3. HOPE
CHAPTER 3
HOPE
“ A re you taking notes?” Steve asks over his shoulder with the same air of polite indifference people use to say bless you after someone else sneezes.
He’s my boss, though, so I have no choice but to offer a serious nod and reply with a well-timed “yes, sir.” The question is extremely annoying when he assigned me to update the player charts in real time while they get their preseason physicals. That includes not just fitness records but also nutrition, because as the youngest and only female in the whole athlete care department, I’m obviously responsible for all the menial tasks.
Obviously .
On the outside, baseball has been making big strides to be more inclusive and recognize that it doesn’t have to continue being the boys club it’s always been. Heck, there are female umpires now. I wouldn’t have gotten my athletic therapist job if I’d applied ten years ago—although I was in high school but that’s not the point.
On the inside, though, The Show is still very much run by boys for boys.
Aside from me in the training staff, I can count on one hand the women who aren’t in HR or accounting, and that includes my two roommates. One of our fave pastimes is sitting in our living room with a fancy little beverage each, and talking shit about the men we work around. Which definitely includes some of the players.
Unfortunately, I can’t complain about the one I’d most like to. Fortunately, he seems to have kept his yap shut since the whole dinner date fiasco a couple weeks ago. Or he’s biding his time to spill the beans at the right moment when I’ll be the most humiliated, I don’t know. Cade Starr is hard to read.
Ugh, speaking of…
“Starr, looking good.” Steve stops by the treadmill that Starr is running on while wearing an altitude training mask, and motions at me to look at his stats.
I feel a pair of bright blue eyes follow me as I walk around the treadmill to peek at the screen. Firing my iPad back up, I jot down his heartbeat, oxygen levels, speed, and everything else that the chart asks for. The software we use immediately compares to the previous measurements and everyone and their mom will be pleased by this development. Starr is in the best shape of his life right when the team needs him the most.
That sucks. Here I’d have preferred that he got traded and took my little secret away with him.
My boss jerks his chin toward the next guy and I’m happy to follow along this time. Five other guys are on the treadmills, being analyzed from every angle by the entire operations and medical teams. Some fifty people stand behind a window overlooking the training facility, as some twenty of us in the larger medical team perform the checks.
Among them, I spot the owner, Charlie Cox, parked in a corner, splitting his attention between his phone, his assistant, and the players spread out through the gym.
Cox is one of those so called billionaire-philanthropists who donates metric tons of money to the local arts every year, and apparently bought this baseball franchise three years ago because of his childhood fascination with the sport.
Three years happens to be as long as I’ve been employed by the organization. Rumor has it that I was a diversity hire to make the new owner look good. Seeing him here brings back the supreme annoyance I felt when my coworkers dropped that little tidbit. I’m sure Cox has no idea that I even exist, and I don’t intend to catch his attention right now.
I follow behind Steve and I’m not above using him as a shield as we navigate the grounds.
Up next is Logan Kim, the best catcher in the team, also running with an altitude training mask. I don’t know who started that fad, if Starr or him, but the two keep shooting each other these competitive looks that almost make me shake my head. I log Kim’s data and compare it to his previous readings. This guy’s also improved a lot, especially his pulmonary capacity.
That seems to be a recurring theme in most of the guys we evaluate after Kim. Aside from the handful of guys who still need to do more PT work during Spring Training, it looks like most of them have taken good care of themselves during the offseason. And maybe losing our star pitcher has fired them up.
“Nuh-uh, hold up,” my boss says and I freeze, until I glance up from the player charts and find he’s not talking to me. “Put that back on, there are ladies present.”
He points at Lucas “Lucky” Rivera, our shortstop, who is in the middle of taking his shirt off to get his fat percentage measured.
Sighing, I mutter, “It’s okay, Boss. They all look like pieces of meat to me.”
There’s a snort behind me, followed by a deep and deeply annoying voice with a Texan accent saying, “Is that so?” Up next, he walks by me while peeling off his sweaty shirt to queue behind Rivera. And because the team is singularly composed of only class clowns, one by one they all do the same. Even Kim, who is usually the most serious of the bunch.
It’s not my first rodeo and these stooges don’t know I was raised in a family of mostly men—Dad, older brother, and an army of boy cousins. My trade is literally studying muscles in an analytical way. To paraphrase Shania Twain, abs don’t impress me much.
I open my mouth wide into a yawn so exaggerated that I manage to bring legit tears to my eyes. I even go as far as smacking my mouth a couple of times like I just woke up.
Rivera breaks through the quiet with a snort, and he smacks his buddy’s arm. “Looks like you didn’t impress her, Cowboy.”
As more laughter and ribbing ensues, I say in a deadpanned way, “Can we get back to work before I fall asleep on my feet?”
Steve’s eyes shift to the window, reminding me of the vow I made earlier with myself of not attracting the owner’s attention. I cast a furtive glance his way and almost sag in relief when I find that he’s vanished, his spot taken by my roommates.
