Page 6 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)

MIGUEL

“ D amn…”

My steps fall like explosions on the treadmill, my thighs pumping at my maximum speed.

The trainers told me to push hard to establish a very clear baseline, and that’s what I’m doing.

My lungs burn, trying to send oxygen to my muscles at a violent pace.

The altitude mask doesn’t exactly make it a comfortable exercise either, but if that’s not enough to confirm whether I’m going full throttle, the electrodes stuck on my bare chest around my heart probably give it away.

“Do you think he’s human?” someone asks.

The response is, “definitely not.”

I’ve heard a lot of yapping throughout my baseball career.

One of the things that made me stand out since I was a kid back in my home country was that, despite my height and the weight that comes along with it, I was a pretty fast runner.

That has definitely ensured my stolen bases record, but the less obvious thing is how having powerful legs is what has allowed me to bat the home runs that fans enjoy so much.

However, even though my legs are my secret weapon, my real talent lies somewhere else. Namely, in being able to worry about my daughter no matter what I’m doing.

Practicing my swings? Meanwhile, wondering if Marty’s liking Consuelo’s food or if we should hire someone else.

Running workout? Wondering if summer school is going okay and whether she’s making some friends.

Walking up to the plate with all bases loaded? Makes me wonder if she has realized that my walk up song is for her. I guess Mi Nina Bonita by Chino y Nacho would more widely be interpreted as a typical love song, but the only sweet princess in my life is Marty.

Except that these days she’s more of a sour princess.

At first I thought that it might be because she’s not used to the new nanny, or that perhaps she wasn’t as amazing as advertised, but after a week of knowing Consuelo I can confirm that she’s everyone’s favorite grandma, and that even though Marty loves her, she’s still unhappy.

Which in turn makes me wonder if maybe things aren’t going so great at school after all.

Losing so much of the previous school year with the move forced me to sign her up to summer school, so she can start the new year at the same level.

And even though the teacher assured me that their summer program isn’t about punishment, maybe Marty’s still taking it that way.

Franklin, the head trainer, tells me, “You can begin to slow down.” He adjusts the speed a couple of notches lower, and I match the pace.

“Well,” this loud voice I recognize as coming from one Lucky Rivera, the mood-maker for this team. “I’m glad I’ve seen this while this guy’s already on our team, and not when he was still one of the Riders.”

I work to even out my breathing the more I slow down. Of course, I’ve asked Marty here and there what’s up. If homework’s hard, if her classmates are nice… But all she does is turn up her lower lip and ignore me. It’s easier to have a conversation with a wall than when she does that.

I’m still breathing rough even as the treadmill is fully stopped. Hope Garcia, the only female physical therapist who I know is the starting pitcher’s other half, makes for my mask but can’t reach. I step off the machine and lower my head, the electrodes pulling uncomfortably at my chest hair.

Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention, and it’s Cade Starr, her boyfriend, motioning toward his eyes and toward me like I’ll be in the crosshairs if I make the wrong move.

I start shaking my head but Garcia says, “Stay still.” Something in her voice tells me that she’s the one I really have to obey, so I stop moving.

A different thing catches my attention now, something gold and flowing. My mind immediately forms the image of my odd neighbor in the cinched black dress she wore at her father’s benefit gala. No way that the elegant heiress to the Cox empire would come to the musty, stinky gym.

But I do a double take because sure enough, that’s her—she of the unmistakable eyes.

I blink slowly. The vision of her in a fancy outfit swaying in my arms almost made me forget that she wore pajamas with bunny slippers when I first met her.

“Hey, Audrey,” Garcia says while she ruthlessly tears the electrodes off me.

I try not to flinch. And fail. Someone else hisses on my behalf.

Worse than the pain, Audrey Cox—wait, Winters?—turns her attention down to my chest. I’m not really a shy dude, what with making a living out of my body, but I really wish she’d come at any other moment.

“Hey,” blondie returns to the other woman, now raising her green eyes to my face. “Are you done with this guy?”

Garcia cocks an eyebrow. “I am, but I think my boss has a couple more baseline tests to take.”

“That’s fine. I can watch and wait,” Audrey says, turning into the crowd without a backward glance. Now I’m the one whose eyebrow’s twitching.

Hmm. Does it matter that watching has precedence over waiting?

I scratch my belly, for once wishing that I had absolutely shredded abs like some of the other guys here.

Instead, I touch the cross around my neck because you’d think I’m at a high stakes game instead of following pretty standard procedure.

The upper and lower body strength tests go on without much fanfare—at least not from the staff.

My new teammates are still watching like hawks and I know exactly what’s going on through their heads: can they beat me?

