16. MATEO
sixteen
It’s the top of the final inning, and the game is tied, but I’m not concerned.
This is where I thrive. Where all the outside noise of my life goes completely silent. Where I let the young boy who will forever live inside me play out his dreams.
This view, my view from the pitcher’s mound, is a privilege. And it’s one I don’t take for granted.
I swing both of my arms, shaking out the tension that has built up during the game.
We’re on their home turf, and the Los Angeles fans are hungry for a win.
Unfortunately for them, I ain’t gonna let ’em have it.
I see who’s up to bat and internally smile.
There are a lot of good men in this league, many of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting. And some of those men are still in those early stages of their careers, like Velázquez, who’s settling into his batting position as he tries to seem unperturbed by stepping into my line of fire. I’ve had many conversations with Velázquez, mostly about how he looked up to me when he was in little league.
Which first of all… ouch.
At thirty-three, I’ve been playing at a professional level for well over a decade. But my ego could really go without everyone pointing out the age differences between me and the fresh blood coming up the ranks.
Yeah, those are conversations I could go without.
Especially when my mind betrays me and continuously keeps calculating the math between my age and Isabella’s. Eight years.
Fuck off it, man.
I shake my head and settle back into the present as I berate myself for even slipping for a second. If I let Isa infiltrate my head while I’m on the field, then I’m well and truly fucked.
I focus on the man currently set to bat. And on one of our previous chats.
Because I remember very vividly Velázquez speaking of my left-handed fast ball and how it’s a death sentence to players on my turf.
So, with exaggerated movements, I pick up my right glove and drop my left. When I straighten and look at Velázquez, his poker face has shattered into a mixture of annoyance and amusement accompanied by a good natured “este cabrón .”
With only one out left for his team, I allow myself to chuckle and wink at him, confirming that we both know exactly what I’m doing. Well, he may think he knows, because I’ll definitely be throwing a curveball first, just in case he thinks he can throw up a few Hail Marys and pray for a home run.
I get in position, and after two head shakes, Torres knows exactly what the play is. Our kind of connection during a game is what baseball dreams are made of, since you’re only as good as the team you rely on, and Torres is truly the best catcher in the league.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a moment and take a deep breath.
With my eyes open and pinned on Torres’s glove, I smirk slightly, then rear back and let the ball fly.
“Come on, Martinez, we won! You’ve gotta come out with us again. It could be the start of a team winning streak,” Ace argues. The tattoos adorning his dark skin are on full display as he walks toward me in a designer tank top and probably a couple million dollars of jewelry adorning his neck, ears, and hands. He’s definitely the flashiest on our team, but it somehow suits him. If I ever saw him with anything less than three diamond chains, I would assume he’d been robbed.
“We’ve won the last three games. Not exactly the start of anything, my man.” I walk past him to make my way to the hotel elevators. The guys will probably hit the town tonight since we fly out late in the morning.
We had a small celebration in the locker room, because it always feels nice to win in someone else’s stadium. But after we hit the showers and loaded onto the bus, the adrenaline wore off, and exhaustion seeped in.
Most guys like to party and fuck away the tension radiating off their bodies after a game. But most guys on this team aren’t single dads. Not only do I have a responsibility to my daughter to not get caught up in a scandal, but I also, guiltily, enjoy the quiet. The time when I don’t need to worry about anyone’s needs besides my own. And my needs right now are about twelve hours of sleep. But I know I won’t be able to pass out until I hit the gym or go swimming in the hotel pool.
Pitching does a number on my arms and shoulders, and after big games, I usually have our strength and conditioning trainers work me out.
But some days, like today, I don’t really feel like being around people and would much rather cool down my muscles myself.
“I’m hitting the hotel pool. If you guys want to swim some laps, you know where to find me.”
“Ugh, this guy is a machine. Way to make the rest of us look like chumps.” Delgado groans.
“Suit yourself.” I hit the elevator button.
“Mira, Martinez. Some players, like you, have to be a machine. And then other players, like me”—Molina rubs his rounded belly— “just have to go bam with that bat, and then there you go, Papi. A home run for the team. I don’t need a pool. I have plátano power,” he says gleefully in his thick Dominican accent.
And he’s not wrong.
Pedro Molina may look like one of the most unathletic players in the league, but all his power is in his arm strength and hand-eye coordination.
The man doesn’t need to run and steal bases when, more often than not, the ball flies out of the stadium once his bat comes into contact with it.
“You’re right, Papi .” We laugh. “But I’m actually wiped. I’m going to get a few laps in, then call my daughter before it’s time for her to go to bed.”
Most of the guys nod in agreement. When it comes to my time with Anna, they know not to push.
I head up to my room and quickly text the hotel manager, whose contact information I was given at check-in, that I will be using their Olympic-size pool. They respond immediately that the facility has been cleared out and confirm that there will be hotel security on guard to make sure I’m not disturbed.
A part of me grumbles. It’s a bit overkill. Yet the other part knows that it’s the only way I’ll get this workout in without bumping into fans, or worse, people looking for salacious things to post about me. Unfortunately, some aren’t above trying to take pics of me having a wardrobe malfunction while I’m in the pool.
