CHAPTER 35
I think about Reyes the entire drive home. It’s not far to my lonely, little apartment where nothing feels like home. The team furnished it before I moved in, and I’m grateful that I didn’t have to deal with furniture browsing, or deliveries, or building stuff from an incomplete toolbox and instructions made entirely of unlabeled pictures. But it’s also the slightest bit unnerving, like staying in a hotel long after the novelty has worn off.
Getting ready for bed calms me. The routine is something to settle into, but it leaves my mind wide open for more thoughts of a certain very naked catcher and how good he looked staring up at me.
I change out of everything except his shirt. I’m ninety percent sure it saw the floor of my locker room at some point tonight, and I’m going to have to change before I actually climb into bed, but I can’t bring myself to shed it quite yet.
It’s not like I’m playing in tomorrow’s game anyway. Instead of going straight to sleep, I curl up on the sofa and wrap myself in the blanket Mama helped me crochet when I was ten and she was determined to share more activities between us than baseball.
Just as I turn on highlights from a rival game for background noise and power on my tablet, my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Reyes:
Home safe. Hope you are, too
I grin like a fool and want to hate myself for it. This is a mess waiting to blow up on us, a fact that’s glaringly obvious now that I’m alone in my apartment.
Me:
Shouldn’t you be in bed by now, viejito?
Setting the phone screen-down on the table, I tell myself to leave it at that. A joke to let him know I’m safe–that’s it. I’m not going to get carried away and stay up all night texting him like some schoolgirl with a crush.
The phone buzzes. I ignore it. I read the same page five times before I give in and check the message.
Reyes:
Should I save you some?
I read the text alert and laugh in spite of myself. I unlock my phone expecting a picture of his junk and prepared to rate how flattering his photography skills are. To my surprise, it’s a picture of him with his fork stabbed in some sort of coffee cake and a goofy grin on his face.
Me:
You’re eating cake without me?!
Reyes:
Only to save you from twenty questions with my niece
Reyes:
She won’t stop asking about you, and you’re not even here
My stomach flips. I’m not sure if it’s excitement or apprehension over the idea of him talking to his family about me. I know he isn’t talking about me, not really. He told me about his niece the ballplayer, and it makes sense for her to ask about me in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with the flirty, little banter that led to me being alone in the locker room with him.
Reyes:
Unless you want me to invite you for cake next time
I’m not sure how long I stare at the screen, but my phone doesn’t buzz again. No flashing dots. No passive aggressive message about me not responding. Just that picture of Mateo Reyes looking sweeter than the cake he’s eating. No matter how many times I reread those three simple messages, I can’t figure out what to type back. After what probably hasn’t been nearly as long as it feels, I snap a picture for him instead.
Nothing that will scandalize his mother or niece if someone happens to peek over his shoulder. Which isn’t to say that the picture wouldn’t raise questions. But that picture he sent me wasn’t a selfie. He let someone in that kitchen take the picture before he sent it to me, so I assume he’s ready to answer any interrogation he might face on his end.
I crop the picture of me curled up in his shirt. Bare legs hidden beneath the blanket. Half-smile that walks the line between flirty and friendly. One last glance to make sure I’m not giving anyone a glimpse of my nipples through the thin cotton.
I send the photo and practically toss my phone across the couch, immediately nervous about his reaction. Or worse, that he won’t respond at all. What if I waited too long after his last message? What if it’s not sexy enough? What if it’s too sexy?
Giving up on the book in front of me, I flip channels to sitcom reruns and wish I had a pet. If it weren’t so late, I’d call my moms again, just to feel less alone. If either of their phones rang this late at night after they already spent the better part of the last three innings interrogating me about my hand, they’d probably hop on the first flight out here. Not that I’m not homesick and dying to see them, but we’ll be playing my old team, the Scorpions, back in Texas in the very next series, and I’ll see my family then.
I don’t want thoughts of my old team to sour my mood after an unexpectedly perfect evening, but my mind is about to spiral down that path when the message finally comes.
Reyes:
Sleep tight, beautiful
It was worth the wait.
I’m the first person in the locker room even though I know I won’t be playing today. I contemplate passing the extra time by hitting the gym for a quick workout, but I don’t want to deal with Alejandro or Reyes giving me a hard time. Even though my hand really is fine.
I cross the empty locker room and enter mine, half-expecting to find sopping carpet, clothing and towel on the floor, and who knows what other mess we left behind in our lust-drunk haze. Instead, I find nothing out of place except the paper plate wrapped in foil tucked into my locker. I peel back the aluminum to reveal a generous slice of the cake from Reyes’ picture. As I lift it to my nose to try to guess what the flavor is, a folded piece of memo paper flutters to my feet.