Of course they choose to make their way over from the admin building in time to witness this little scene, but better them than the alternate scenario of the owner questioning whether a woman in the medical staff was a good idea after all.
And why the hell is Cade Starr half smirking? That’s not the expression he should have on his face after he just got owned.
Wait. Does he think he owned me ? Or… is he thinking about my disaster date?
“Hey, Garcia. Can you show me Kim’s stats for a second?” one of the analytics guys asks, and I’m all too glad to make my way across the floor as far from Starr as possible.
I hand over my iPad and fold my arms tight as I wait for this guy to review the catcher’s chart, my foot tapping the floor with pent up energy. Normally I’m not fazed by a little teasing from the guys—that’s just part of survival here. But not today. I glance over my shoulder at a certain shirtless pitcher, standing on a scale. He’s nodding to whatever Steve’s saying next to him, which is great news because it means he’s not using his mouth to tell everyone what a terrible date I make. Rivera, his buddy, isn’t paying me any extra attention, which gives me the hope that he also doesn’t know.
Despite my name, though, I’m a firm believer that hope doesn’t make for a good strategy. I spent almost two weeks worrying all on my own that Starr might’ve spilled the beans to the whole team and when I discovered that he didn’t, I developed the hope that maybe he had just forgotten about it.
Until that freaking smirk a second ago.
I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him—which means not far at all, because he’s 6 foot 4 and two hundred one pounds of solid muscle. I have to find a way to shut him up for good.
Except obviously I can’t kill him—that would get me fired, tempting as it is. I can’t bribe him either because that would also cost me my job. What can I possibly do?
*
The opportunity presents itself during lunch break. One thing most male specimens have in common is how their logical brains shut off when presented with food. With other stimuli too, but those don’t figure in this situation.
What this means is that once we park ourselves at a table to eat our lunch, my boss and coworkers forget my very existence. None of them notice how I pick a seat that allows me to keep a strategic lookout for my target: one Cade Starr, prospective starter pitcher for this season.
I wait like a lioness among the bushes until, halfway through lunch, Starr pushes his chair away from the table and stands. Leaning to one side discreetly, I confirm that there’s still food on his plate, which can only mean one thing in the world of ravenous athletes: this man is going to the restroom.
And now so must I. “Excuse me,” I mumble as I stand, but my colleagues are too enthralled by the chicken tacos to acknowledge me.
I take the exit closest to the kitchen and dawdle in the hallway, because it’s not like I’m gonna fully stalk the guy while he does his business. I pluck my phone from my back pocket and check my email as I slowly inch closer to the restrooms. I’ll save some special time later tonight to feel bad about being such a creep, but right now my focus is on survival—because I’d really expire if he decides to run his mouth.
“Whoa.”
I lift my eyes, stopping abruptly when I find myself face to face with Starr. Turns out I moved a lot closer to the men’s restroom entrance than I intended, and he almost bumped into me on his way out.
“Are you stalking me, darlin’?” he asks, still drying his hands with a paper towel. All the points I could’ve given him for hygiene poof upon his words.
“First of all, darling doesn’t figure in the name field on my driver license.” I fold my arms and spread my feet at hip width. “And second, yes. We need to have a word.”
He blinks those bluish eyes of his slowly. “In the restroom?”
“We’re outside of it.”
“Semantics.”
“Starr.” I frown. “What the hell was up with that smug look earlier?”
“Garcia, I’m gonna need you to use more words than that.” He waves circles in the air as if encouraging me.
I take a deep breath. “Are you planning on holding my humiliation over me forever? Or worse, are you waiting for the best moment to mock me in front of the whole team?”
“Huh?” His brow twists in pretty convincing confusion.
I check the hallway. Confirming it’s still empty except for us, I speak through gritted teeth. “About the other night.”
After one second of processing those words, Starr’s face morphs. To my surprise, it’s into annoyance. “Wait, you really think I’d make fun of you for suffering through a bad date?”
I tilt my head, waiting for the catch.
Nothing comes and now I’m the one who’s confused. “Huh?”
Starr shakes his head. “The answer is no, I’m not going to give you any crap about your bad date.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, no need to follow me to restrooms about it.”
“We’re outside,” I repeat, huffing. “Anyway, you won’t change your mind?”
“No,” he deadpans. “Can I go finish my tacos now before the vultures polish them?”
“Sure…” I fall back as he passes me by and for some reason, blurt out, “I’m watching you, Starr.”
He halts and slowly turns to look over his shoulder. Sunlight spills through the windows down the side, making his eyes look like turquoise glass mosaics, and for a second I’m mesmerized. Until he opens his mouth. “Apparently even in the restroom, huh?”
“Ugh, just go.” I swivel on my heels and pretend like I intended to go to the women’s restroom all along.
Inside, I meet my red face through the mirror and press my lips tight. “Pitchers,” I spit out like it’s a curse. They all tend to be annoying and I thought we’d got rid of the worst after Ben Williams got traded. But now I don’t know how I’ll survive a whole season of Cade Starr when I keep putting my foot in my mouth in front of him.