So I don’t dwell on it and quickly change into my swim trunks and a hotel robe.
I make it down to the pool, and as I was told, it’s empty except for one security guard standing at the entrance and another standing inside the pool area, saying he’ll be nearby in case I should need something.
I walk over to a pool lounger and disrobe, then place my phone by the edge of the pool.
As a parent, even when I’m at away games, I never allow myself to be far from my phone in case my little girl needs me. Even during the games, I usually have someone on staff hold my phone so they can inform me of anything I should be immediately made aware of.
We’re not supposed to have our phones in the dugout, since we’re supposed to be focused on the game. But there are a lot of supposed-tos in life that I don’t follow, or, I guess, don’t apply to me, given that I’ve dedicated my life to the game, and now Anna.
Even Coach Luke Weston was ready to rip me a new one when he saw what I was up to. Although a full scolding from Coach is usually an assortment of grunts and disapproving stares. To get that man to talk is an impossible feat.
He’s the youngest coach in the league, which naturally brings him extra media attention. But like me, he avoids it at all costs. No one even knows where the guy lives. There’s always locker room chatter that he must live somewhere in the mountains, since his looks went from Hollywood A-lister to reclusive mountain man during the years he escaped from the spotlight. But given what he went through after he gave up professional baseball at the top of his career, right after a World Series win too, I guess I wouldn’t have much to say to the world, either.
But just because he doesn’t talk, that doesn’t mean he isn’t perceptive as fuck. Which is how he must have known I would only be texting someone in regard to Anna during a game and only gave me a slight nod and turned back to the field.
Again, people know not to push when it comes to her. Even Coach.
I release a deep sigh as I wade through the water. Then I waste no time in getting to work. On my third lap, I hear my phone ringing and quickly make my way to it.
And staring back at me is Isabella, wearing an alluring smile.
I told myself after last night that I should remove her contact picture, but I just haven’t had the time to do it.
Liar.
Whatever. I’ll get to it when I get to it.
I have to try a few times to swipe and answer the call since my fingers are wet, but I finally manage it, and when I do, my precious little girl’s face fills the screen, and my heart swells.
“Hola, mija.” I greet her.
“Hi, Papi.” She squints as she takes in my surroundings. “Are you at the pool? No fair. I thought you were at work,” she pouts.
I smile at her. “Yes, I am at work, sweetheart. I’m swimming for my workout after my game. Trust me, the pool isn’t as fun without you here.”
“Okay,” she mumbles, probably still upset that she’s not here with me. Because my daughter loves nothing more than being in the water.
So I try to move on to safer conversations to get her mind off what she thinks she may be missing out on. “What did you do today after school?” I’m sure she had soccer scheduled for today, or was it French class? I always get those two mixed up.
Anna looks off screen to someone as she says, “ Um .”
“Anna, honey.” My dad voice fully activates at her suspicious avoidance.
“Well, I-I mean we—” She stutters over her words.
I hear a delicate sigh, and I instantly know who it must belong to. “It’s okay, Anna. You can tell your father.”
“She can tell me what?” I ask as I make my way out of the pool and in search of my towel. I may not be close enough to get to her immediately, but my body knows it needs to move.
I hold the phone farther away from my body in a futile attempt to keep it from getting any more wet than it did when I abruptly leaped out of the pool.
“Hey,” Isabella—now taking up most of the space on the screen—says as she greets me while still giving my daughter a soft look. When she faces the camera and catches sight of me, I don’t miss her reaction.
I may have been concerned about what they need to tell me, but I’d be lying if my chest didn’t puff up a little by the shocked look on Isabella’s face.
And just like the night I caught her in my kitchen, it seems like she’s not keen on looking away from me any time soon.
Anna must whisper something I can’t hear, because Isabella shakes herself out of her daze and focuses on where I assume my eyes are on the screen.
Definitely not where she was looking before.
“So, yeah. Hi. Um, I already said that, didn’t I? Anyway…” She takes a deep breath, and I can’t deny that I find her incredibly cute when she fumbles her words. Makes me want to do it more often.
Stop it, you idiot.
“Spit it out, Isabella,” I say harshly, even though my tone was meant more for myself than her.
She visibly straightens as her eyes narrow slightly.
There she is.
I can’t deny that I love seeing her all fired up. I’ve only had a few glimpses of that backbone she possesses, and if it isn’t the sexiest thing about her…
“It’s really not a big deal,” she starts.
“Not a very promising way to start a sentence, Isa.”
The little minx rolls her eyes at me, and I fight the urge to smile. Can’t let her know what her insolence does to me. Fuck if I know what to do with it myself.
The fire in her eyes only burns deeper. “Look, I made an executive decision today as Anna’s nanny, that’s all.”
“And this executive decision consisted of what, exactly?”
“For the record, your mother was with us, and she signed off on the plan. And obviously, as you can see with your own eyes, Anna is perfectly fine. No need to worry. I’ve got it all under control.”