Can they run faster? Hit harder? Jump higher?

The answer in Spanish is: no .

But I’d like to see them trying. That’s the fun part about baseball, a little healthy competition is what makes me better. I wonder if Marty will want to develop that skill in a sports club at school this year. Softball would be fun to play together.

“Excuse me.” I freeze in the middle of toweling my sweaty hair and turn to find the owner’s daughter behind me. She tilts her head back to look up at me. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

This is where, in my previous locker room, the guys would’ve started wolf whistling and catcalling.

It’s not everyday that a woman strides into the gym to single out a guy in the pack.

But now that the testing show is over, the guys are going back to their own exercise machines like this happens frequently.

And I guess it makes sense, since there’s a female therapist and all.

I’m only a little unbalanced when I say, “Uh, yeah. Sure.” I clear my throat. I’ll get used to how things are around here eventually. I just hope this isn’t a sign that my game is gonna go to the crapper since joining the Wild.

“This way.” She motions at me to follow and I do. Glancing over my shoulder confirms that no one gives two shits about this scene. I guess they all must know the team owner’s daughter too.

She doesn’t take me far, just into the therapists’s office, and away from the traffic. Folding her arms, she squares up to me, blocking the entrance with her back to the rest of the team. “I guess I should’ve told you I’m in the PR team when I introduced myself the other night.”

I blink slowly, the picture of who she is finally starting to fall into place. “Cool,” I say noncommittally.

She continues, “I dropped by to say that I called your agent to offer a promotional spot with SPORTY . She sounded stoked but still asked me to get your opinion.”

I place my hands on my hips, and that catches her attention for a microsecond. “I’m listening.”

“As you know, SPORTY is our team’s main sponsor. They regularly feature our players on their magazine. In your case, they want to star you in an apparel commercial.”

I raise my hand to my hair and find my towel still on my head.

Not to act like the actual awkward turtle that I am, I pretend like I wanted to pat dry my hair all along.

“That sounds cool”—Welp, did I just use the c-word twice in the same conversation?

—“But we’re pretty deep into the season and I don’t want to jeopardize the team’s focus. ”

“Completely understandable,” the woman says in a business tone that matches neither the bunny slippers nor the fancy black dress. “That’s why we’ll set up the filming equipment in our facilities and work around the team’s training schedule. They’re used to it, trust me.”

I bet, considering how focused they are on their workout even though this blonde with knockout curves and stunning eyes is in their midst.

I’m going to say yes. Not because she’s hot, but because I’m conscious that I have to play nice with the top sponsor and become synonym with the Orlando Wild. People can no longer think Denver Riders when they look at me.

“Fine. Yeah. Sure.” I dry my face, hiding the cringe on my face with the towel. “Send us the paperwork.”

“Great, thank you for making my job easier,” she says in all seriousness and offers her hand out for a very belated handshake.

I make sure that my hand is dry before I return the gesture, wrapping my massive paw around her smaller, more delicate hand. Right as I start debating whether this is getting awkward and long, the woman grabs on tighter.

“Also, one more thing.” She pauses. “Actually, two.”

I can’t help but letting my eyebrows fly. It’s the first sign of uncertainty from her throughout this whole interaction. “What’s up?”

“Have you told anyone?” she asks like I know what she’s thinking.

“Told anyone what?”

Her eyes narrow. She squeezes my hand a notch harder. “About me being the owner’s daughter.”

Listen, I’m very bad at math—which is fine, because baseball is all about physics—and sure enough, my jock brain can’t compute why this is important enough to cause a wrinkle between her eyebrows. “Don’t they know?” I ask, testing the one theory I come up with.

“No.” She leans closer, lowering her voice to what should sound menacing. “And they better not find out.”

With my free hand, I slide the towel down around my neck for her benefit, to see the confusion on my face. “Why’s that?”

Smiling in a suddenly too saccharine way she responds, “Not your business.”

“Fair, but…” I point at my hands with my lips. “Can I take that back, at least?”

“Sorry.” Audrey drops my hand like it’s a burning coal and takes a step back. Then another. And she points at somewhere behind her. “Okay, I’m gonna go email the contract to your agent and… yeah.”

“Wait.” Now that my hands are free to be twitchy, I stuff them in the pockets of my joggers. “What was the second thing?”

“What—Oh, right.” Her eyes blaze a trail down to my bare chest, my stomach, and stop shockingly low for someone who is virtually a stranger. She points with her index. “Your pants are about to fall.”

With that, she twirls around and leaves.

I glance down and sure enough, my joggers are showing the waistband of my SPORTY underwear. As my face flames, I suppose that they’ll be happy to hear from the PR lady that I’ve been a customer all along.