13. MATEO
thirteen
I did it.
I managed to have a normal conversation with Isabella without picturing her naked.
That came after I left. But still, progress.
I don’t know what I expected to happen after we talked, but having her give me a wordless wave goodbye wasn’t it. I guess I’m a bit jaded toward the women I’m not related to.
At this rate, it’s easy to spot a vulture among the crowds or people who only want a piece of me.
Well, not a piece of me, but rather a piece of my brand. Because the media doesn’t know who I truly am. Thanks in part to the thick skin my father warned me I’d need if I ever had dreams to make it in the big leagues.
It’s been over fifteen years since he passed, and I’m still leaning on his life lessons. Which is a true testament to what a great father he was to me.
Something I need to keep in the forefront of my mind if I aspire to be half the man he was.
“Yo, Martinez. You finally coming out with us tonight?” Marcos Sánchez, my second baseman, asks me.
Torres snickers next to him. “Yeah, right. You know Mateo never goes out unless it’s part of those team-building exercises they keep trying to shove down our throats, as if we don’t play like a team that’s been going at it for years.”
We’re standing in our hotel lobby in Los Angeles, waiting to be handed our room keys.
He’s right, though. I never go out with the team. Not because I don’t enjoy their company, surprisingly enough. But rather because the idea of sitting in the VIP section of a bar or club is about as appealing to me as eating gas station sushi.
I spend enough time trying to dodge professional cameras as it is. So being in a room with a bunch of drunken strangers, in another team’s town no less, sounds like my own personal nightmare.
All it takes is one perfectly aimed shot to paint whatever picture the media is hungry for that week. Which is why I make their job easy for them and avoid leaving my home or hotel room at all costs.
After a while, the paparazzi got the hint and knew it was probably a safer bet to try and follow my teammates if they wanted to post something about the Monarchs.
“Come on, Golden Boy!” Ace Middlebrooks, my third baseman, taunts. The entire team knows how much I despise the title the media has bestowed upon me, so naturally, they use it to rile me up.
Yes, I know how to behave myself in public, and I smile at children and wave at fans, which nowadays is more than enough to brand me as America’s Sweetheart.
Clearly, the bar is set extremely low for athletes.
“Come on. Don’t be a dick, Ace. We’re trying to actually convince him to leave his hotel room this time around. Haven’t you ever heard that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?” Julian Delgado, my left fielder, pipes in, his signature grin on full display.
I wave them off. “It’s late, and we have a game tomorrow. You guys should be resting, not drinking.”
“Late?” David García, my center fielder, chuckles. “Do you not know how time zones work, Papi? It’s three p.m. west coast time. Which means if we leave now, we can get you the early bird special and have you back and in your jammies before six.” The team starts to gather in a half circle, laughing. They’re gonna be assholes tonight. I can already sense that ditching them won’t be easy.
Torres leans his forearm on my shoulder, which makes him look ridiculous, since I’m at least half a foot taller than him. “Look, man, they’re just looking to blow off a little steam. Even I agreed to go, and you know Denise would have my balls in a vise if I went out and made a fool of myself,” he assures. “Mateo, we’ve got a good crew here. They mean well. And besides, we all agreed to a two-drink maximum. None of us here are rookies, and we know how to get the job done. So what do you say to taking the stick out your ass and having some real fun with us?”
I give him a blank stare.
“Besides,” he continues. “It’d probably be best to dispel those rumors about you once and for all.” He pointedly looks at me. Ever the jokester, I know he’s about to say some stupid shit. But I’ve been listening to Anthony’s stupid shit for years, so why stop now?
“Do I even want to know what these rumors are that you are alluding to?” I ask with a deep sigh.
At that moment, our first baseman, Tommy Henderson, walks past me while chewing on a questionable burrito. “That you stay holed up in your room because you’re able to jerk off with both hands, bro,” he casually explains. Loudly.
The full team now surrounds me and bursts into uncontrollable laughter.
Fucking children. All of them.
Ace puts his hands up, “Listen, man, if I were ambidextrous, I’d probably be doing double-handed crisscross applesauce, too.” More roars of laughter follow.
I wipe an exasperated hand over my face.
This shit again.
Because let’s forget that I’ve been ranked best in the league five years in a row. And let’s also ignore the fact that I’m able to perfectly pitch upward of ninety-six miles per hour with either arm. And while we’re at it, let’s not discuss my strategic ability to swap throwing arms mid inning to best attack a batter’s weak spot.
