5. Porca Miseria
FIVE
PORCA MISERIA
ISABELLA
Unlocking my car, I toss my tote bag over the center console into the passenger seat and climb into the driver’s seat.
I stick my keys in the ignition but hesitate before starting it.
I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, letting out a deep breath.
This assignment is going to be the death of me. I know it.
It’s been just over a week, and I’ve already worked eight games.
Eight.
In nine days.
To say I’m counting down until the end of tomorrow’s game would be an understatement. After tomorrow night, I can finally have some time off while the team is away for a week and a half. I’m already daydreaming of the sleep I’ll catch up on.
With one last calming breath, I turn the key to start the car and…
Nothing.
It doesn’t start.
The engine doesn’t even try to turn over.
“Pezzo di merda.”
I give the key another go, and once again am met with nothing but a soft clicking.
“Cazzo!”
I try again and again. And again. All with the same results.
What’s that Einstein quote again? Stupidity is doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome? Something like that.
Guess that makes me stupid, because my car officially won’t start.
“Porca misera,” I cry as I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, exhaustion making my limbs heavy.
Great. Just great. This is fabulous. And the absolute last thing I needed tonight.
Guess I’ll be catching an Uber home this evening.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I jolt, startled by the sound against my window. I peek over and see none other than Ryan Fletcher standing there with a smirk on his beautiful face.
No. Not beautiful face.
His face. His entirely normal, nothing special face.
I roll my eyes at him and go to roll down the window… except the car won’t start so it doesn’t have power. I let out a resigned groan, dropping my forehead to the steering wheel once more as he opens the unlocked door.
“Car trouble?” Amusement laces his voice.
I roll my head so I can look at him without lifting it, puffing a quick breath to blow the bangs out of my eyes.
He’s leaned his forearm on the top of the door and has one leg crossed over the other.
He looks so aloof and unbothered. Meanwhile, I’m wanting to drive my car off the nearest bridge. Except it won’t start!
“What on earth would give you that impression?” I ask, the sarcasm heavy.
“I’m no mechanic, but I think your battery is dead,” he says, stating the obvious.
“You think?” I snark back. I can replay this conversation back later and feel guilty about it then, but for now I’m tired and borderline hangry. Fletcher just so happens to be in the line of fire.
“Want a jump? I think I’ve got some cables in my car,” he offers, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing in the direction to where I assume his car is parked.
He probably drives some incredibly overpriced sports car that only loaded professional athletes and men having a mid-life crisis drive.
I barely contain my scoff at the thought.
“Not sure it’ll do much good, but we can give it a shot, I guess.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, eyes narrowing as if he can dig into my thoughts and suss it out for himself. I drop my gaze from his and play with a loose thread on the leather steering wheel. “Isa, what do you mean it won’t do any good? Has this happened before?”
I mumble out my reply which only causes him to brace one hand on the top of the door he was leaning against and the other on the roof so he can lower closer into my space.
It’s overwhelming to have him this close and my senses are consumed by the scent of whatever soap he used to shower off after the game. It’s spicy and so very man.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” he says, his face entirely too intense that it catches me off guard.
I clear my throat nervously before I answer. “I said yes, it’s happened before, okay? Happy?” I grumble.
He shakes his head. “No, not happy. How many times?”
“Um, a few?” He raises an eyebrow at me, clearly sensing I’m not being entirely truthful. It could also be the way I gave my answer in the form of a question. “God, fine Fletcher. Six. Six times.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Isa!” He pushes off the car and runs his hands through his dark hair in exasperation. “Something’s wrong if this keeps happening. You need a new car!”
“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. But unfortunately, not all of us have multi-million-dollar contracts to swing metal sticks at balls and run in a square.”
“Wooden.”
“Excuse me?”
“The bats. They’re wooden,” he explains.
“Really? I always thought they were metal. In fact, I’m almost positive the little leagues my brother played for used metal bats.”
“They probably did, but the MLB uses wooden bats.”
“Huh,” I say, truly dumbfounded, but I shake off any further thoughts on the matter.
“That’s not the point! I cannot afford to go out and buy a new car right now.
I need this one to pull through for a few more months until I get my promotion and then I will go full-on ‘treat yo self’ and replace it.
” He rolls his eyes at me, but I can see the smirk on his face.
Next thing I know, he’s holding his hand out in front of my face.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, gaze bouncing between his eyes and hand.
“Take it.”
“Why?”
“I’m giving you a ride home.”
I scoff. “No, you’re not.” The audacity of this man.
