7. HOPE
CHAPTER 7
HOPE
I am what anyone would consider a morning person. My alarm goes off at five thirty every morning and I’m ready to eat the world—or my stomach is. I’m in and out of the bathroom in five minutes, do a high-intensity interval training in my bedroom, shower in another five minutes, and make a protein shake or veggie smoothie that I can drink on the way to work.
Not today. Today I wake up rolling on my bed like a panda, and looking like one too. All thanks to a late night conversation with a dating prospect that stalled at three in the morning, and then the jerk unmatched me with no warning.
I’m not in and out of the restroom in five minutes. In fact, when I emerge from brushing my teeth, I can’t even fathom the thought of sweating. I skip the shower, skip the healthy smoothie, and instead grab a breakfast burrito from the canteen at work. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed up so late for a jerk when today is day one of Spring Training. I hate it when there are consequences to my own actions.
“Good mor—” The words die in Steve’s mouth once he takes one look at the dark circles around my eyes. He takes one giant step back. “If you’re coming down with something you need to stay home.”
“I’m not sick. I stayed out late uh, reading.” He doesn’t need to know it was text messages and not something more erudite.
“Oh.” My boss’s entire body language shifts back to the easy going vibe he first walked into the prep room with. “The good news is that you’ll be able to take a nap on the bus later. How’s prep going?”
My burrito wrapper lays discarded on a table that is otherwise full of snacks and drinks I’ve categorized by player. The nutrition team takes care of planning their main meals and managing player’s health, but I’m tasked with making sure their before, during, and after game snacks are on point. It’s always tricky because one guy loves strawberry flavors but hates other berries, another guy is the opposite, or you have the ones who only accept one brand and straight up won’t even open another one. Plus allergies, intolerances and plain boredom. They riot if I give them the same snack two times in a row.
“Almost done,” I respond, resisting the urge to sweep my arm over the table where I have pouches with player names emblazoned to hold protein bars, protein chips, and bottles with electrolyte drinks. On a different topic, I add, “I also got the trunks ready.”
The trunks are packed with all the equipment we need to help players stretch and warm up, tape them up, ice them, stave off pain, and make splints with. They’re also picky about which brand of muscle pain relievers they like, so I keep a stock of everything that exists under the sun is FDA approved.
Otto, my coworker, strides in a whole fifteen minutes late and gets a handshake from Steve rather than a scolding. He takes a look at all the work I’ve done and opens his mouth. “Looking great. Any snackies for me?”
“Help yourself.” I offer what I hope is a casual smile but make sure to point at the fridge with my index and not middle finger, as I’d have preferred. I’m paid to take care of athletes, not him.
“Aww, Hope. You should be more of a team player and get something for staff too.” Sighing as if this is the end of the world, he drags his ass toward the fridge to poke his head in there. Unfortunately he keeps using his mouth. “After all, it’s such a long drive to Clearwater.”
I turn my back on him to start collecting all the pouches and put them in a massive cooler on wheels, muttering, “It’s barely over two hours.”
Steve probably hears this because he clears his throat. “Anyway, where’s everyone else?”
“Dom and Jimmy took up some of the trunks to the buses,” I answer.
“Great. Otto and I will take the rest. Do you have this covered?” Steve points at the snacks.
“Yep, I got it.”
My mood improves just a notch when both of them wheel the rest of the trunks out of the prep room, and I can keep working in peace and quiet.
Unfortunately my mind destroys any such notion when it reminds me again of the douche from last night, and how suddenly Otto has a bit of a point. A two-hour drive all the way down I-4 on a bus full of men sounds like a horrible nightmare. I wish I was back home, snuggled in my bed and making up for all the time I wasted on a random guy who didn’t deserve it.
Alas, I drag my feet and the cooler behind me all the way out to the parking lot. The sun has no right to be as bright as it is today, and after a quick pat down of my pockets I come up empty for sunglasses.
“Great.” This day can’t possibly get worse, can it?
“Whoa, what’s up with that grumpy raccoon face?” The obnoxious voice of one shortstop by the name of Lucas “Lucky” Rivera comes from the left. Worse, he’s joined by his buddy, Cade “Cowboy” Starr.
I stare at him. “I prefer panda face.”
“You’re not sick, are you?” Starr asks.
“No,” I grouch.
“Then what’s up, Garcia?” Rivera points at me with his chin. “We don’t need that bad juju to start Spring Training, you know?”
“It’s not bad juju, it’s just men.” I huff and wave a hand toward the bus. “Anyway, hop on. We don’t have all day.” Other players and staff members bypass us on their way to the nearest team bus or the ones farther back.