Before you give me a hard time about special treatment, I made sure Dante’s slice is bigger.
The note isn’t signed, but I smile and shake my head as I slip it back into my locker for safekeeping. The cake isn’t my only surprise; folded beneath my uniform is a fresh, fluffy towel and an old shirt that’s not mine as surely as it’s Reyes’ size. I read the note pinned to the collar and try to curb butterflies that have nothing to do with today”s game.
Couldn’t help myself after that picture you sent
I change into my uniform and go through my pre-game ritual. Lucky socks. Hair ribbon. Tie, untie, and re-tie my shoes. Rub the saint medal on my new red belt. Kiss my knuckles and press them to the ‘A’ on my cap. The locker room is still nearly empty when I walk out wondering where Reyes is hiding.
I’m contemplating texting him, not totally sure where we stand on that. We’re more than teammates, but I don’t think either of us knows what that means.
“?Mija!” The voice that interrupts my flustered indecision is so unexpected, tears spring to my eyes faster than my moms can race each other across the room.
“What are you doing here?” I gasp while trying to choke back my tears before my teammates see me.
“You’ve discouraged us from coming out to see you play long enough. You couldn’t possibly have convinced us to stay away after watching you collapse on the mound,” my mom says while Mama reaches gingerly for my hand, inspecting it for signs that I lied to her about my injury.
“I told you, I’m fine,” I insist, blushing while Dante grins at me and mouths how cute my moms are.
I’m embarrassed more by my own reaction to seeing them than by their attention, even if they are being dramatic and babying me in the middle of the locker room. Enough of my teammates are Latine that there’s no way they aren’t used to getting the same doting energy from their own moms, tías, and abuelas. My tears are at bay, but they’re still there keeping up the constant threat, and I can’t stop laughing. Apparently I haven’t done as good a job of hiding how lonely and homesick I’ve been as I had thought.
“Oh my god, Mama, what are you doing?” I drop my face into my other hand while the shorter of my mothers unscrews the blue jar that has been the cure to nearly everything since I was a child.
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.” Mom accentuates the reprimand with a pinch of my free arm.
I roll my eyes because my face is still hidden behind my hand and refrain from making any smart remarks about the fact that my bisexual and lesbian mothers are about as far from practicing Catholics as they could be.
My teammates start to trickle in while I stand there listening to my mom move on to telling me all about their flight drama and letting my mama rub the ointment into my hand until I reek of eucalyptus. Delgado and Pe?a introduce themselves to my moms and walk off to their lockers laughing. It’s not like the times I’ve been the butt of the joke; this time, they’re laughing because of this shared experience, giving us a piece of shared cultura no matter how different our lives are.
“Can I get some of that?” Castillo asks and clears his throat. “My fall allergies are acting up.”
Mama smiles and hands him the jar, all too happy to help, and glad to have someone taking her cure seriously. She practically offers to rub it on his chest for him, and I have to pull her away promising to buy her a new jar.
“Moms, I’m glad you’re here, but you can’t stay in this locker room. My teammates are about to start changing.” I’m trying to herd them toward the door, but it’s like herding cats.
“So? Not like I’d be looking at anything,” Mama says with her phone in one hand and her other hand wrapped around my arm trying to pull me toward my room so she can take pictures of me like a little kid on my first day of school.
“Speak for yourself,” my mom says with a suggestive wag of her penciled-in eyebrows that makes me groan. Dante lets me know that he’s snuck back up on us by letting out his raucous laugh.
“Oh really?” Mama lets her phone fall forgotten into her purse and gives my mom’s shoulder a gentle shove.
Their hyper-attention on me gives way to loving banter that’s gotten them through twenty-three years of marriage. I take advantage of the moment to place a hand on each of their backs and guide them toward the main doors.
“Your moms are adorable,” Dante says, already changed and tracking alongside us. “You been up to the wives and girlfriends box? I can walk you. My wife and kids will be happy for the company.”
We make it up to the box for players’ families, which is already full of people eating, drinking, and chatting in team jerseys. As the nickname Dante used for the box implied, the room and stadium seats beyond are filled mostly with wives and girlfriends, the average age in the room probably younger than the number of years my moms have been married. They’re good at entertaining themselves and both far better socially than I’ve ever been, but I’m still relieved they’ll have Dante’s wife to be a friendly face.
