21. MATEO
twenty-one
For a minute there, I thought I shat the bed when I called her my “teammate.”
Don’t know what I was thinking, calling her that.
Actually, I wasn’t thinking at all. Because the plan to ask her to have dinner with me must have materialized the moment the words left my lips.
But that seems to be how it goes when it comes to me with Isabella. An unmistakable force leading me right to her, no matter how hard I try to keep things professional.
Well… except that one time I caged her between the kitchen island and my bare chest after I caught her rummaging in my fridge at midnight, wearing next to nothing. Or that other time, when I licked the sugar off my thumb and leaned in so close, I could have easily licked her lips.
Aside from that, I’m a total professional.
I sigh as I look up to the second floor where Isa is putting Anna to bed. Of course, I offered since I always do it when I’m home, but she insisted. A part of me feels like she needed those extra moments with my daughter before she heads down and has dinner with me. Her boss.
My stomach revolts at the title.
I’ve never been one to want to be a boss. I thrive better being part of a team, working in collaboration. Not being the sole person responsible for someone’s paycheck.
And I’m not blind. I can see the power imbalance between us from a mile away.
Even though I know she’s stronger than she seems at times, I’m still a rich man who controls her current livelihood and living arrangements. One she believes is one strike away from firing her and sending her packing.
If only she knew what my strikes really meant.
No matter what develops between us, I want to make sure she knows that she is not at my mercy. Which is why I think this dinner might actually turn out to be a good idea.
And if I ever try and pursue something with her, it would be nice to at least say we’ve sat down together as friends first.
Footsteps on the stairs bring my attention to Isabella, who cautiously makes her way down.
I think it’s incredibly adorable that she and Anna change into their pajamas at the same time of night. I know it makes Anna feel like Isa will be going to sleep when she is, and therefore, she won’t be missing out on any fun downstairs.
Isabella’s night wear has been very conservative since the night I caught her in my kitchen. Usually lounge pants and some sort of long-sleeve top. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to cover up completely for my sake, but then again, it might be a small reprieve for my sanity, so I say nothing.
Tonight, she sports black leggings that mold her thick thighs and perfect ass, as well as a loose navy top that hangs off one bare shoulder. By the twitch in my pants, you’d think she walked down in lingerie.
Her hair, curly and in a loose bun on the top of her head, bounces as she makes her way over to me with a small smile playing on her lips.
“We hit a new record tonight.”
“Let me guess, you read two books for her, and she made up… three,” I predict.
She grins. “I read one, and she made up five. Although I think I egged her on by asking so many follow-up questions. Each one sprouted a new idea in her mind for a completely new story, so, of course, she had to start from scratch.”
My heart melts. No matter what goes on in my life, I know I’ll forever be the luckiest man alive to be able to call myself Anna’s dad. I don’t know how I won the kid lottery, but I really did.
I know most parents are biased, but Anna is such a creative and loving soul. How she went from asking for one more bedtime story to creating her own is beyond me.
What I do know is that I’m grateful to Isabella for helping foster that imagination and not trying to dim it to make her job easier.
“Thank you, by the way. I’m not sure I’ve thanked you all week for how you’ve cared for Anna. I hope you know it doesn’t go unrecognized. Although I am kicking myself now for not making that clearer to you.”
Her cheeks pinken slightly as she nods.
“You’re welcome. And trust me, it’s hardly a burden. Anna is a very cool and kind kid, and I’m sure that’s all thanks to you. So thanks for making my job easy.”
I absentmindedly take a step closer her, then force myself to stop.
I have no idea why my body keeps doing that. Gravitating toward her.
I’m an athlete who has trained and conditioned my body to do things that most people could never fathom. Yet I cease to hold any control over my legs when I’m in the same room as her. They inevitably lead me straight to her, and more often than not, I stand much closer than a boss should be standing by their employee.
“Pizza,” I blurt out, refocusing on the present. “I left it warming in the oven for us. Never know how long Anna’s bedtime stories will take, and I didn’t want to order too late either.” I head toward the section of my kitchen with four ovens. A bit overkill, if you ask me, but with a kitchen this size, the extra appliances seem to fit in well.
I put on an oven mitt, then open the oven door, pulling out the three racks with a flourish. “So, we’ve got a basic margarita pizza, a half-pepperoni half-veggie, and the best Sicilian pizza in the city, half-cheese and half–meat lovers.”
She comes to stand on the other side of the oven door, her eyes wide, taking in the extra-large slices of pizza.