“Ah. So this is about the dating issues again,” Rivera says with a Mr. Miyagi nod and stroke of his imaginary beard.
There’s plenty of loud chatter around us that I hope has covered his words. But just in case, I ask, “Did you forget about my steak knives?”
Rivera’s eyebrows take off into the sky. “You know what, until this very moment I had.”
“Let’s go, you jerk.” Starr puts a big paw on his friend’s shoulder, trying to steer him away.
However, the Boricua seems to have other plans. He plants himself firmly and folds his arms. “Listen, my offer still stands. I can definitely help you with that issue.”
And I guess I must be so out of sorts between the poor sleep and the anger roiling in my gut, that for a second I contemplate it.
Honestly, it doesn’t have to be Starr who coaches me into successful dating. He’s right in that we’ve barely ever seen him with the same woman twice. But Rivera had a solid girlfriend a couple of years back.
I mirror his exact stance down to the wide feet. “Okay, what do you have in mind?”
Slowly his lips curve into a little smirk that has the odd effect of making me want to punch his face. “Date me instead. I can treat you right.”
“That’s it,” Starr announces and grabs a whole fistful of Rivera’s shirt and hauls him away. “One more word out of your yap and I’ll be a witness against you in the harassment lawsuit.”
I snort through my nose.
Rivera gesticulates wide with his hands as he gets dragged to the bus. “I’m just trying to help, man.”
The pitcher pushes him into the bus and right as he climbs the first step, Starr stops to glance back at me over his shoulder. The bill of his cap casts a pretty prominent shadow across his face, but I can still tell that he’s studying me like I’m the batter for a rival team. He shakes his head and finally hops on the bus.
?Qué diantres fue eso?
I file that one away to replay it in my head whenever I manage to land my head on a pillow again. For now, I take a seat on the cooler and wait until the team is fully boarded before I start my little round.
I check my list with the seating chart and take a grocery bag from the cooler, stuffed with the snacks for the players in the third bus. It takes about ten minutes to distribute them to everyone and I rinse and repeat with the next, and finally with the last bus. My eyes immediately fall on the two stooges, Starr and Rivera, sitting together toward the back, and I’m immensely glad that my seat isn’t on this one.
“Kim,” I call our main catcher’s name and toss his snack pouch at him. He catches it easily, which is apropos.
“Miller.” Snacks go to our first baseman.
“O’Brian.” Another one to the right fielder. I keep going until I make it to the back.
“Rivera,” I say in the most deadpanned way possible. This time he’s more excited about the prospect of food and drink than on teasing me.
I reach into the shopping bag for one of the last pouches. Since Starr is right beside me, instead of tossing it I just dangle it on his face. “Starr.”
He plucks it from my hand and I move away to reach the last three guys at the back. But suddenly a big, calloused hand wraps around my wrist and I freeze.
Turning my face, I stay still as Starr puts his snacks between his thighs and reaches into his pocket with his free hand. I try pulling at my wrist but his grip tightens enough to prohibit it, but not to hurt.
Then he produces a piece of paper from his pocket and slips it into my hand, finally releasing me, and tackling his snack as if nothing happened. I blink at the top of his purple cap with the Orlando Wild logo in yellow.
Somehow my body doesn’t betray me. I stick my hand back in the grocery bag and dump the note, grabbing the next snack pouch to finish my job here. And luck is finally on my side because the last three guys have their full attention on a single iPad that is playing who knows what, and they barely even notice I’m trying to feed them.
I keep my eyes toward the front of the bus as I make my way out. There are no sassy comments from anyone, which means that really no one saw that. My heart hammering in my throat is the only vestige of what just happened.
And why the hell is it even working that hard? Yeah, it was surprising. But c’mon, it’s not my first time a guy touches me. It’s just been a long while, I think once I take my seat a row right behind my boss.
I unwrap the plastic bag from around my fist and stretch it out. The note is crumpled up inside. After a quick glance around, confirming that literally no one gives a fudge about what I’m doing, I take it out and spread it open.
Let’s talk about this after the game .
That’s it. Not even a signature.
I fold it back up and face the window, racking my brain. Talk about what? What is the this he’s referring to? Does he have a complaint about my snacks? No—I guess he’d broach that openly during office hours.
Then what? Is he truly worried I’ll sue Rivera for kind of asking me out?
Or… I rest my elbow against the edge of the window, and jam my fist against my mouth. Has he changed his mind about being my dating coach? Did I look pathetic enough this morning?
Great, now I have to wait the two hours plus of the bus drive, another couple of warmups before the game, and then some three hours of playing ball before I can get my answers.