32. CADE
CHAPTER 32
CADE
M y childhood dream was to become the best pitcher in the entire world, earn millions of dollars, build a house big enough for twelve people, and be so successful that no one else could say “there goes the orphan no one wanted” anymore.
I have since revised the dream to be more realistic. Yes, I do make millions of dollars per year and have invested enough that I’ll be able to live comfortably for the rest of my life in my very nice house. Also, barely anyone ever talks about my origins anymore, to the point where Hope—a coworker who has clearly never stalked me on the internet—had no idea. So in that sense, that childhood dream is fulfilled too.
But I’m middle of the pack when it comes to salary among pitchers though, because so far that’s also what my performance has been. Until now. And I hate to admit it, but a lot of it has to do with Logan Kim.
I have only the deepest admiration for his ability to manipulate me—I mean, not letting me quit even when I think there’s no more gas in me. I have no doubt that making a battery with him was the reason Ben Williams even reached the heights he has, because in his previous position of starter pitcher he got the lion’s share of Kim’s attention.
Right now we’re in the middle of a game with the worst conditions for me. It’s chilly and rainy, my uniform is soaked through and heavy, and my grip on the ball is shot. Yet Logan Kim won’t let off me and keeps making one wild call after another.
The fact that it’s working pisses me off the most.
When the inning ends with no runs, I do my very best to not sigh in relief because the ball didn’t fly off my fingers wrong and kill anyone.
Because guess what? I’m competitive as hell and if he wants to goad me, I’m not gonna back down like a wuss. So I keep throwing my hardest to scare off all the batters.
“Decent job,” he has the nerve to say as we job to the dugout.
“Screw you.”
All that does is make him smirk. I’m starting to learn his patterns because there are different levels to his manipulations. Level zero is the one he applies to Hope and anyone not in the team: it’s the one where he’s legitimately a decent freaking person.
Level one so far is reserved for the prospects, and it consists of a few innocent sounding quips to drive their performance up. That “decent job” comment actually falls in this category, it’s meant to piss me off and induce me into an “I’ll show you decent” mentality. I don’t know what it says about me because it works every time.
Level two is the much more subtle but nuclear shit like when he drove me into a corner by using Miguel Machado—a.k.a. a common adversary—to push me harder than ever before. The promise of pizza was just his way of letting me know what he had just done, and honestly if it wasn’t because of that I wouldn’t have even noticed that the whole scenario happened because of him.
So he’s a master manipulator with integrity and I respect that, but I kinda wanna punch him in the face too. It’s complicated, especially when I can already feel myself growing into the pitcher of my childhood dreams because of his calls.
The dugout offers a much needed respite from the rain. The swooshing sound behind me tells me it’s bad enough that the umpires might consider pausing the game, and I’d truly love them for it. As it is, all I can do is change my clothes for the third time in the course of four innings. I pinch the fabric of my shirt off my body and it legit makes a gross squelching sound.
I look up to locate Beau or any of the other coaches, but instead my eyes fall right on Hope’s. Her lips are peeled back in a cringe as she watches me, like she understands just how uncomfortable I am right now. I wrinkle my nose in return so she knows that yes, I am, in fact, yuck .
Socci appears in the corner of my eye so I tell him, “Be right back, going to change and to the restroom.”
“All right, hurry up,” he says while chewing gum like he wishes it was tobacco instead.
For a brief second I ponder suggesting to Kim that he should do the same, but he’s getting the gear removed and someone holds a helmet out for him, which reminds me his at bat is next.
Shrugging, I head into the tunnel and instead of stopping at my locker to change, I go to the bathroom first because I’m a man of priorities.
Once I’m done and I’m washing my hands, I chance a peek in the mirror and confirm that I look like a wet rat, uniform clinging to every nook and cranny. Between this and what will be seen in the SPORTY magazine pictures, there’s no need for anyone to imagine anything. I’ve basically shown it all.
I wonder what Hope thinks about that. Like, she did cringe earlier so maybe that’s not a great sign. Or maybe she doesn’t think about it at all.
“Hmm.” But I want her to think about it. I’m starting to hope the rain doesn’t stop—pun intended.
There’s no point in drying my hands after I left a whole trail on the floor, so I walk out of the men’s bathroom, thinking of ways I can tease the interest of a certain Latina, when I ram into someone.
Or rather, someone rams into me.
Someones.