Yeah, all that is pretty bogus to my team, apparently, when all they interpret when they hear the word ambidextrous is the fact that I can probably masturbate efficiently with both hands.
I can. But that’s beside the point.
“C’mon, man. One drink,” Delgado pleads. “If you don’t come, could imagine how many bottles of lube these guys will prank you with. An alarming number that I bet will leak to the press, and I’m sure you don’t want that kind of media attention—”
“Fine,” I relent, and the team goes silent.
“Did he just fucking agree to go out with us?” Sánchez whispers out the side of his mouth.
Torres’s smile could not be more blinding if the annoying fucker tried. “You heard the man. The team is going out tonight!” The guys cheer, causing a crowd of bystanders to start gathering around us, blocking the hotel’s reception area.
“All right, all right. Let’s go upstairs, clean up a bit, and meet back down here in thirty. Sound like a plan?” I don’t wait for a response and instead turn on my heel and head toward the elevators.
But I should have known they wouldn’t let me get the last word in.
“Yes, Daddy!” they shout in unison.
Oh yeah. I forgot they liked to call me that too.
An hour later, we’ve pulled up to a popular LA hotspot.
With our level of fame and recognition, it’s virtually impossible to simply wander into a normal neighborhood sports bar together. We stick to preapproved places in every city we play in.
It’s usually the same song and dance. We enter through a back entrance that the paparazzi absolutely know about. Hell, they’re probably tipped off by the club’s owner to get good press for their establishment.
Then we head through back hallways that are never meant to be seen by the average patron and quickly slip into a VIP section. There, we’re usually greeted by an owner or manager who drones on about getting us whatever we may need, followed by a parade of bottle service girls who act like they’ve hit the jackpot by being assigned to our section.
And I, being the Golden Boy of the league, make sure to look over our private section and wave at party goers, maybe even give a thumbs-up, as if I’m some kind of crummy politician, and sign at least a few jerseys. Usually that’s enough to keep my PR team happy and keep potential “Mateo is actually an asshole” chatter at bay.
I sit back on the low-rise couch, picking the spot farthest from prying eyes, and take a deep breath. Torres comes to sit next to me. “C’mon, it’s not that bad.” He nudges me with my elbow.
He’s not wrong. Instead of a club, we ended up in a high-end sport bar with an old-school arcade built for adults. The music isn’t too loud, more like restaurant level, and there are screens everywhere, so I can see multiple games playing from where I’m sitting.
Fuck, I’m assessing music levels in public places. Does this mean I’m getting old?
“So how’s it going with Isa—I mean the new nanny?”
I pick up my beer, the one and only I’ll be drinking tonight. “Don’t start.”
Torres gives me a droll look. “I’m not being a dick. I actually really want to know how she’s doing.”
I raise a brow as I take a sip of my drink, my eyes never leaving his.
He chuckles. “Correction, my wife , that nice lady I never stop talking about or putting a baby in, you know, that one?” he deadpans as I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, she is quite fond of Isa. The girl is basically family. Yet Denise can’t get her to call or text back. Know what that’s about?”
Huh. That’s interesting.
“She’s my employee. I have no idea what her texting habits are, aside from when I need her to update me on how my daughter is doing.” I grab my phone out of my pocket and decide to send Isabella a text. It’s seven p.m. in New York, so she should be having dinner with Anna right about now. I could text my mother, since she will be accompanying Isa and staying in my home with her while I’m away, but I decide to text Isa instead because she is my employee. And it is her job to update me on my daughter. Yep. That’s it.
“You texting her now? Be chill about it. Don’t throw Denise under the bus. She understands that Isa sometimes needs… time. But I don’t want to make her feel like—”
“Yes, I’m texting Isabella. As I mentioned a second ago, she works for me. No, I am not asking her about why she hasn’t gotten back to Denise. That is out of the scope of our work conversations.” I put my phone down on the low table in front of us and turn slightly to give him my full attention. “And what did you mean about Isabella needing time?” I know I shouldn’t ask, but it’s better I do it now that he’s just mentioned it rather than hours from now while I’m still dwelling on the comment.
He sighs. “You know, man. After all that bullshit went down with her and… she was different after. I guess, who wouldn’t be?”
My hand tightens around the beer bottle, and I force myself to relax, knowing that if Torres spots my white knuckles, there will be more than playful curiosity toward my instinctual reaction. “Yeah. I remember when that went down. But it’s been, what, five years since the news broke?”
