14. CADE
CHAPTER 14
CADE
B ack when I was called up from the minors, the one thing I enjoyed the most after pitching practice was the circuit. It’s the one drill that brings the whole team together in unified suffering. Right now, usual regulars and competing prospects follow through the exercises divided into sections under the watchful eyes of the trainers and coaching staff.
Today is what I’d define as a perfect day, cool enough that we’re still breathing air and not water, puffy clouds trekking slowly in the sky, the sun bright but not stabby. I even forego my sunglasses for the drills and twist my cap around. The field is filled with the sounds of whistles, cleats racing on dirt and grass, shouts of encouragement or heckling, the grunts of players pushing themselves hard, and of young prospects hacking up in a trash can. Welcome to the majors, kiddies.
I rub the sweat off the palms of my hands on my pants and stay low, waiting for the whistle. Once it comes, I take off like a raging bull is right behind me, working my legs until my thighs burn. Flanking me are three other guys and because we’re professional little shits, we try to outrun each other. I’m nowhere near the fastest runner in the team—that’s Lucky, actually—but I put up a damn good fight and make it in second place.
The hip rotations next would almost feel like resting in comparison, until you realize your thighs don’t want to cooperate anymore. I grunt at the quick pace of the drill, sweat dripping down my face enough that I can see my own droplets fly around my face as I move. After that, prisoner squats really start testing my endurance. Especially because this is my fourth time around the circuit.
“Faster, Cowboy,” says a familiar voice beside me. Garcia claps her hands, urging me. “That’s it, keep going—O’Brien, you’re cheating and I can see it!”
“Ah, shit.” He huffs and puffs.
Somehow, I manage to find the strength for my lips to twitch, yet they don’t form a full smile. Garcia is famous for being the toughest of the drill sergeants, like she genuinely enjoys seeing elite athletes shed tears. She also sticks to us every step of the way, which is a workout in itself.
Honestly, my respects.
The next one is relatively easy, side sprints with an elastic band. I pick the first one I find discarded on the grass and put it around my waist. The nearest trainer is precisely her so we have to partner up.
“Faster, darlin’,” I tease back as she jogs over, and I appreciate how her little face tightens.
She slides into the circle of the band, securing it around her waist and spreading her legs to brace herself. “Less yapping and more running, Starr.”
I give her a salute and start the drill before my heart rate goes down. I’d never admit this aloud because she’d no doubt inflict serious bodily harm on me, but the first time I was in a drill like this with her, I had serious concerns that I may somehow hurt her. Until I learned she holds stronger than a grudge. Obviously, my movement jerks her out of position and she has to dig her heels deep into the soil, but she still makes it impossible to topple her over. My deepest respects to her thighs.
I sure appreciate how her quads stand in stark relief under her leggings. They taper up into wide, shapely hips that are meant to be grabbed. By someone who is not me.
I best lift my eyes before she realizes I’m checking her out like a creep.
Once I switch to my other side, I fix my attention on literally anything else, which ends up being Lucky by the dugout, coaching a prospect into learning how to breathe again after a round of vomiting.
Finishing my reps, I step in to let the elastic band fall and Garcia does the same. I turn my head toward her and she’s lifted her cap with one hand, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her other hand.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
She looks up at me, surprised though I don’t know why. Then she recovers and the trainer-in-session expression falls back on. “No dillydallying, c’mon.”
I snort through my nose. I’ll take it that she’s fine, then.
I jog away to join the next drill and the following after that, until finally I’m deserving of a break. My legs feel heavier than usual as I make my way around the perimeter of the circuit where players are still going at it. There’s a cluster of people around the drinks composed of none other than Garcia, Lucky and our annoying main catcher.
The only person I’m ever rude with is Lucky, because we have earned the privilege of this treatment from each other. He’s chirping about who knows what when I approach from behind and jerk him back by the collar of his shirt.
“Hey!”
“You’re obstructing business,” I say, elbowing the rest of my way to grab a bottle.
Of course, he pays me back by squeezing my bottle while I’m drinking. Water explodes in my face. The bad news is that I don’t manage to drink much of it. The good news is that I feel refreshed.
I wipe my face calmly. “Thanks, man. I feel so much better now.”
“Sure you do.” He guffaws.
“You clowns are embarrassing me,” Kim says, drinking from his bottle in a civilized way.
Garcia checks over her shoulders and uncaps her bottle. “Actually, this might not be a bad idea.” Then she pours water on her face.
Happy to report I’m not the only one whose jaw drops.