“Yeah, so quick question. How many people exactly are coming over to help us eat all of this?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of leftovers, Isa? Come on, are you even a real New Yorker?” I taunt.
“Says the guy who probably hasn’t had a carb since the nineties.”
“Ouch.” I put my mitten-covered hand over my heart. “Coming for my age already? At least let a man lick his wounds with some pizza before you go for the jugular.”
“I wasn’t coming for your age. I was mocking your strict athlete diet.” She rolls her eyes as she points at a pepperoni slice and a Sicilian slice. “Besides, I don’t think you’re old.”
“Thanks, because the eye roll really sold it for me.” I plate her selections, then put them on the place setting I arranged on the kitchen island. “You do that quite a bit.” I plate my own slices, not playing much attention to what I choose, since I know I’ll be back for seconds.
“Who? Me? Roll my eyes to my gracious boss who’s offering me a gratuitous pizza night? I would never.” She smirks as she opens the fridge and grabs one of my usual electrolyte waters.
“Careful, Isabella. Don’t want me treating you like you’re a brat now, do you?” She freezes momentarily at the change in my tone. “And you can put that water back. If I’m having pizza tonight, I’m also having wine.”
Her eyebrows almost hit her hairline. “Pizza and wine on a weeknight?” She tsks. “ Careful, Martinez . I don’t want to be blamed for being a bad influence on you,” she shoots back.
I close the oven doors and pull down two wineglasses as I say, “Morales, don’t go assuming who could be the bad influence in this situation.” I pause to see if she has another rebuttal ready.
“Duly noted,” she says into the wine fridge, doing a terrible job of hiding the rosiness in her cheeks. “Red or white?”
“We’ll do your red.”
She pokes her head out. “My red?”
Shit.
“Well, you liked that brand of pinot noir you had with my mother when I was out of town, right?”
She squints a bit. “This sounds like a trick question. Do I or do I not confirm having wine with your mother—while Anna was asleep, of course? Hypothetically speaking,” she adds quickly.
I chuckle. “My mom told me you enjoyed it. You’re more than allowed to have a drink while you’re not working. So I went ahead and ordered more of it. Guess I now refer to it as your wine.” I shrug.
She pulls out the wine as she looks at me, eyes assessing. “Huh. I, uh, guess that was really nice of you. Thanks.” She looks back into the wine fridge, then smiles. “But that’s a lot of wine bottles in there. So either you think I’m some kind of closeted alcoholic who can put a dent in all of those bottles, which you obviously don’t, because you would never allow someone like that around Anna, or…”
“Or?” I join in on her conspiracy.
“You plan on keeping me around for much longer than a week, which means I’m safe from a third strike, at least for tonight?” She smiles cautiously.
I sigh. “Isabella, come here.”
It takes her a moment, but eventually she obliges. When she comes to stand before me, I take the wine bottle from her hands and uncork it easily. I pour us each a glass. “Tonight, we forget about the strikes, okay? Tonight is about thanking you for what you do for Anna and, therefore, me.” I put the bottle down and pull out her chair. She tentatively takes a seat, and I slowly glide her closer to the counter. “And if I’m being completely honest, it seems like everyone around me knows you a bit better than I do, and let’s just say, I think it’s time we change that.” I force my hands to unclench from Isa’s seat and take my own next to hers.
She grabs the stem of her glass and swirls her wine as she asks, “So tonight we get to know each other better? As in, I get to ask you questions, and you’ll answer them? And not answer them like you do in magazines or postgame interviews, but like a real straight-shot answer?”
I smile. Something I seem to be doing a lot more of in her presence. “Tread lightly, Isabella. You’ve watched one of my games, and now I know you’re keeping tabs on me. Might give a guy a complex or something.” I lift my glass to hers.
I go to clink her glass, but she pulls hers away. “Hold up, let me just get the terms and conditions straight before I step in it. So you’re telling me I can ask you anything? Anything at all? Nothing off-limits?”
I laugh, because fuck, she’s cute. “Hmm, I suppose, but…”
“But?” she asks, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“It’d have to go both ways. Anything off-limits on your end?”
She mulls it over for a moment and then surprises me when she casually shrugs her shoulders and brings her glass closer to mine. “Deal.”
Fuck. The things I want to know about her are not exactly things I should be asking over pizza.
What makes you wet? Would you spread your legs if slipped my hand under your tight leggings? How do you sound when you come undone?
