Page 45 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

Her meanie-me shrinks a little. “It wasn’t anything too bad. I just said her clothes were weird.”

“Too bad implies that you know it was bad to some degree,” her mother admonishes. “I didn’t raise you to say things like that about others.” Fascinating, when she was so quick to judge earlier. Almost like she doesn’t consciously realize that she’s the blueprint for her daughter.

“Besides, I think her dress is adorable,” the second mom adds. “Hey Reina, should we wear pink next year?”

Reina shakes her head like she’d rather disappear.

Vivian’s not done, though. She points at Marty. “ This isn’t the weird part. She wears black every day at school!”

The third kid, Kelli, jumps in. “Yeah, if you’d dressed like this we wouldn’t have found you weird.”

“If you don’t like me at my black, you don’t deserve me at my pink,” Marty declares, folding her arms like a queen who has lost interest in her court jesters.

I bite my lips really hard so I don’t burst out laughing.

Glass cracking mom lets out a laugh that unfortunately chafes in my ears, but she says, “I like this kid! She’s got spunk.”

And my chest puffs up like a preening mother hen. And my baby chick, Marty, lifts her chin and smiles so broadly, so genuinely, that I know this is the exact moment when she’s found her place in the classroom.

*

Turns out the mothers of the mean girls aren’t bad people.

Head honcho just suffers from a case of female lawyer-itis, where she assumes that attacking first is the best defense every time because that’s how she has survived.

She actually apologized for her rude introduction, which I found kind of funny because it turns out that her name is Rudy.

They actually invited me for coffee one day. As if I was one of them.

Marty and Reina chatted a bit, and at the end of the day they saved each other’s numbers on their phones.

Vivian didn’t exactly come around. She spent the whole thing sulking as she stuffed little cakes into her mouth.

Kelli seems a bit ditzy, like she’ll just go with the flow and with whomever is steering.

There’s no way she’ll resist Marty’s kickass charm, so I’m sure eventually they’ll drag Vivian to make peace with Marty.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her as we walk out of the school, along with many other moms and daughters. The evening is still hot, but the August sun is starting to set earlier. It’ll probably be dark by the time we get home.

“Ah. May. Zing!” Marty whisper-yells every syllable separately.

“Did you see Vivian’s face? Ooh, she was so annoyed.

And Kelli wasn’t making fun of me anymore.

And did you see that Reina and I liked the same cakes?

What should I text her? Should I just say hi, or like, send her a cool game?

” She interrupts her own excited rant to gasp. “What if she likes BTS too?”

“Then you’ll have no choice but to become best friends forever.”

“Nah,” she surprises me by saying, swinging our arms as our hands remain joined. “That’s your spot. No one’s gonna take it.”

A little sound peeps out of my mouth. It’s the mix of surprise and pain.

Because that is so incredibly sweet, but I also know that she means it—she’s said it twice already—and I don’t deserve it.

I won’t be around forever. In fact, her dad and I should get a divorce the second my dad gives me my damn inheritance and signs a paper that formally removes my friends and I from his influence.

But Marty doesn’t notice the agony that’s twisting my gut. Her eyes squint at the distance. “Is that dad?”

My head whips forward.

At first I don’t see what she’s seeing, until some moms gasp and start murmuring. And then the path clears and I can see him.

Miguel Machado, in the flesh.

Walking toward us like a dream fantasy man come true, in a white, fitted button shirt that highlights his impossibly wide shoulders.

The sleeve tightens dangerously around his thick bicep as he runs a hand through his hair.

He’s wearing some simple trousers I recognize and loafers, but the hard muscle of his thighs and calves make them remarkable.

How are his legs so freaking straight when he’s so tall and filled up?

And how dare he wear the SPORTY pants that I had to stoically watch him in as he filmed the ad? I’ve never had a more difficult time in my life than watching him show off his perfect, athletic body for a camera right after I felt him up.

But the part that’s killing me the most right now is the Aviators that sit on his pretty face, obscuring his eyes from view and adding such an air of mystery that for a second, he doesn’t seem like the Miguel I’ve come to know. Kind, playful, open, gentle.

This is the man version, not the dad. The one that makes my tongue so thick I can’t even swallow. Whose skin is still printed on my hands from two wild opportunities to touch him. The one that makes my body feel hot, my knees buckle, my lips tingle, my hands itch. The daddy version.

The final form that doesn’t allow me to keep pretending like I’m immune to him.

Why’s he walking so damn slow? Or is my heart beating way too fast?

When he’s close enough, his lips stretch into a smile I’m familiar with, one that is only reserved to the apple of his eye. Miguel spreads his arms wide and bends to one knee. “Mi nina, ?cómo te fue?”

My rudimentary Spanish skills allow me to get the gist, but the fact that his voice is even deeper in his mother tongue almost knocks me over.

Fortunately, he’s very distracted by the fact that, for a change, Marty willingly complies and wraps her arms around his ribcage with enough strength to make him grunt.

“Dad, it was amazing! Audrey was amazing! Everything was amazing!”

Miguel laughs the proudest dad laugh I’ve ever heard, and picks her up for a twirl that normally she would grouch about. “That’s fantastic, Marty. I’m so glad.”

Gosh. I want to join them so bad. I want to be able to squeeze the tar out of the two of them. To tuck myself against his side. Kiss Marty’s nose like I have a right.

I almost jump out of my skin when Miguel suddenly turns to me, fearing that he’s read my mind.

Instead, he leans toward me to whisper, “We’re being watched. What do we do?”

“Kiss me,” I blurt out, not even flinching. And also not acting.

I just want his lips on mine. If that’s all I can get, that’s all I’ll take.

But Miguel is the true MVP of this play. He smoothly brings me against him with the free arm and places a soft but firm peck on my lips, like a normal husband would everyday. My hands are on his chest, over his heart beating strong and steady—just like him.

Marty chuckles a little while her father still carries her, and that’s how I know I’m toast.