“Cade! We love you!”
“Can you give us your autograph?”
My body freezes but my brain rapidly questions what in the actual hell are three fans doing here?
“Cade!” One of them clings to my throwing arm. Just before she closes her claw around it, I jerk it free and lift it over my head.
“Um, excuse me ma’am, you’re too close to?—”
Another one runs her hand down my stomach, trying to go lower. I step back and crash against the door. I’m torn between dashing inside for cover, but they seem invested enough that they’d follow me in and I know the door doesn’t have a lock.
“Excuse me.” I try to side step them but that’s when the third woman tries to lasso me. She blocks the little space I could’ve weaseled out of, and this one reeks less of alcohol than her buddies.
She leans into my right arm, closing hers around it like a vise. “Hey, Cowboy. We’ve been waiting for a chance to talk.”
I have a sort of out of body experience right there, of watching myself being harassed by some fans in a hallway in the restricted staff-only area, and taking a closer look at them. And this third woman is the one who strikes a cord.
Right now she’s in an Orlando Wild jersey and jean shorts, but I’ve seen her before in bright leggings and tops, running right behind me in my neighborhood.
I shut my jaw tight to not call her out. It could set her off—I don’t know. I’ve never really dealt with stalkers and all I know is from what happens to celebrities.
Fortunately I have superb panoramic vision. Unfortunately I find that we’re alone. I also can’t defend myself the way I would if these were men.
And it’s like they know it because they keep trying to grab what is not theirs to grab.
I make my voice firmer. “Ma’am, I’m in the middle of a game. Can you please step aside and let me go?”
“But—”
Steps approach and I look up for Kim’s entrance. “Starr, did you get sucked in by the—What the—” He freezes for a quick second, eyes widening almost impossibly. Mine do too, trying to impart a message saying that we absolutely cannot lay our hands on fans but I really need help. He jerks a nod, sucks in air, and shouts over his shoulder, “Security! Can someone call security? Starr is being harassed by trespassers!”
The drunkest women giggle like this is all a joke. But the third one, the actual stalker, appears to be torn between fleeing or freezing. Except, as more people tumble out of the clubhouse, she freezes.
“Cade is what?” Lucky yells, charging like a bull until he sees what’s happening and gets to the exact same conclusion as Kim and I.
Fans. Women. Can’t. Touch. Shit.
“Calling security now,” someone says.
“Excuse me.” The familiar voice parts the sea of men from the team, and in comes one Hope Garcia and—what the hell is she doing? Why is she taking off her staff shirt?
She balls it up and slams it into Lucky’s chest, who somehow manages to catch the fabric before it falls. We all watch her in complete silence because none of us have ever seen Hope Garcia in her sports bra. I wish I was literally in any other circumstance than this because…
Hot. Damn. She is perfect .
The muscles of her sculpted arms work as she pushes Kim away, her eyes trained on the women. And then, in the calmest voice, Hope says, “I’m security.”
And in three more steps she grabs one of the fans by the elbow and yanks her with enough force that the woman stumbles back. The second woman tries harder to cling onto me and this time I cooperate, grabbing her wrists to pry her arms off my waist. Hope pulls the woman away by the jersey.
The stalker steps aside all on her own, hands up like she’s being arrested. But Hope doesn’t let her off, she jerks a thumb behind her, pointing at the stalker’s buddies. “The three of you, against that wall. Now.”
They stumble on their feet in their drunkenness and sag against the wall.
Hope’s eyes are a blaze of fury as she sets them on me, and I stiffen under her scrutiny. It’s when she starts turning away that I realize she’s not angry at me, she was looking for signs of injury.
And that… is what nearly undoes me. I have to prop my shoulder against the doorframe so I don’t swoon like a teenager with a crush.
“Socci and Berger, stay with me to keep an eye on these women while the rest of security arrives,” Hope barks orders like a badass boss. “And Starr.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
She jerks her head toward the others. “Go.”
“Ah, right.” I walk around her, keeping an eye on the strange women. The stalker avoids me now, which is great. I can’t wait to never see her face ever again.
The guys suck me in among them, arms surrounding me like a shield. I glance over my shoulder, where Hope has her arms folded as she glares at the strangers.
I’m not embarrassed that she had to rescue me, even though the expectation on men is that we never need rescuing. I just wish none of this had happened so she shouldn’t feel as upset as she looks.