looks massive in her hands. Then he motions at me. “Come with me.”

I guess there isn’t a molecule of sass left in my body, either, because I just get up slowly and follow after the man who carries a the bottle meant for me. “Where are we going?”

“To brush your teeth.”

“I can—” Turns out that’s a lie because my legs wobble.

I don’t know how Miguel catches me in time before I melt into the carpet, and I also don’t know why my body melds against his side so perfectly. Like lock and key.

Slowly, I raise my eyes to his face, and this time there’s no laughter there.

Miguel is serious—intense even. He’s studying my eyes like they’re an open book and I want to look away, hide, but I also don’t know why I don’t.

I stay frozen just like that, fully exposed in a way that should be uncomfortable, but isn’t.

Everything about this—and not just tonight, but the whole arrangement—is the kind of thing that would normally send me running for the hills.

The lesson I learned after growing up in my twisted, gilded world is to never trust men.

That even the ones who do love you will leave you when you most need them.

And even when my brain screams that reminder to the rest of my body, it’s my soul the one who says not this time .

Not this man.

I wonder if it’s because he just caught me easier than a tiny white ball rocketing into the outfield. Or if maybe this moment is just a metaphor of everything he’s done these past few months. Or simply, of who he is.

He really is the rock and I really am the hard place, huh?

“Why do you have so much trouble accepting help?” Miguel asks softly, not realizing that he’s getting so close to the core of the issue.

“I—Well, I caused all this, so I don’t deserve help.”

For the first time since I’ve known him, his eyebrows come together into a little wrinkle.

He doesn’t comment anything on that and instead tugs me forward, his grip around me firm and speed gentle for my jelly legs.

I don’t even pay attention to his room, all I know is that his scent does good things for my stomach, and that the room is too cold.

He also deposits me in front of his bathroom sink, and sadly I have to lean against it now that he’s stepped away.

After rummaging in a drawer, he produces a new toothbrush and this one’s a struggle to open up.

His hands are too big for the packaging, and he foregoes the pull tab and just rips the thing apart, offering me the brush like it’s sacred.

His eyes widen. “Wait, why are you crying? Do you feel worse? Should we go to the ER?”

“I’m crying?”

I have to look at myself in the mirror to confirm that I am, in fact, raining out of my eyes. Red splotches adorn my skin everywhere it can be seen, my hair is an absolute disaster, my blouse askew and sweaty, and my lips are pale.

“How are you not crying after this mess?” I ask in a completely level headed tone. Not.

“Frankly, I thought the whole thing was really funny until about now.” He sets the other drink bottle on the counter, his hands raising as if to touch me. But they hold themselves back. “Seriously, I’m worried now. Does something hurt?”

Yes, my heart.

My soul.

Everything.

I can’t believe he was walking around in this planet with all that goodness in him, and I never caught a glimpse until I was broken and jaded. And now I don’t know what to do, if run, hide, cling, or beg. I don’t know if I can burden him with me . He deserves better.

And then I’m sobbing, and his arms and his warmth and his scent are all around me, his strength keeping me upright, his breath fanning over my head, his heart beating fast against my face, tucked into his chest. “Hey, Audrey. Tell me what’s wrong, please. I’m freaking out here.”

I squeeze handfuls of his purple Orlando Wild T-shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He sighs as if relieved.

“Shh.” One of his hands rubs my spine softly, up and down. “It wasn’t your fault. You two were just having fun in a homemade rollercoaster.”

“It was my fault. I am the adult.” I struggle to push him away, not because he won’t allow it, but because my own muscles fail me. I force myself to meet his eyes. “If I was you, I’d toss me out and end this whole thing at once.”

“Luckily, I’m not you, huh?” The corners of his lips rise a little. “I know that we all make mistakes but we aren’t our mistakes. And I also know that this didn’t happen on purpose and that you’re really, really sorry about it.”

“But—”

“And,” he cuts me off and chuckles a little as he continues. “I also know that feeling yucky is all the punishment you two deserve.”

I drop my head. Right on his chest. He strokes the back of my head, which feels amazing physically but adds to my guilt. “But all I do is cause you trouble, Miguel. You shouldn’t keep putting up with me.”

“That’s not true.” Then he holds my head gingerly, lifting my face from his chest—and presses his lips on my forehead.

Intentionally. Patiently. Unashamedly. When he pulls back, those same lips are smiling.

“You only bring joy to Marty’s and my life, you know?

Somehow, you’ve made me realize that I can’t control what happens to my family, but I sure can do my best to protect it.

” He glances up as if in thought. “My anxiety has got a lot better since I met you, actually.”

My teeth make a clacking sound as I snap my mouth shut.

Miguel takes a step back and slides his hands into the pockets of his joggers. Clearing his throat, he says, “Anyway, I’ll go check up on Marty and then clean your bathroom. So, uh, take your time. Holla if you need me.”

“Okay,” I reply with a thread of voice, watching him rush away.

My knees buckle and I prop myself up on the vanity, my heart racing like a horse. I raise my hand to touch the hot spot where his lips branded my skin. “What… what just happened?”

What he said just now, why did it make me want to cry even harder?