I try to adjust myself subtly as I scold myself. She’s probably only curious about my astrological sign or some shit like that. Not about becoming acquainted with my dick. “So what are we toasting to?” I clear my throat.
She taps her chin playfully until she finally settles on “let’s toast to you potentially regretting this.” She clinks her glass mischievously against my unmoving one.
Well, shit. What have I just done?
“Seriously? You’ve never looked at each other’s penises while you’re in the shower together?”
Fucking hell. Isabella has been relentless tonight. Although I can’t say I haven’t been thoroughly entertained. She most definitely surprised me with her line of questioning. Gone is the woman who couldn’t run away from me fast enough this morning. She’s been replaced with someone who couldn’t derive more pleasure from watching me squirm.
I knew Isabella had a backbone. Hell, I try to rile her up at least once in every one of our conversations. But little did I know how brutal she could be once she got comfortable with me. I fear she may never go back to being docile.
That’s a lie.
I actually like her much better this way. Even if I’ve become her comical punching bag.
We’re lying on our sides, facing each other, on different ends of my U-shaped couch. It feels intimate to lie this way with her, but the ten feet between us seems to give us a false sense of safety.
“You can’t tell me a guy like Ace Middlebrooks walks out of the shower with a third leg, and you’re not looking.”
Okay, fun time is over.
“You like Ace?” I love the guy, but at the moment, I’d love to take a fastball to his sac.
She rolls her eyes again, and for a split second, I think of the ways I want to punish her for being insolent. She makes an unpleasant face. “No, but he walks around like he has big dick energy, so I assume he’s packing. And my question was if you look, not if I like.” She points her almost empty wineglass at me.
I groan. “No, Isabella. I don’t look. Eventually, they all blur into my periphery, I guess. Happy?”
She bobs her head from side to side. “Good enough, I guess. But at least I now know you don’t like Ace. That’s some prime chisme. Because sheesh. The way you looked at me when I mentioned his name? Got the message loud and clear. Bummed to know that he might not be a good guy after all, though.”
Oh, Isabella. If you only knew. Hell, if I only knew why I react the way I do around you . “Sorry, too much dick talk. Didn’t mean to give a look. Ace is actually a nice guy. Likes to lean into the whole playboy persona, but it’s a front. He’s actually one of my favorites on the team. But I’ll never tell him that. His head is big enough as it is.” I chuckle as I remember the picture he sent in the team group chat earlier today, asking us which bracelet he should buy his mom for her birthday. One was covered in pink diamonds and the other in yellow canaries.
And they say I go overboard with gifts.
I look over at Isa when I realize she’s been quiet for the longest stretch of time tonight. Which happens to be ten seconds. “Everything all right in that head of yours, Isa?”
She shakes her head subtly, staring into her empty glass. “Yeah, sorry. Nice to hear that he’s actually a nice guy, even though he plays into the whole, you know, ‘I’m an athlete and I’m a womanizer’ bit.”
This is usually where I would bolt. I would give Isa the out and not try to pry into her past. But tonight, I’ve learned so much about her.
She even brought out her work backpack after I asked to see one of her book cover designs. I couldn’t get Torres out of my head once I saw her cracked screens and headphones with exposed wiring. The fucker is right. Took everything in me not to get up right then and there and take her to an electronics store.
Guess gift-giving is my fucking love language.
But now, seeing her reaction to the subject I know caused her the most pain, I can’t help but feel like I want to peek behind those curtains too, if she’ll let me.
“Are we still operating under nothing’s off-limits agreement?”
She smirks as she places the glass on the low coffee table between us. “Is this my karma for asking too many dick-related questions?” A soft sigh escapes her as I keep quiet. “You already know what happened, Mateo. If your mother didn’t tell you, ESPN sure did.”
“I know what was reported, but I want to hear it from you. What did he do to you?” I half pray that she refuses to answer, because if I didn’t like the guy before, I sure as hell won’t be able to hold myself back when I’ll eventually have to play against him.
She nods solemnly. “I’ll try to give you the short version. But I’m Dominican, and I’ve had wine, so listen at your own risk.” She sits up from her lying position, and so do I. She brings her socked feet onto the couch and hugs a pillow. She hasn’t spoken a single word, and already, I can see how she is crawling back into herself at the thought of retelling her story. And it fucking guts me.
This time, when my body pulls toward her, I don’t stop it. Not until I’ve taken the seat cushion next to her and pulled her hands into mine. “Please, Isabella. You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry I asked.”
