2. CADE
CHAPTER 2
CADE
FEbrUARY
N othing like spending St. Valentine’s at a swanky restaurant waiting not for a hot date, but for your sports agent. I’d have preferred to hit a bar downtown, see if I could score a date for tonight, but Lou was adamant that we meet. For a guy who mostly ignores me, I figure this has to be important.
So, either I’m about to get sacked by my team or by my agent.
Judging by how late he’s running, I hope it’s just the latter.
I check my watch. It’s half past six. Then I lift up my phone and click around until I locate his text message—it indeed says to meet here at six.
Sighing, I lean back on my chair. He’ll show up eventually, even if it means waiting with a lukewarm glass of water for two more hours. In the meantime, I do my usual rotation of doomscrolling through socials, stop to watch a whole two-minute video of a panda playing on some swings, and catch exactly zero sightings of my face or name on the profiles of sports channels and magazines. SPORTY gave me a feature in the offseason that made me hope my time was finally arriving, but the answer has been no. I am, in fact, still not arriving—just like my agent.
Now in a crappy mood, I put my phone facedown on the table and look around for entertainment. Of course this fancy ass place doesn’t have any TV screens showing games. There’s some jazzy music in the background drowned by the quiet hum of polite conversation and the occasional laughter. The tables around me are overwhelmingly taken by couples because of freaking course, except it’s easy to tell if it’s a long-enduring couple or a new one.
For example, the two in the table off to my right, closest to the bar. They both wear wedding rings, and it seems like they’ve reached the stage where much conversation isn’t necessary. They’ve either learned to communicate telepathically or the relationship is in the rocks—no in between. I calculate they’ve been going at it for about fifteen years.
Then there’s the couple on the left, in the row by the wall. These ones are clearly on a first date. How do I know? Because the guy is doing all the talking and the woman sits ramrod stiff, oozing awkwardness through her pores.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lou that says one single word. Traffic . That can mean he’s near to arriving and the half hour delay was due to the fact that Orlando is one hour away from Orlando, or it could mean that I have yet to wait an indeterminate amount of time. Guess I’ll just take it as W that he’s really on his way.
For lack of anything to do, I take the glass of water and glance at the first date couple over the glass rim. He looks like he put some effort—his shirt is ironed and hair freshly gelled, not like he came straight from work. But she must have not been on the same page, going by the simple polo and trainers she’s wearing. Maybe she didn’t look up what kind of restaurant this was—the rich people kind—or this is her way of saying she’s not really into it without using actual words. With women you never know.
Stomping feet distract me and there’s only one person I know who walks like he has a vendetta against the floor. Lou makes his way through the tables, bumping into a couple of people and not bothering to apologize. You can take a New Yorker out of New York, but can’t take New York out of the New Yorker.
Meanwhile, I’m from Texas. I make eye contact with the two offended people and say, “My apologies. Sorry for my friend.” The My still comes out like Mah , no matter how many years I’ve been away from Texas because clearly the same adage applies to me. People will pry my y’all from my cold dead hands.
Huffing, Lou dumps himself in the chair across from me. “I hate this town. Everyone says living in Florida is like being on vacation year round and that’s bullshit.”
The corner of my lips lifts. “Good to see you too.”
“You should’ve ordered for me,” he says while taking the menu for a quick scan. “I only have a short moment before my charter flight to Miami.”
“Well, I feel special now.” The bulk of his clients are actually there, so if he came in person to see me this can’t all be bad, right?
“You should, I came to?—”
Of course, this is the exact moment the waiter chooses to drop by. “Welcome, would you like to see the wine menu?”
Lou drops the food menu like it burns and says, “Oh, yes. That would be great.”
“I thought you have a flight soon?” I mask a snort with a polite cough.
“It’s in two hours.” He waves a hand at me and gleefully receives the drinks menu. As the waiter retreats to give us a moment, Lou says, “I assume you’re not drinking, right? Spring Training starts soon so you better be in shape.”
“Right.” I fold my arms over the table and lean forward. “Speaking of, is there going to be a Spring Training for me?”
That pulls his attention away from the idea of booze. “What the hell do you mean? Of course there is.”
“Just checking.” I clear my throat. “So what are the news, then? Am I getting traded? Or fired?”
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes as if I was being impatient and not him being late. “No, you’re still with the Orlando Wild. No trades in your future.”
I stay quiet because I don’t know if to file that under Bummer or under Yay. My run with the Wild hasn’t been exactly… wild so far. And not because I’ve played like shit or anything—I’ve been a damn fine closer pitcher. But that’s not enough for me, and the team hasn’t been enough for the fans. Last season we ended up near the bottom of the league.
This is why the SPORTY feature felt like such a big deal. I was kinda hoping it would lead to a trade into a better team. Except in that case I might’ve been relegated to pitching relief. Or maybe sent to the minors. So, lose-win?
“The big news is…” His lips twitch like he’s holding back glee, and immediately my heart rate escalates. “Williams is the one getting traded.”
