Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 22

“Oh. My. God. Was that really her?” My niece bounds into the kitchen at my heels, while Nessa leads my mother in behind us with their basket of fresh guava. “You didn’t even introduce me, Tito?”

“You’re the one who hid behind your mother.” I ruffle her hair and brace myself for a breakfast of being civil with Oliver.

It’s hard enough dealing with him on a normal basis. After seeing the way Ramirez looked at us and watching helplessly as she fled my driveway, making small talk with the ex who crashed my morning-after breakfast after I explicitly told him not to come is the last thing I want to do. I want to revel in the way she looked wearing my hoodie, not feel guilty over the look of betrayal on her face.

I had planned to surprise her with a homecooked meal, not to spend my day wondering if she was only upset to see me with someone else, or if she was bothered seeing me with a man.

“You could have made her stay for breakfast, Matty,” Nessa says.

I’ve never been so grateful for the grating noise of the blender as I am when my mother starts blending juice while I fail to contain my frustrated sigh. None of my drama is my sister’s fault. I want her to have all the happiness she deserves. I just don’t want them all finding that happiness in my house when I specifically asked for space.

“If you knew her, you’d know that I can’t make her do anything.”

It’s easier to laugh that off than to point out that she was going to stay. Maybe if Leila and my mother weren’t in the room, I wouldn’t have bit my tongue. But I am not such an ungrateful son as to make them feel unwelcome all because Oliver still refuses to acknowledge that he doesn’t always know what’s best for me.

“She seems like such a nice girl, mijo,” my mom says, and I hide my grin in the glass of fresh guava juice she handed me. “Maybe she will go to Leila’s debut with you.”

I should have known that was coming next. What surprises me is that I don’t completely hate the idea.

Oliver chokes on his juice until my sister smacks his back. He shoots me a concerned glance, which I pointedly ignore.

“I’m not sure she’s the dress up in a gown and learn to waltz type, Mom.” I push back from the table and help her serve the eggs and rice while she tries to shoo me out of her way. I know better than to ‘invade her kitchen’ even if it’s my own kitchen in question. Anything to get away from Oliver, though.

“She can wear whatever she wants,” Leila points out. “It’s the twenty-first century, Tito.”

My niece has always spoken with a wisdom and confidence beyond her years. At least, when she isn’t hiding from her latest sports hero behind her mother’s metaphorical skirts.

“Either way, you won’t know unless you ask her,” my mother adds.

The last of the dishes are on the table. Salt, pepper, and hot sauce sit beside the pitcher of guava juice. I can’t avoid sharing my table with Oliver, but I avoid eye contact and conversation with him as much as I can politely get away with.

I don’t hate the man. I’m not even mad at him for being the one with enough clarity to end our relationship before it became toxic. At the end of the day, I’m glad he’s still around my family. I just wish the man would learn to respect my boundaries when he disagrees with them.

“Enough about who I’m not bringing. Give me all the updates on your debut planning. What have I missed?”

Breakfast turns into debut planning and family time that last long enough that I have to excuse myself or I’ll never make it to the batting cages before sundown. We’ve moved on from talking about Leila’s debut for her eighteenth birthday to discussing her college applications and early acceptance letters, and I leave them debating the merits of choosing a university close to home.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

I finish putting on my socks and adjust myself one last time in front of the mirror. I don’t need to look up at the man leaning in my doorway to know Oliver is wearing his trademark let me save you from making a bad decision look.

“Excuse me,” I say when he refuses to move out of my way.

“Mateo.”

“Oliver.”

He sighs and reaches for my shoulder. His touch is somehow calming and infuriating at the same time.

“I want you to be happy, but you know that’s a bad idea.”

“There’s nothing there to be a bad idea,” I say. “Whatever you think is going on isn’t. It isn’t any of your business anyway.”

“It’s not just your career at stake.” He drops his hand. I push past him, but he follows me out to the garage. “Is it worth ruining hers, too?”

I secure my bag, slip on my shoes and helmet, and mount the motorcycle that I should probably not be riding.

“Mind your own business, or get out of my house, Oliver. Don’t make me be an ass in front of my family.”

I’m not sure if he tries to continue the argument; if he does, I don’t hear him as the engine beneath me roars to life.

I pull out of my garage and hurtle down the driveway a little too fast. Wind whips around me, and I dart through traffic like a reckless teen half my age, drawing angry honks and middle fingers from drivers stuck in traffic. By the time I reach batting practice, the adrenaline of the ride has drained most of my overwrought emotions, but Oliver’s warning is still in my head.

Ramirez is the only one still at the private outdoor batting cages. It’s just her and me, sunlight, and the sound of the pitching machine.

The bat connects with a glorious crack that sends that blur of white and red sailing. It’s a beautiful hit, like nothing I’ve ever seen her do on the field, but that isn’t what impresses me. What catches my attention is the hit that comes next, and the one after that, and the one after that. Every single one is crisp and clean.

There are a few technical errors; honestly, calling them errors is too extreme. She has opportunities in her form and her timing, but what I’m watching is an exceptional athlete with no one and nothing around to make her doubt herself out of her own performance.

Either she doesn’t notice me approaching, or she chooses to ignore me in her peripheral vision. One perfect hit after another, she doesn’t falter once as I cross the small parking lot.

“Nice of you to show up.”

She steps out of the cage and rummages through her bag for her water bottle. I wrap my fingers through the links and lean against the flexible barrier. Sweat glistens on her arms, and her shirt sticks to her lower back. Water drips down her chin, and she swipes the rogue droplets away with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry for springing my family on you this morning,” I say because she still isn’t looking at me. “In my defense, I wasn’t expecting them either.”

“A pues.” She sinks down to the turf and stretches one leg in front of her. “I’m sorry for making a scene. I wasn’t expecting what happened last night to turn into anything. I shouldn’t have assumed the man in your kitchen was something more–”

“He’s my ex.” I cut her off. If we’re going to do this, then I need it out in the open now. “We dated for almost year; it was serious, and it wasn’t a phase.”

“Were you dating last night?” She stretches the other leg in front of her.

“No. Of course not–”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” She must see something in my face, because she finally lets the ice between us thaw with a sigh. Ramirez rises to her feet and steps forward until there’s nothing between us but a few inches of summer air. She squints at me, and for the first time since she saw me with Oliver, she smiles. It’s a small, close-lipped grin, but I’ll take what I can get. “Did you think I cared because he was a man?”

“Being one of only two out players in the league isn’t exactly easy. Of course, that worry crossed my mind.” I wish I didn’t sound so defensive.

She grabs the links and leans into the fence. Close enough that she can stroke the side of my hand with the pad of her index finger. It’s a small touch, and I shouldn’t admit the thrill it sends through me, but it comforts me with words unspoken.

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Growing up in Texas with my lesbian and my bisexual moms, I absolutely know that it matters. I just meant, as long as you weren’t cheating on him with me, I’m not upset.” She rubs the side of my hand one more time and pushes herself away from the cage. “For the record, there’s more than two out players in the league, Reyes. Everyone just cares too much about the fact that they let a girl on the men’s field to pay attention to anything else about me.”

“You’re bi?” I’m so relieved by the way this conversation has gone, the words are out of my mouth before I think twice about questioning her identity.

“You didn’t think you were the only cool kid, did you, Reyes?”

The beautiful rookie turns away from me with the most slow-motion finger guns I have ever seen in my life. All of the anxiety and frustration of our crashed morning after disappears as I laugh hard enough to make the metal fencing shake.