She stares at our joined hands, then into my eyes. I thought I would see tears, sadness, or a sense of helplessness. Instead, what I find is pure determination. “It’s fine, really. I’m just warning you that it’s a bit of a mood killer, and I’ve had such a great time tonight… mostly at your expense.” She smiles brightly as she gives my hands a gentle squeeze. “Besides, I’m going to my first baseball game in over five years tomorrow, so it only seems fitting I get this story out of my system.” She leans back on the couch. She doesn’t move to untangle our hands, and neither do I.
“We met during my freshman year in college. I thought I wouldn’t really be getting the college experience since I decided to stay in the city, but boy, was I wrong. Living in the dorms, attending parties, classes with guest speakers who I’ve only ever seen on TV… it was incredible. And then, I met him. I think I was enamored immediately by his confidence and charisma. He was a senior, and somehow, he was interested in someone like me.” I don’t realize I’ve squeezed her hand until she squeezes mine back. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not trying to sell myself short here. But he always seemed larger than life, with goals of making the major leagues, and I was happy to be along for the ride, to bask in someone else’s glow.”
I start to rub soft circles on her wrist, which pauses her momentarily.
“Anyway, we dated for two years, and near the end, he had made it to the minor leagues. He said he probably would have been drafted to the major leagues from college, but he had a shoulder injury that he was still rehabbing.” She rolls her eyes, and this time, it carries none of the sass I’ve grown to appreciate. “We never talked about marriage. I’m sure I assumed it was something that would have come up at some point down the line, but I was only twenty years old.” She looks up briefly, and I ache to comfort twenty-year-old Isabella. “When the day came for the draft, as he got the call that he was being drafted to his dream team, with cameras he paid for to have there that day, he got down on one knee and proposed to me. And do you want to hear what’s funny? When it happened, all the blog sites gushed about how I was so stunned by the ring that I was left speechless. When in reality, in my mind, I was freaking out about what my mom was going to say.”
She laughs, and the sound alone makes my shoulder release some tension I was apparently holding in tight.
“Like, I’m technically a grown-ass woman, being recorded on live TV as my boyfriend proposes to me, and all I could think about was how my mom would not approve. And wonder how I managed to be with someone for so long and not explicitly talk about our plans for the future, like engagement timeline, family planning… all of that. I think for the longest time it was all assumed, probably by the both of us. Because I obviously wanted those things, and he was the person I was sharing my life with, so maybe we subconsciously put two and two together. But I truly had no clue. And this man was publicly professing his love for me, yet he didn’t even know that I loathe the idea of a public proposal. And the ring was too large and generic for someone like me, who loves jewelry that’s more sentimental and artsy rather than showy. If he really knew me, he would have known that I was not in a place in my life to think about marriage. I was still knee-deep in figuring myself out.”
Removing only one hand from her hold, I lift my glass of wine and offer it to her. She smiles as she takes a sip, then hands it back to me. I drink from the exact spot her lips touched before I set it back down and reclaim her other hand.
“But even with my racing thoughts, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything but yes. I got swept up in the moment and decided we could talk about the engagement at a later time, like when there weren’t cameras pointed at us. But that time never came. Because immediately after the cameras went down, he kissed me goodbye and said he was going off with his old teammates to celebrate. And truthfully, I needed a moment to recover from the whirlwind that I had been thrust into. By the time I got home, his proposal had gone viral everywhere. People on campus knew my name, acquaintances were coming out of the woodwork, and every wife and girlfriend of every MLB player infiltrated my social media, asking if I wanted to collaborate on brand deals. And yes, I did find it weird that a man proposes to me and immediately goes MIA, but everything about my life had just been turned upside down, so nothing felt normal. Three days later, the infamous ‘seventy-two-hour engagement’ came to a crashing halt when photos of him partying in Vegas were plastered everywhere online. Pictures of him with a woman’s head between his legs while he made out with another topless woman.”
She removes her hands from mine, and it takes everything in me not to ask for them back.
“The betrayal? The pain? It was brutal. But what he did, or claims to have accidentally done after I dumped him? That was earth-shattering. Because gone were the photos of me with a ring on my finger on the internet, and in their place, sexy photos I had sent him in private were now available for the entire world to see.” She looks at me with a pained expression.
“I swear to you, Isabella. I never saw them.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. They were everywhere.”
I shake my head. “Even though I didn’t know you personally back then, I would never have done that to you, or anyone else who had private images shared without their consent.”