I blink. Lean back on my chair. Hold the water glass for emotional support.
“Huh.”
Despite my lukewarm reaction, I’m hootin’ and tootin’ in my heart.
This is major freaking news. Ben Williams has been the starter pitcher for the past couple of years. What edged him in the position over me is his annoying curveball that he can control at will. But other than that, he’s not really a better pitcher than me. He gasses out on average one inning less than I do, and his fastballs are pretty average. But somehow he’s managed to command the attention of our GM and the media much better than me, even though he’s a grade-A doucheturd.
“Where to?” I ask, even though it’s not my main question.
“The Denver Riders,” he responds, now fully smirking. “Guess what that means for you?”
“A chance?”
“ The chance.” He laces his fingers in his classic shush-boy-I’m-about-to-negotiate-on-your-behalf pose. “That’s why I came in person. I spent the afternoon meeting with your coach and GM. You’re next in line for starter pitcher if you perform well during Spring Training. And it will come with a salary increase too.”
“If,” I clarify and he nods. “What happens if I don’t wow them?”
“Are you planning to play like some pee wee, or something? What kind of question is that?” He blows a forceful puff of air. “Obviously in that case they’ll trade in some other hotshot. This is your chance, Starr, so don’t screw it up.”
“A’ight, I won’t.”
I catch movement from the corner of my eye. The guy from the first date table gesticulates widely with his hands and his face is a mask of annoyance. A voice distracts me again.
“Are you ready to place your orders?” It’s the waiter again.
Lou pushes away from the table before reaching for the pocket in his jacket. “Actually, I just checked the time and need to head out. Can you put whatever he wants under my card?”
“Certainly, sir.” The waiter takes the card and heads over to the register.
“Geez, people are going to think I make a terrible date,” I drawl.
“Your string of Annies tells me otherwise—Which reminds me, focus on baseball more than on women this season, yeah?”
“Right.”
Lou tips his head. “I mean it, Starr. Don’t blow this chance.”
The waiter saves me from having to acknowledge that by gliding over. “Here’s your card, sir.”
Lou packs it away in his wallet and gives me one last look before stomping his way out of the restaurant. This time he doesn’t run into anyone, though.
“Sir, are you ready to place your order?”
I tamper down my expression into placid disinterest. “What’s the most expensive item in the menu?”
“That would be our marinated wagyu beef with truffle mashed potatoes, and tender vegetables with house aioli on sourdough.”
So, an average meal made to sound pretentious. Perfect.
“Two of those to go, please.” And just to be annoying, I add, “And a glass of orange juice.”
To his credit, the waiter remains impassive. “Certainly.”
That’s when first date guy throws his napkin on the table and shoots to his feet. I haven’t seen him exchange credit cards with any of the wait staff, which gives me the impression he’s not only leaving mid-date, but also saddling her with the bill. What an asshole.
“Excuse me.” I turn to the waiter leaving my table. “I’ll also pick up her tab.” I point at the stunned woman still sitting ramrod at her chair.
“Ah, y-yes. Of course.” First time the waiter’s not smooth like the house aioli, but I guess it’s not often he sees a woman get dumped on a first date at this joint.
As he pivots away, I zero in on any signs that she may be crying or something. That’s always uncomfortable as hell because I don’t know how to make anyone feel better, and maybe it’s best if I don’t even try. She might want to pretend like tonight never even happened. Fortunately, Lou will foot the bill of her mistake because she shouldn’t even have accepted the invitation from that waste of hair gel.
Finally, she turns to grab her purse from the back of her chair, and we make eye contact. She freezes.
Meanwhile, I can feel my lips curve.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here.” I fold my arms.
None other than Hope Garcia, athletic trainer of the Orlando Wild Baseball Club, who opens her eyes as wide as they go.
“Starr,” she all but hisses my last name.
“Garcia.”
Her dark eyes check the exit. “Did you see that?”
“Every bit.”
Her shoulders slump. But after one breath, she straightens back up and lifts her chin. “What can I do to make it so that the whole team doesn’t find out about this?”
“Please, darlin’.” I place a hand on my chest delicately. “I would never.”
“Wasn’t you who told everyone that Rivera cried while watching Titanic?”
“In my defense, that was right after he dyed my eyebrows in my sleep.”
“Starr.” She frowns.
“Your secret is safe with me, woman.”
“I don’t believe you for a second.”
“Here is your order, sir, and the check.” The waiter places a large bag on the table, along with a fancy little folio with the check. “Oh, I’m afraid I nearly forgot the orange juice. I’ll be back in a second.”
“Thanks,” I say absentmindedly, running my eyes through the tab. Garcia’s jerk of a date also ordered the wagyu and was going to make her pay for it. Meanwhile, she had only ordered the side caesar salad.
I scribble a decent thirty percent tip and crumple the receipt in my fist.
When I look up, Garcia’s by the register. Someone gets in the way again and it’s my waiter with the to-go drink. I use him as a cover to gather my stuff and high-tail it before she realizes what’s happened.