“No way, no way, no way! You’re Sierra Ramirez!” An excited voice, even younger than the rest, squeals in my direction as they move closer. “Holy shit–”
“Language!” the older woman beside her snaps. She looks embarrassed and mildly apologetic, but she’s also incredibly beautiful with small, kind eyes bracketed by laugh lines. Her skin is dark brown, and her black hair specked with white is pulled back into a tight, low bun. Her nose is a shade broader and her eyes a little deeper set, but there’s no mistaking which player this woman is in the box to see.
“Rookie, I see you’ve already met my niece, Leila,” Reyes says. “And this is my mom, Carmelita.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Reyes.” I’ve barely finished shaking her hand before Leila is reaching out for her turn.
I’ve known that I’m a fan-favorite, as odd as that still seems to me, and I objectively understand the fact that I’m a role model. I even knew that Leila had asked about me repeatedly. But coming face-to-face with a fan this excited to meet me–especially someone who can’t possibly be star-struck with an uncle like Reyes–is both sweet and incredibly uncomfortable.
“I’m Mateo. It’s so nice the two of you were able to make it out for this game,” Reyes says to my mothers, his voice drifting to me as if from a distance.
“How nice to meet you,” Mama says.
“At least one of you remembers your manners,” my mom says, shaking his hand and eyeing me, while I’m still trying to come to terms with the attention from his niece and the fact that our families are meeting. Not even twenty-four hours after we fooled around downstairs.
While I still don’t know what we are or what we’re doing.
My moms introduce themselves while Dante brings his family over, and Leila continues to pepper me with questions. I’m distracted in the middle, but the truth is, I’m distracted by Reyes most of all.
I know he can’t have gotten any more attractive in the last twenty-four hours, but I swear he has. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes keep finding me, even though he’s holding his own in conversation far better than I am. Whether it’s out of politeness or because his family is beside him, he smiles far more than usual. Even when he isn’t actually smiling, I can feel that same warmth in the crinkle around his eyes. In the way he looks at me.
Seemingly without preamble, Reyes pulls a permanent marker from his pocket and holds it out to me. I know what it must be for–there’s only one reason any of us carries the black markers around in our bags and pockets–but I can feel the confusion on my face anyway. I accept the pen, and a half-second later, Reyes has his hands on my ballcap.
He removes it carefully. Taking care not to yank my hair, he slides the cap over my ponytail and raises it between Leila and me as if it’s some sacrificial offering. I sign my name and hand it over to his niece, marveling in the way she beams at me.
No matter what happens with Reyes, whether I last in the league or get my fifteen minutes of fame, this moment will live with me forever. The cutest part is that Reyes thinks he’s given his niece a gift; he doesn’t even realize how much he’s just done for me.
“Maybe if you’re nice to me, I can convince Ramirez to chat with you after the game, but we’ve got to get down to the rest of the team,” he tells his niece, who sticks her full lower lip out in a playful pout.
“I’m always nice to you,” she teases. “You’re the one who refuses to ask a date to my debut.”
It’s probably all in my imagination, but I could swear that she looks at me when she says that.
It’s definitely not in my imagination when Reyes flinches.
We say goodbye to our families and leave the four of them loading up plates with snacks for the game.
“You stole my cap,” I say while we hold the elevator doors until Dante can pull himself away from his youngest daughter. “You couldn’t have given me something else to sign?”
I don’t realize I’m touching my hair self-consciously until Reyes laughs.
“Worried about your hat hair, rookie?” he asks. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
While I’m busy searching for the perfect retort, Reyes takes off his own cap. He’s just as careful putting it on me as he was removing mine a few minutes earlier. He pulls my hair through the back of the cap, not rushing the movement as Dante steps into the elevator beside us and hits the button. Dante leans against the wall, laughing at something on his phone, and I’m ninety percent sure he’s pretending to ignore us for our sake, a fact which leaves me nearly as embarrassed as I am grateful.
With Reyes’ cap in place, hanging a tad loose on my head, he gives my hair one final tug. An unnecessary pull that, however small, floods my core and cheeks with heat.
“Here. I need a new one anyway. That one’s all sweaty.”
Dante’s attempt to disguise his laughter as a cough is unsuccessful but appreciated. Without thinking, I plant one hand in the center of Reyes’ chest and push him away from me. Not aggressively. Not even hard enough to make me wince at my bruised hand. But I feel his heart racing as my hand lingers a second too long, and my heart leaps in response, even as I roll my eyes and laugh, “You are so nasty.”
“Mhmm. Nothing’s going on here, my ass,” Dante mumbles as the three of us step off the elevator.
If he were anyone else on the team, I’d be more concerned. Either way, I make a note for us to be more subtle, no matter what this is.