She points to my glass on the table. “I’m gonna need a little more of that now.”
I grab the bottle and top off her glass before I hand it to her. “I didn’t even show any nipple,” she mumbles into the wineglass, and I’m hit with a coughing fit. “No, seriously. He always asked for nudes, and I always told him I wasn’t comfortable with that. But he kept pushing and pushing. Eventually, I sent him something that I hoped would knock his socks off, even though I strategically covered my face and body in ways that wouldn’t show it was me. But when the guy you’re engaged to ‘accidentally’ posts those photos on social media after getting caught in a cheating scandal… yep, it didn’t take much of a leap for people to know who the mystery woman was.” She takes a large gulp of wine before handing it back to me. Her tongue peeks out to wipe a rogue droplet away. “And then I dropped out of school, ran to Puerto Rico where my cousins were attending college, registered there for a semester, and ended up staying the whole two years it took to wrap up my bachelors. I finally came back to New York with my tail between my legs once I felt the coast was clear. And ta-da, sob story complete. Okay, you next. Go.”
“Isa…”
“Mateo, I said nothing is off-limits, but I didn’t say pity party included.” She looks at me sternly. “Will I ever recover from that kind of public humiliation? To be determined. But I’ve slowly clawed my way back into society, and I’ll be damned if I spend another moment sitting here, watching you feel sorry for me, when I could be asking you really inappropriate dick questions.”
“You’re deflecting with humor.”
“Ding, ding, ding. Yes, my therapist thinks I’m very funny too, thank you very much. And maybe I just need to get laid so I stop thinking about dicks, but regardless of where I was going with that, I would like to take my baggage back now and put it in a nicely contained compartment, away from the world to see, and specifically, your sad eyes,” she pleads.
“What do you mean you need to get laid? Are you, uh, seeing someone?” Try as I might, I didn’t hear a word of what she said after she mentioned getting laid.
She bursts into laughter, barely saving the couch from being splashed in red wine. It’s cute that she thinks I would give a damn. I’m still waiting for my answer.
“This might be hard for you to believe, but this hot mess is still single. Haven’t been in a serious relationship since I was engaged for a millisecond. Of course, after a while, there were some guys in Puerto Rico who were fun to—”
“Got it. Message received loud and clear,” I bite out, much rougher than intended.
She sits up on her knees, eyes wild with accusation. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware Anna was made by immaculate conception,” she throws my way.
Touché.
“No, you’re right. She wasn’t. She was made by me and a woman who couldn’t run farther away from the idea of being a parent.”
Her face drops as she sucks in a breath. “Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Can I get some of that back?” I nod at the wine she’s cradling in her hands. “Or will you hold it hostage while you throw me a pity party?”
She bites down on a smile as she hands me the glass. Don’t know when we decided to go from using two glasses to one, but I much prefer it this way. “No pity parties here. Only pizza parties,” she declares.
I look at the time on the microwave. It’s only ten p.m. “If we’re digging into my sob story, do you think we could at least order some dessert? I’m thinking we keep it on brand with our Italian night and order gelato from Luciano’s.”
She gasps. “Mateo Martinez. Pizza, wine, and sweets? Hand it over.” She starts looking behind me. “Give me your athlete card. You clearly aren’t allowed on the field for your game tomorrow.” She stops, eyes widening. “Shit, if you guys lose, will it be my fault for getting you boozed up the night before?”
I feign indecision. “I don’t know. You were a pretty bad influence there for a minute. Offering to get me a third serving of pizza.”
She lightly shoves my shoulder. “Your head was on a swivel, turning to look at the ovens every couple of seconds. The moment you realized half the Sicilian was left, you couldn’t focus and got slow on your answers about what your favorite Olga Ta?ón song was.”
I groan. “Is my mother too young to be put in a home? I’m never forgiving her for that.”
“As if you would ever put her in a home. You worship the ground she walks on, as you should.”
I tap my phone a few times, opening up the food delivery app to Luciano’s. “To answer your question, you are guilt free. Because tomorrow, we’re not losing. Now hurry up and order. I’m going to need some dulce de leche if I’m going to talk about Anna’s birth mother.”
She takes the phone cautiously as she asks, “And how are you so sure you’re going to win?” She starts adding flavors to the cart at an impressive speed.
I take the final sip of wine, earning her attention. “I’ve got someone I want to impress coming to the game, so I won’t lose.”