However, I do wonder if I’m the only one who lingers. Thank the heavens that her shirt is purple and not white, because it’s already sticking to her chest in some typa way.
Kim clears his throat. “Since when did you decide to join these barbarians?”
“If you can’t fight ‘em join ‘em and all that,” she says, wiping excess water from her chin.
“Es lo que hay.” Lucky offers his fist and she bumps it with her smaller one.
See? This is why I struggle to comprehend why this woman doesn’t have men begging on their knees for a morsel of her attention. She’s weird and fun, not to mention those thighs.
Her brown eyes settle on me, straight up worrying me that she might read my mind. My only diversion is blurting out, “So, when’s the date with the chosen one?”
“Oh, yeah. I was wondering about that.” Lucky cocks an eyebrow. Even the catcher appears interested in the answer.
“In two days,” she responds after a deep inhale.
“Wait.” I look up to think for a second. “But in two days we’re on the road—we play whatshisface.”
The other two grunt. No one in the Orlando Wild organization wants to utter the words Ben and Williams together, like the full name of the traitor has become the newest jinx we need to beat. In two days we face him for the first time against his new team, the Denver Riders, and Beau already declared that I’ll be the starting pitcher.
Like the fool I am, I’ve had a grin on my face ever since. Until now. Pretty sure my mouth is a flat line right now.
“Yes.” Garcia bobs her head, long ponytail bouncing behind her. “I’m off this entire weekend.”
“That’s great and you definitely deserve a break,” I say carefully, scratching my chin and realizing only now that I forgot to shave this morning. “But I mean, how do we work out the logistics here?”
She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”
“I was thinking it would be a good idea for us to be there too.”
“Huh?”
“Now that’s an idea.” Kim gives me a look that makes me think it’s his first time realizing I’m a sentient being.
“Like, eavesdropping?” Lucky frowns in confusion.
I open and close my mouth. “Well, it’d be like when you—” I point first at Garcia and then at the field, “—are here following us along as we do the drills to make sure we’re not screwing up, right?”
“Right…” She drags the word but doesn’t seem totally against the idea.
“We could even use the PitchCom to send you plays to execute during the date,” I say directly out of my ass because I honestly hadn’t thought about this as hard as I am right now. Though the idea of observing from another table did occur to me before, inspired by that mess at the bar in Clearwater.
“Wow, dude. That’s genius.” Lucky points at me, shaking his hand in the same way he does when he’s scored a run and is headed to the dugout to celebrate.
“Are you on board with this crap?” Kim asks her.
“Considering how much of a disaster I am at this whole thing, yeah… maybe?” Garcia scratches the back of her neck, pressing her lips tighter. Her eyes lift to mine. “Actually, this is probably the most brilliant thing you’ve ever said.”
“Geez, I don’t know if to be flattered or offended.”
“Both,” Kim mutters.
“But the problem is that we’ll be flying back from Kansas right after the game,” Lucky muses aloud, removing his cap to run his hand through his curly hair. “What time is your date?”
“Originally it’s for six.” The three of us groan because that’s cutting it too close to our arrival, and she continues, “But it’s probably no issue to reschedule for an hour later.”
“Plus, you can always be late.” Lucky rests his elbow on her shoulder. “That drives guys nuts. It’s never a bad idea to cause some tension.”
“We can’t use the team’s PitchCom for this, though.” Kim folds his arms, adopting the air of responsibility of the unofficial captain, but not fully shooting down this ridiculous idea of mine.
“Eh, no worries.” I shrug. “I bought one to test it with my private trainer last year. We can use that.”
“Great, we have a plan.” Lucky nods once.
“You know…” Garcia’s eyes narrow slightly into a wistful expression. “Sometimes I wonder what even is my life.”
A corner of my lips rises. “You mean not every girl has three hot studs helping her navigate the dating world?”
She shakes her head but there’s no hiding the spark of amusement in her eyes.
A whistle goes off nearby and Beau’s voice booms. “Break’s over, kids! Time for some fielding practice.”
Said three studs leave our bottles on the table to join the actual party. The circuit was nothing compared to what’s waiting for us.
“Starr?”
I jerk to a stop and glance over my shoulder. Garcia still stands by the water coolers, her hands clasped in front of her all sweet and innocent like, even though she’s the most hardass in this entire field.
I cock an eyebrow once enough seconds pass that this is starting to get awkward. She clears her throat and says, “Thanks.”
I smile. “You’re welcome.” Then I turn my cap back to the front and go get my glove to resume practice.