I take a calming breath. This woman is saying everything and nothing at the same time. And as much as I want her to get to the point, it’s also nice to have her on the phone. So with the same patience I reserve for Anna, I lower my voice and slowly ask, “Isabella, what aren’t you saying?”
She bites down on her thumbnail until she finally makes the decision to fess up. “We ditched her after-school activities today.”
“You what?” Those activities are some of the best in the city. Hell, probably the country. And I’m sure I’m probably paying an exorbitant amount for them. But I’d hand over every nickel for Anna.
“Cálmate, papa bear, and hear me out first,” she sasses. “Your daughter had an exhausting day at school because they played basketball during physical education, and apparently the whole class was having such a great time, they allowed them to keep playing throughout recess. Do you know how much cardio that is? You probably don’t remember, since you stand on that pitcher’s mound and beat everyone to a pulp with your fastballs.”
I’m no longer able to hide the amusement on my face. “Is that so? Is that what you think I do for a living?” I smirk. “You watch me play often, Isabella?” I mercilessly taunt.
“No,” she responds way too quickly.
“But we just watched his game,” Anna chimes in helpfully. I respond with a look that clearly shows I know she got caught bullshitting me.
Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink.
I don’t think twice and turn up the brightness on my phone to get a better look.
“Oh, yeah. Well, that.” She tries to discreetly wipe both cheeks, as if she can rub her natural blush away. “As I was saying before, we ditched—I mean, I made an executive decision to take a break from her prior engagement because your lovely daughter said she was too tired and would much rather get home in time to watch her father play against Los Angeles.” She nods in a triumphant manner, having gained back that confidence as she spoke.
I’m so entranced by her that I almost forget to give her a hard time.
Almost.
“So what’s the answer, Isabella? Do you or do you not watch me play?”
I must be certifiably insane.
Because there is no reason under the goddamn sun for me to be messing with Isabella this way. It seems like the physical distance from her has made me bolder, and much, much stupider. The clear boundary I’ve kept between us is slowly blurring, and while I can clearly see it happening, I can’t deny that having her full attention on me feels nice. Like I could talk to her for hours, just to see the many hidden facets of Ms. Isabella Morales.
She huffs, and I swear if I had a full body shot of her, I would put money on the possibility that she may have even stomped at my line of questioning. “Yes, I watched the game today because that’s what Anna wanted to do. She’s your daughter and she misses you, so of course I joined her on the couch as you pulverized that Velázquez guy.” She takes a frustrated breath. “But no, Mateo, I don’t watch you play, aside from today. Because I don’t watch baseball… at least not anymore.”
Well, shit.
Now I feel like a dick. All that teasing to get her to admit to watching me, as if my sick ego needed some kind of validation that I’m not the only one secretly losing my mind over here when it comes to our tense relationship, just to inadvertently step in it. Massively.
Of course she doesn’t watch baseball. Why would she after what my world has put her through?
I obviously took it too far, and we are much better suited to continue standing behind the very clear boundary line I initially had carved in stone for us. The apology is on the tip of my tongue, but it seems like she’s not finished talking.
She looks off camera, and I’m glad she is. It makes it easier to stare at her beauty while simultaneously hiding my guilt over teasing her. “Although I will say that it was nice to watch a game for the first time in years. It used to be such a big part of my life.” She turns back to the phone. “I grew up on baseball. I’m Dominican, for God’s sake.” She chuckles slightly, warming me from the inside out. “I let that part of me go a while ago. And I guess it was nice to finally get a tiny piece of that back. For one game. Even if you were sloppy during the third and fourth innings. Though I guess you still put on a decent show, right, Anna?”
Her blinding smile is back, and while it’s not aimed at me, it is directed at the piece of my heart that lives outside my body, which only hits me harder.
Hell, this woman will be the death of me.
Just when I think I have her figured out, she surprises me. I’m not a fan of surprises, but I am becoming a big fan of hers.
I watch the girls as they continue to laugh at my expense.
The fact that I’m still dripping wet and standing by myself at a hotel pool doesn’t even faze me, because I’m too lost in them.
As much as I enjoyed riling Isabella up, I decide then and there that I would much rather see her smile, just like this.
And although I know it’s a bad idea to keep her on longer than her one-week trial, I convince myself that there would be no harm in helping her fall in love with baseball again. And I’m going to do it by getting her to come to one of my games.
It’s the least I can do with the way she dotes on and advocates for my daughter. And sure, deep down I know I can’t keep her on as the nanny for good—God knows my willpower wouldn’t survive it—but Anna deserves to have Isabella in her life. Their growing bond is clear as day, and I would never do anything to jeopardize it.
They deserve to have each other, even if I can’t be a part of that equation.
With my mind focused on a new direction, one in which I’m not fantasizing about my daughter’s nanny, I break up their cackling and set my plan in motion.
I make a note to text my pilot after I hang up and let him know that I need him to fuel the jet, because I want to fly out on a red eye instead of flying back with the team tomorrow morning.
I sleep better on my own plane anyway.
“Hey, Isa, I’ve made an executive decision of my own.”