25. HOPE
CHAPTER 25
HOPE
“ S tarr is accounted for,” I declare as I walk into the meeting room where the entire support staff is meeting, tucking my cellphone in the back pocket of my regulation pants. “He also seems to be down with a cold like Rivera and company.”
That leads to some sighs, groans, and facepalms.
Yesterday, everyone was fine and playing their best. Today, no other than nine guys are down with what seems to be the same bug. The only difference is that the rest of them showed up to the facilities and gave training a try for a brief moment, until either they or staff noticed that they shouldn’t be training at all and were sent home.
But Starr never even showed up. We’ve blown up his phone all day long, and his agent said that last he checked in the early morning, Starr was at home and just sounded tired. I don’t know about the rest of the men in this room, but I’ve been freaking out that something really bad might’ve happened to him—like a traffic accident on the way, or something worse. I’m so relieved that he finally picked up his phone and it was with my call, that my body feels like it’s floating compared to a few minutes ago. Not that I can say any of this aloud without having my words misconstrued. And especially not after Otto’s little comments yesterday.
“He took your call?” said douche asks, cocking his eyebrow and cutting a look at Steve that everybody can read.
I deadpan with, “Yeah, maybe because I called him twenty times back to back, instead of you trying once and giving up.”
“Thank you for the persistence, Garcia,” Beau says, tossing a nod my way that placates me because upon his level response, Otto and the others can’t stir the shit they wanted to. “Did he sound as bad as the other guys?”
“Slightly worse, I’d say.” As curses and complaints rise, I add, “But maybe it’s good timing. This way he can really rest his elbow.”
Steve nods. “That’s a good point.”
“Now that all the players are accounted for, we can discuss how to reshuffle the team for the next few games. Thank you to the training staff for your support today.” That’s a clear dismissal from Rob Beau, which is great because I’ve been here almost two hours extra trying to locate one cowboy that now needs some soup.
I rush to pick up my bag and luck out that there are no Otto sightings on my way out. I make a mental note of being extra careful around him, even when I already trusted him as far as I could throw him. And I’m a quite strong girlie.
In my car, I check the text message from one Annoying Cowboy with not only his address, but a door code. I’m not surprised that his house is in one of those Winter Park neighborhoods where rich people live, and I set course for a nearby Publix to buy ingredients. His kitchen better be stocked with the tools I need, or else.
Or else I’ll have to drive home to get them, and I’d rather not explain to my roommates why I’d be poaching pots or knives from our kitchen. I trust them a lot more than Otto, but I don’t want them to think this is a bigger deal than it is.
It’s just that none of the other guys legitimately sounded as bad as Starr did, and the second he admitted to not having eaten anything my amygdala kicked in. I’m a fight type of person, which rather than anger, more often than not translates into having to do something so I don’t feel useless.
Soup it is.
I probably break a world record of fastest grocery shopping for all the ingredients necessary for Dad’s chicken soup. It’s his bootleg version of the Venezuelan mondongo but only with one type of meat—chicken—and without spending two days in the preparation. It’s still a pretty hearty everything-but-the-kitchen-sink recipe that cures everything but a broken heart. I tried it after I got dumped and it’s the only time this soup hasn’t fixed me.
The drive to his house is pretty quick, and when I shift into the brick streets is when I know I’m in the seriously moneyed area. Breathing here already increases my taxes.
“You have arrived,” my GPS says, the screen signaling that my destination is on the right. But all I see is a concrete wall at odds with the open lawns on every other lot. I park behind two cars by the entrance of the bunker-like property and check that the house number nailed over the entrance matches the text message from him.
“Huh,” I mutter as I step out of my Jeep. I pick up the bags of groceries from the back and head over to the door. I search everywhere for the keypad, and I don’t know if it’s because the streetlights are too dim, or if it’s just that this door is too fancy, but it takes me a good moment to find the near seamless keypad.
The door gives out a fancy little beep as it opens.
“Oh, geez,” I say to myself. Is this a bank or a home?
I walk into a yard unlike anything I’ve seen before. It’s quite narrow but long—very long. There’s perfectly manicured grass, and the walls are flanked by so many plants that it’s easy to forget that the whole property is encased by concrete. But something in the middle of it makes me smile.
Starr straight up built a pitching mound with a strike zone painted old school against an end wall. The wall is stained with blows from what must be thousands of pitches he’s thrown at it.
Shaking my head, I close the entrance door behind me and make my way across the narrow patch of grass to the house. In contrast to the property’s perimeter, the house walls are made of crystal clear glass. Inside the lights are on and display decor straight out of a gallery room—large, modern furniture in earth tones, brass all over. But first, there’s a front door I must defeat.
I wouldn’t consider myself a genius of my generation or anything, but I key in the same code as before and this door also opens. I’d pat my own back if my hands weren’t busy.
“Wow,” I say once I’m inside, and my voice echoes in the empty chamber of perfect acoustics.
