Page 7 of Wild Hit (Wild Baseball Romance #3)
AUDREY
A ginormous package sits outside the front door once I get home from the office.
Fortunately, there are no witnesses as I walk up the steps, grinning like the evil clown of a horror movie who’s about to commit murder.
That’s my intention—upon the mailbox that is the bane of my existence.
At last I’ll be able to replace it for a brand new one.
It’s just way larger than I expected. Maybe this will be a job for more than one person.
I palm around my pockets until I find my phone and send a text to my roommates, asking when they’ll be home.
Today is a rest day, so if I want their help I better recruit them today before they join the team on the road tomorrow.
That done, I better empty the damn mailbox one last time before I send it tumbling down the residence’s trash container, where it belongs.
I skip around the package at the front and head inside to change into something comfortable and with short sleeves, it’s the only way to brave the stifling cold of a June afternoon before the daily monsoon. I grab a tool set I don’t know if I’ll need, and walk back out to face the enemy.
In all fairness, this inanimate object is the lesser on my list of evils, but is really the only one I can solve.
Now properly armed, I pluck a wrench from the tool set and pry it into the lip of the mailbox door. To be safe, I check around me for any potential baseball players whose eyesight I could potentially jeopardize.
“Coast is clear,” I mutter, finding that the only other sign of life is a gecko scampering across the hot sidewalk into a hedge.
Grunting, I pull at the door with all my might.
This time the wrench offers enough grip that I don’t have to struggle too hard.
I don’t even lose my balance as it finally opens—no one behind me would’ve been maimed.
It also wouldn’t have made me realize that Miguel Machado is a decent guy who just might keep my secret. And if not, I know where he lives.
Kidding. Or am I?
Among the pieces of mail addressed to me is an envelop that looks like it costs about as much as my monthly mortgage, signaling right away that this belongs to my dad’s world.
I tuck it in the back pocket of my bike shorts so that it can ruin my mood later.
I stretch my neck, roll my shoulders, and crack my knuckles.
Then I fish for the drill to tackle some screws.
“What are you doing?” a soft voice asks somewhere behind me, and since the last time something like this happened I nearly knocked someone out, I stop cold turkey before checking for the speaker.
It’s a girl somewhere in her tweens, she’s tall enough to confuse me. She clutches at the straps of a black sparkly backpack and I immediately know she’s a connoisseur of taste.
Straightening out, I lower the drill and respond with, “Dismantling my mailbox, and you?”
“Watching you dismantle a mailbox.” Her eyebrows rise a little. “What does dismantling mean?”
My lips twitch. I raise my drill and press the trigger once for added drama. “It means bringing down something that no longer serves a good purpose, and it can apply to many things. In this case, a mailbox that refuses to open.”
Okay, I didn’t think that was a masterful joke that could win awards, but I also wasn’t expecting it to cast a shadow over the girl’s face. She kicks at the sidewalk concrete with black Converse that are also sparkly and have hot pink laces. I was nowhere near this stylish when I was her age.
“Can school also be dismantled?” she asks in a calm and serious way.
I lose my previous train of thought and look at her more closely.
I’ve only seen her once before, when she walked out next door to retrieve her dad, who I had just accidentally beaten up.
So I can’t say for sure but… her eyes look red and puffy, like maybe she’s been crying.
Slowly, I set down my tool to focus on the girl.
“I’m Audrey Winters,” I say rather than answering her very pointed question. “I live next door with two other girls. We all work at the Orlando Wild with your dad, actually.”
“Okay?” It’s clear as day that none of this information means anything to her.
“And you are?” I prod gently.
Smart cookie that she clearly is, she says, “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“That’s good.” I bob my head and shrug. “But you’re also the one who started the conversation. It’s only polite to let the other person know your name so they can address you properly.”
She grunts and releases her backpack straps to fold her arms. “I’m Martina but I’ll kill you if you call me that. I go by Marty.”
That’s a test if I know one, so I say, “It’s nice to meet you, Marty. And to answer your question, generally the people who want to dismantle schools are not the good guys.”
“Shucks.” Her mouth turns into a little upturned u.
“Are people in your school being mean to you?” I ask with as much tact as one can possibly have with a child, while also having zero experience with children.
“No…” She drifts off, swaying a little in that way that only someone with a lot bottled up inside can. “People are okay, it’s just…”
“School work is hard?” I raise my hand in defense. “I’m not judging. I hated like half of my classes because I just didn’t get them. Biology was the worst. I assure you I’ve never once had to bust out the definition of mitochondria.”
Marty blinks several times, like trying to make out what kind of adult breed I am. Are all adults supposed to spew pro-mitochondria propaganda?
“Well…” I lean forward just a little, all my attention on what’s tumbling out of her mouth next. “It’s just…”
“This is worse than a bases loaded, bottom of the ninth game. You’re killing me, Smalls.”
That makes her expel what is clearly a disappointed sigh, and I almost fear she’s going to leave me hanging and turn into her home.
“There’s going to be a mother-daughter tea party at school, but I don’t have a mom so I’m the only one in my class who can’t go.” And now that it’s finally off her chest, her big brown eyes start watering for what I’m sure is the nth time today.
Oh, shit. What do I do now?
I check my surroundings, trying to find ideas for how to calm down a sad kid. All I can think of is the freaking mailbox. “Hey, what if I distract you for a bit while you help me with this thing?”
One sniff. A swipe at her cheek. “Let me tell my nanny first.”
“Yes, good idea.”
As she takes herself up to the duplex home next door, I grab at my cellphone on the other pocket of my shorts and text the group chat with my roommates.
Me
SOS Miguel Machado’s daughter came back from school all sad and somehow I’ve volunteered myself to distract her. What do I do?
Responses come in record time.
Darling Hope
Obviously you distract her lol
Me
Thanks, captain obvious
Princess Rose
Marty? She’s a hoot! Logan and I met her at Miguel’s welcome party a few weeks ago
But wait a second. What do you mean she came home from school? I thought you were at OUR home, not Miguel’s??
Me
Oh
Did I not mention that he’s our neighbor?
Darling Hope
Wait WHAT
Princess Rose
EXCUSE YOU
HOW DARE YOU KEEP SUCH A JUICY PIECE OF GOSSIP FROM US
The sound of a door opening and closing pulls me away. My phone is still buzzing with texts as I tuck it back into my pocket and wait for Marty. Her expression is still the definition of grumpy as she walks over to stop before me.
“Nanny Consuelo said I can be out for an hour before she calls me for dinner and to do my homework. And also that she’ll be watching us through the blinds.” Then she points at the house where, sure enough, the blinds shake after someone quickly steps away.
“I agree to the terms.” I nod in agreement and then point at the mess we’re about to make. “I assume you’ve never used a drill in your life, right?”
“Er, no.” Her pretty eyes widen, though they’re no longer sad or watery.
I grin, hoping that she can tell I was joking. “It’s fine, that’s the part I enjoy the best anyway. Just help me hold the evil thing while I unscrew it.”
“You got it,” she says like a little soldier, and we get to work. I succeed on my mission of distracting her until her dad arrives from training, and the most curious thing happens.
Her grumpiness returns in full force.