Page 53 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

AUDREY

I never in my life wondered what it feels like to have different types of bugs on your skin, yet as of tonight I have the answer.

There are ants in my legs. Not on them. Pretty sure what’s coursing through my veins isn’t blood—it’s freaking ants. They especially like to concentrate in my calves. No matter how hard I shake them, they don’t get off.

Meanwhile, my arms are being bitten by mosquitoes, the literal ones.

You’d think the suckers would all be dead in the middle of October, but we’re still in peak hurricane season, and I guess they also love baseball.

I smack one directly on my arm but when I lift my hand, all I see is the red of my skin and no quashed bugger in sight.

My chest is full of spiders, though. I know those aren’t bugs, but right now I can’t think of anything else that has so many legs. It’s like they’re line dancing inside of me to a tune only they know.

Or actually, to Miguel’s walk up song.

“Here we go,” mumbles Hope beside me, leaning forward so far that she almost falls onto the person sitting in front of her.

“Let’s do this, c’mon.” Rose claps non stop and continues repeating herself.

They’re freaking out just as badly as I am. Normally they’d be down there doing their kickass jobs, but they’re only human. And of the special kind that are deeply invested in the success and happiness of the men they love—official members of the WAGs club.

Shit, so am I. I already have planned out the route I need to take to the field once the guys win. Miguel will find me in a second. I’ll be the woman in the MACHADO 3 jersey and the weird alligator socks rolled up over my jeans.

“This is gonna have a happy ending, right?” Marty asks me while chewing on popcorn with her mouth open. Beside her, Consuelo’s hands are joined in prayer.

The only response I offer is a smile, because I’m not going to be the one who makes the team lose by jinxing them with my own damn mouth.

Yes, they’re gonna win. I know it in my bones. I feel it in my soul. I just can’t wait for reality to catch up with what I already know.

So I can kiss the daylights out of that man and tell him that I don’t really want to get divorced, as outrageous as that sounds.

The place is absolutely packed to the rafters and everyone’s buzzing—not just because it’s BOGO for beer at the concessions.

There has been incessant yammering online about whether Miguel’s in a slump.

After breaking the historical league record of home runs, it’s kinda odd that he hasn’t knocked at least one out of the park in the course of this series, even considering how the Riders have been fumbling the bag so hard.

Even then, there isn’t a single person in this stadium that doesn’t know that Miguel is capable of greatness even with a bunt.

The Orlando Wild fans know it, the Denver Riders do too—and are also extremely unhappy with finding themselves on the other side of Miguel’s genius.

Every single broadcast professional and staff knows it.

The newborn babies in attendance know it.

And I sure as hell do.

Miguel is magic. He’s everything that is good and worthy in this messed up world, and the most unbelievable part is how the world doesn’t affect him.

Life and its difficulties haven’t sharpened his edges, like juggling an elite professional athletic career and being a single dad would to anyone.

Or like all the slander online would mess with anyone.

If he hasn’t hit a home run it’s simply because . He doesn’t owe anyone anything. No matter what, he’s still taking the team toward victory.

They’re gonna win , I say in my mind. They’re gonna make history and I’m kissing him tonight .

Miguel doesn’t swing for the first pitch, which isn’t surprising. He’s an observant batter. That brilliant brain of his calculates outcomes at a speed that mere mortals like us can’t even fathom. But when he doesn’t swing at a strike, it gets an alarm going in my mind.

“What’s happening?” I mutter, and the bugs make me smack Hope several times. “Hope, am I overreacting?”

Her eyes narrow. We’re not close enough to catch every detail on the field, but we’re not baseball nerds for nothing. “This is just his second at bat. Lucky’s the only runner on base. He doesn’t really need to exert himself.”

The third pitch gets him swinging.

And missing by a mile.

After a quiet moment, Hope admits, “Okay, that’s not entirely normal for him.”

“You don’t think…” Rose leaves the question hanging, also not daring to vocalize something that might cast bad luck on the team.

“No,” Hope and I say in unison, because this is how we negate what we’re all fearing. Miguel’s not in a slump. Everyone has a lackluster at bat every so often. I am going to bury my fingers in his sweaty hair and claim his mouth for my own.

“What?” Marty asks, her eyes widening. “ What? Is my dad okay?”

People in the audience start booing, and we all snap back to attention.

There is absolutely no stinking way that Wild fans are the ones booing our cleanup hitter, which can only mean one thing. The Riders fans are catching up onto what we’re fearing. Miguel isn’t playing his usual.

But then comes the fourth pitch and he connects.

I jump to my feet, barely registering that I’m not the only one.

The ball flies like a rocket. I push onto my tiptoes.

Miguel takes off for first base. The outfielders start running toward the same area, close to our side.

Lucky’s dashing to second. My ears are roaring.

I cram the word please some five hundred times in a single second.

The ball crashes against the fence—on the inside.

It’s not a home run, but the outfielders are scrambling.

And then there’s silence.

Complete, and utter lack of sound.

My heart stops. There’s no air in my lungs. My eyes run to Miguel. But my worst fear doesn’t happen—he’s on first base, not bleeding from anywhere. And he’s looking ahead of him, still as a statue.

One of the girls gasps. I can’t tell who. Because now I’m seeing what happened.

My second biggest fear has happened. One of our guys is hurt.

It’s Lucky, and his leg is out of shape at the knee.

I drop the popcorn I forgot I was even holding. Before anyone wakes up from the nightmare, I say, “We need to go, Lucky will need us.”

Screw nerves and jinxes, we have to go to our friend.