“Yes. I am.” His voice is stern.
“I’m going to order an Uber,” I say, already digging into my pocket to remove my phone.
“With post-game traffic, the surge pricing will be through the roof. Take my hand.” He pushes his hand further into my space in emphasis.
“No,” I say, metaphorically putting my foot down, and pulling up the Uber app on my phone.
Annnnd he’s right. The surge pricing is indeed ‘through the roof’ and getting home would easily cost me the same as a week’s worth of groceries.
If I wasn’t so exhausted and starving, I would be stubborn enough to wait out the surge pricing, but I’m unfortunately not strong enough to resist. I let out a resigned sigh, knowing what I have to do.
And clearly so does Fletcher, who pushes his hand further into my field of vision.
“Fine,” I concede, reaching across the console to grab my bag. “Let’s go, but I’m picking the music,” I argue.
“Fine by me,” he says with a bright grin as he turns on his heel and stalks off toward his car.
I scramble to get out, hitting lock and jogging to catch up with him. “Stronzo,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?” he asks with a lift of his brow.
“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just… cursing my car still.”
Yep. Cursing the car. Definitely not calling you an asshole behind your back. I would never.
“Mhm, okay. So, where do you live?”
“Not too far from here, actually. Over in Pasadena.” Which I was grateful for when I was put on this assignment. No one wants to deal with LA traffic, and if I don’t have to trek down into the city for work, I’m a happy camper.
“Oh, sweet. I’m actually heading that way anyway.”
“Oh, really?” I ask, my voice dripping with skepticism.
“Yes, really,” he argues. “I’ve got an apartment over in Glendale.”
“Oh.” I feel heat creep up my cheeks in embarrassment. Thankfully it’s dark enough even with the parking lot floodlights that he can’t tell. I hope. “I thought you’d live out in Calabasas or Malibu.”
He looks over at me with a massive smile. “Oh, I’ve got a beach house out in Malibu too.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”
“Don’t judge, firecracker.” My cheeks heat and I hate the way my body reacts to the nickname.
“No one wants to drive over an hour back and forth on game days. I stay out in Malibu during the offseason or whenever we have a few days off. But usually, I stay at my place in Glendale. Makes the commute easier. Plus, it’s excellent for the environment,” he adds with a wink, as if that’s his whole motivation for having two homes in the same county. The environment.
“I suppose that does make a bit of sense. Someone should really go catch up with Dante because LA traffic is its own circle of hell.”
The laugh that bursts out of him is entirely unexpected. He stops walking to bend at the waist and catch his breath. “Wow, you really are hilarious. That was a good one.”
I can feel my lips twitch in an attempted smile. Isa, don’t you dare smile. I try to smooth out my face and hope it doesn’t show. “I suppose. So, um, which one is your car?”
“Right! It’s this one right here,” he says, walking a few more spots down and stopping in front of a BMW sedan.
It’s a more modest vehicle than I expected him to have.
“Something wrong?” he asks since I’m just standing there staring at his car in confusion.
“No, nothing. Sorry. Nice car is all,” I ramble off as I round to the passenger side.
Climbing in, I feel the subtle luxury. The leather seats are incredibly comfortable and butter soft, I could probably sleep in them.
And it has all the tech you can think of: cameras, lane assist, CarPlay, the works, really.
Makes mine look like a real piece of junk.
I buckle in and look up to see him smirking at me from his seat. God, I hate that smirk. “What?”
“You thought I’d have some douchebag sports car, didn’t you?”
“What? No, of course not,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and sinking further into my seat.
“You totally did! Come on, firecracker. Admit it, you assumed I’d have a flashier car. Kind of like you assumed I lived out in Malibu.” His grin is practically feline. He’s so excited by the prospect of me assuming things about him incorrectly.
I sigh. “Fine, yes, I did. Sue me. You’re this hotshot baseball player who makes millions a year. Why wouldn’t you have a car that’s extra like that?”
He nods, face serious and voice deadpan. “You’re totally right. Because all athletes are the same and spend their money in the same ways. You know what they say about assuming right, Isa?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, something about asses and me. I got it. But I will say”—I point a finger at him—“I was right about the Malibu house.”
He smirks at me before he buckles up and pushes the engine start button.
“That you were, firecracker. That you were.” With one last wink at me, he stretches his arm over the back of my seat to turn himself around and reverse out of the parking spot.
As if being in his car wasn’t overwhelming me with his scent enough, with his body so close to mine I’m going lightheaded.