This place was clearly decorated by an expensive designer because even the light fixtures look intentional. The kitchen is pristine, only with a bowl of fresh fruit on the marble counters. There better be actual cooking crap behind the cabinets. I place the bags on the kitchen island by the farm style double sink, straight out of the renovation shows my roomies and I like to binge watch while dreaming of having house-buying money one day.
There’s only one thing missing from this place, though. And that is…
Signs of life.
And I don’t just mean because Starr wasn’t waiting by the door to greet me. I mean that there’s literally no indication that he even lives here. Where are the family pictures? The domestic messes? The mismatched mugs or even the Orlando Wild paraphernalia? This looks like a freaking AirBNB that costs a grand per night.
“Starr?” I call out weakly. Something about raising my voice in this house kinda scares me. What if my shrills break the glass or something?
I glance around again, as if he could pop out from between the couch cushions. The kitchen seems to be smack in the middle of the floor plan because the main entrance opens directly to it and to the vast living room, which I’m facing right now. I pad softly toward the opposite wall to the entrance, where massive crystal doors overlook a long pool that spans across the length of the property all the way to the back, where I assume the rooms are. It feels way longer than the front yard, and since I didn’t see his car outside, I put two and two and deduct that it’s because the front yard is cut short by a garage. The wall with the strike zone must be its side.
The property probably fits three of my dad’s whole lot, except this is just for a single guy. He must throw some pretty wild parties in here.
I shake off the yuck that gives me and take out my phone from my pocket to shoot him a text. My I’m here goes completely ignored. Did he go out? No way to find out unless I snoop in his garage.
Well, since I’m here I might as well. I retrace my steps to the entrance, using the sort of mental map I’ve made of the place. There’s a short, narrow hallway to the right of the entrance that I ignored when I walked in. It ends in a door and it unlocks to a dark, uncomfortably hot space. I feel around the sides until I find a light switch and flip it.
Voila, a massive black pickup truck is parked in the middle, surrounded by racks of tools, household goods, and baseball equipment. A.k.a. a garage.
I turn off the light and close the door. This tells me one thing: Cade Starr is somewhere in this house, and he might be indisposed enough that he’s passed out.
I gasp a little. “What if he needs urgent care?”
Screw decency, I need to find this guy right now.
My sneakers squeak against the marble floors as I pivot around the kitchen to the opposite hallway that runs by the pool. Somewhere behind the kitchen, it cuts perpendicular into a smaller hallway, but I try the very first door on the left instead.
Success.
If it hadn’t been for the single lit up lamp by his bed, I’d have missed him and tried another room instead. His bed is massive, no doubt custom made for a 6 foot 4 giant like him. And there, in the middle, is none other than the house owner.
“Starr?” I whisper and he doesn’t stir. Something really is up.
I approach slowly not to spook him in case he wakes up—but there’s no need, dude’s completely out cold. He lies on his side, facing the lamp, one hand on his cellphone maybe since we last talked.
The bed sheets lost the fight in trying to cover him at some point and they’re balled up between his legs. Fortunately, he’s wearing gray sweat pants. Unfortunately, no shirt. I’m not strong enough to stop myself from admiring the clear ridges of the serratus anterior muscles that cover his ribs. They’re very pretty, okay? His brown hair is a complete bird’s nest atop his head, and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes in and out softly.
But finally I notice his face. There’s a bit of a scruff going on, and it doesn’t hide the pinkness of his cheeks.
I’ve never in my life seen Cade Starr blush. He’s one of those people who tends to grow paler while exercising, rather than pink. In fact, he even tans golden rather than pink, as shown by the clear tan lines in his arms.
Without thinking, I place the back of my hand against his forehead and he’s hot. Like, not just attractiveness wise. He’s legit burning up with a high fever.
Just as I’m about to pull my hand away, he traps my wrist in his hand.
I freeze. His eyes are still closed and there’s no change in his breathing, like he’s still unconscious.
I make another attempt at freeing myself and it backfires. Spectacularly.
With a grunt, Starr yanks at my arm with so much strength that it tilts me off my axis. I barely manage to suppress a squeal, focused on not crashing into him. My knee against his mattress stops some momentum, until he shifts to use his other hand.
Next thing I know, he flips me around until my back crashes against his chest. All the air leaves my lungs as he tosses a leg over my hip and pulls me flush against him. The lack of oxygen to my brain keeps me paralyzed as he settles his arms around me, the one under my neck wrapping around my chest, over my boobs, until his hand rests on my shoulder. His other arm falls over around my waist, his hand snuggling under my ribs.
Snuggling.
Cade Starr is snuggling me .
Mierda. Mierda. What the hell do I do?
If I move—if he wakes up—oh, this is gonna be bad.
But also, what if he doesn’t wake up? I can’t spend the whole freaking night in his bed. That would be worse!
Oh my gosh, I’m in Cade Starr’s bed.