He looks off into the crowd as he says, “Yeah, I think so. But it was rough, man. The poor girl’s face was plastered everywhere online. There was no escaping it.” He shakes his head. “Things got better once she left the state and finished her degree out of sight. But when she got back, I dunno… I think she might have slipped back into herself and doesn’t know how to let herself live.” He faces me now, any trace of my usual humorous friend gone. “I swear, Mateo, had I ever crossed paths with that sick fucker, I would have put hands on him. Fines, punishment, even reaming from my old coach be damned. When he hurt her, he hurt a lot of us.” He takes a sip of his beer. “And to think he got labeled a playboy and went on with his life, his pathetic career, while Isa had to—” He stops abruptly. “Sorry, man. Only a few things get me really fired up nowadays. But knowing that I got two little girls at home makes me want to rid the world of scum like Anderson.”
I suppress a low growl at the mention of his last name.
Jeremy Anderson.
A poor excuse for a man and a stain on the league, if you ask me.
Very rarely are athletes penalized for indiscretions they make in their personal lives. Although this one was.
“He was drafted to your old team, wasn’t he?” he asks, rubbing his chin. “And then randomly got swapped out to another team only two months into his contract.” He leans his forearms on his knees. “You wouldn’t know the real details about that deal, would you?” He eyes me skeptically.
This time, I can’t hide my reaction. Mostly because I’m proud of my actions and the power my name has in the major leagues.
A slow, mischievous smile unfurls on my lips as I shrug. “Nah, man. No clue at all.” I pause, my voice turning conspiratorial. “But I will say, it is a shame that he got downgraded to a team that hadn’t made the playoffs in more than a decade and was bound to a contract that would keep him there four long years .” My devilish eyes meet his. “But like I said, I haven’t got the slightest of clues.” I finish the rest of my beer in one long pull.
I’m still relishing the memories of how I spoke to the higher-ups and played hardball with them. I was a free agent that year and fresh off a World Series win. They maxed out the amount they could offer me for a one-year extension, and I had every plan of taking it, but once my mom called me in tears, telling me about what happened to her best friend’s daughter and who was responsible for it all, it was an easy call.
My agent was confused, but he knew better than to question me since the 15 percent of my earnings he receives is more than some players’ full contracts. So I made the team a counteroffer they couldn’t refuse.
I’d sign on the dotted line if Anderson was out.
All it took were a few quick glances, as if this deal were a no brainer.
Because it was.
Me or him.
He never stood a chance, especially fresh out of the draft.
He seemed so confused when the news was broken to him. I didn’t have the slightest idea how HR spun it, and frankly, I didn’t care.
Yet that didn’t stop me from giving him a word of advice on his way out.
“Watch how you treat women. If not, there’ll be much more hell to pay. It’s a promise, rook.” I still remember his face as I said it. The puppy dog eyes he usually reserved for me, his “baseball hero,” as he proclaimed multiple times while we were at practice. All that awe and admiration melted the moment it all clicked for him.
That I had just given him his walking papers, and the team he’d worked his entire life to be drafted to had turned its back on him.
Because of me.
The satisfaction was all-consuming.
I hadn’t even met Isa, or Izzy, at the time. I had heard of her via my mother’s many stories about a funny, smart, beautiful young lady whose smile could light up a room.
But I didn’t need to meet her.
I didn’t even need to know who she was.
Because the second that tabloid started circulating, it awakened the protective side of me that I never shy away from.
Because as long as men like him exist, men like me will be here, waiting to pick up the slack. Reminding those fuckers that we’ll always be here, and we’ll never hesitate to help right their wrongs.
I’m still so lost in the memories that I don’t even hear my phone ringing on the table in front of me.
Instead, what I hear is a “No fucking way, Martinez.”
My head snaps to Torres, and I internally curse myself. I’m such a such a fucking idiot.
He’s holding my ringing phone up by his head, with his jaw dropped open. Pointing at the device, as if there would be any confusion for his shocked reaction.
Because there, lighting up my screen, is Isabella’s contact picture. A photo she took with Anna while we were in the Dominican Republic.
In it, they’re both smiling and in their bathing suits.
Anthony’s mouth closes just enough to stretch into his signature smile.
“Okay, so I’m only gonna ask this once, Martinez.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Respectfully…”
“Torres, I swear to God.”
“Are you fucking the nanny?”