No. That doesn’t matter. The issue here is that he feels like a log that’s burning inside a fireplace. Sweat is already breaking all over the areas of my body pressed against his. That might also be because some of them are in contact with parts of Starr’s anatomy I never imagined I’d be in contact with. Or somewhat contact. Thankfully there are layers of clothing.
Welp. What if he was one of those guys who sleep naked?
In reflex, I jerk my head in a hard shake and that does stir him.
“Hmm.”
That relaxed, almost delighted little sound from his throat sends my heart rate through his expensive roof. Worse, he wraps himself a little tighter, his arms closing dangerously around my chest.
I don’t need to touch my hand to my face to know it’s burning up worse than he is, but for an entirely different reason. Even when Dawson and I were still besotted with each other, I can’t remember a single time he embraced me anywhere as deliciously as an unconscious Cade Starr. Imagine what it’d be like while he’s fully awake and it’s intentional?
I’d die.
He’d probably die if he wakes up and finds me here, though. If the roles were reversed, I’d scream bloody murder and call the cops.
I test the situation by touching his bare forearm, the one over my chest. It gets me no reaction, so I wrap my hand around the firm muscles and tug—and again, until his hold comes loose and I can lower his arm to the mattress. His knuckles collide with his phone screen, but that still doesn’t wake him up.
Swallowing thickly, I try the same trick with his other arm. This one’s more awkward because it lays above me, but with some effort I manage to rest it on his side without it sliding. His breath keeps fanning my nape steadily and when he makes no attempt at trapping me again, I begin wiggling away from him.
My traitorous nostrils widen almost impossibly, trying to capture his scent on the sheets. It almost makes me dizzy from how good it is, and I can tell that it’s not from aftershave but purely from his skin.
I roll toward the edge of the bed and drop to the floor on a crouch, ready to hide under his bed if he opens his eyes. But no, he’s still completely gone to the world.
I rise back up and lower one knee on his mattress again. Placing one hand against his chest, the other one balancing me over the mattress, I push him hard until he rolls to his back, arms spread wide. Huffing, I walk around to the foot of the bed to yank free the sheets that are tangled around his legs. I throw them over him, even going as far as tucking them into his sides to keep all the heat in. This way he’ll sweat and finally break the fever.
Turning his head toward me, he suddenly mumbles, “Hope?”
And I stop—breathing, blinking, thinking.
His eyes remain closed, though. A little line appears between his eyebrows. Is he dreaming about me or am I in his nightmares? But he knew I was coming, so it probably means nothing.
I bite my lip, gently stepping away from the bed and retreating all the way out of his bedroom. My hands tremble as I grab the door handle and shut the door so softly that it makes no sound.
Then I run to the kitchen. So fast that my shoes don’t even have enough time to squeak against the floor.
I only stop when I’m in front of the groceries, my chest expanding and contracting violently while I try to get enough oxygen to my brain. My whole body is a ball of raw nerve right now. I feel like such a perv because there’s no way I should be thinking the things I’m thinking about a man who is so ill that he’s not even aware of what he does or says.
But he said my name. Not my last name. Not darlin’. Hope .
Placing my hands on my steaming face, I try to reason that it’s not the first time. That time, during the PitchCom date disaster, he did call me out by my name.
It feels different now. Maybe because I was pressed up against him. And maybe because I feel?—
“Who are you?”
I jump around.
An older woman wearing rubber gloves up to her elbows, and brandishing a dripping mop at me, stands at the end of the hallway I just came from.
Like I’ve been caught in the middle of a crime, all I can utter is, “U—Uh…”
“State your name and what you came here for before I call the cops.” She pushes the mop closer to me.
I lift my hands. “Um, I’m Hope Garcia. Friend of Starr’s—coworker. I’m in the team. Not a player. Staff. I came to make soup. He’s sick.”
“Oh.” She blinks hard and the mop moves back an inch. Slowly, her eyes travel up and down my length, closing in on the team logo emblazoned across my chest. She clears her throat. “Still, I’d like to see a badge.”
“I—Yes. Of course. May I reach for my phone in my pocket. It’s also my wallet.”
Somehow this softens the woman. “Miss, if you’re that concerned about an old woman with a mop when you’re clearly strong enough to take me down, you’re probably not a weird stalker. But yes, please, show me your employee badge.”
I quickly produce both my Orlando Wild employee badge and my driver license. She inspects them for a quick moment, watching my face like she works for the TSA, and finally sets the mop down on the pristine floor.
“So Cade’s sick?” She frowns.
“Yeah, he’s been sleeping all day.”
“He’s home?” Her eyes pop. Now she rests the mop against the wall and works on removing her gloves. “Ugh, I should’ve checked. I’d have cooked him something.”
“Um.” I tuck my phone back in my pocket. Even though the woman is almost two feet shorter than Starr, and her features completely different, the air of protectiveness in her is so real that I ask, “Are you Starr’s mother?”
“Goodness, no. You flatter me, Miss Garcia.” She chuckles and then, like it’s part of a joke, adds, “Cade’s an orphan.”
And just like a few minutes ago, my whole world tilts off its axis.