I thought I wanted us to stand on common ground. Thought it would be best if we somehow managed to develop a platonic friendship, to help ease the working relationship.
But I was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Because what I didn’t know was the power behind his eyes. Their potential to let me forget about my past. And the simple rule I implemented for myself five years ago. Because I can see it right there, reflected back at me. The way I’m slipping, and I didn’t even notice it.
How foolish of me.
I know I can’t fall for him.
I vowed never to fall for another professional baseball player.
Because the last time I did, my whole life came crashing down.
And the entire world stood by and watched it burn.
thirteen
I did it.
I managed to have a normal conversation with Isabella without picturing her naked.
That came after I left. But still, progress.
I don’t know what I expected to happen after we talked, but having her give me a wordless wave goodbye wasn’t it. I guess I’m a bit jaded toward the women I’m not related to.
At this rate, it’s easy to spot a vulture among the crowds or people who only want a piece of me.
Well, not a piece of me, but rather a piece of my brand. Because the media doesn’t know who I truly am. Thanks in part to the thick skin my father warned me I’d need if I ever had dreams to make it in the big leagues.
It’s been over fifteen years since he passed, and I’m still leaning on his life lessons. Which is a true testament to what a great father he was to me.
Something I need to keep in the forefront of my mind if I aspire to be half the man he was.
“Yo, Martinez. You finally coming out with us tonight?” Marcos Sánchez, my second baseman, asks me.
Torres snickers next to him. “Yeah, right. You know Mateo never goes out unless it’s part of those team-building exercises they keep trying to shove down our throats, as if we don’t play like a team that’s been going at it for years.”
We’re standing in our hotel lobby in Los Angeles, waiting to be handed our room keys.
He’s right, though. I never go out with the team. Not because I don’t enjoy their company, surprisingly enough. But rather because the idea of sitting in the VIP section of a bar or club is about as appealing to me as eating gas station sushi.
I spend enough time trying to dodge professional cameras as it is. So being in a room with a bunch of drunken strangers, in another team’s town no less, sounds like my own personal nightmare.
All it takes is one perfectly aimed shot to paint whatever picture the media is hungry for that week. Which is why I make their job easy for them and avoid leaving my home or hotel room at all costs.
After a while, the paparazzi got the hint and knew it was probably a safer bet to try and follow my teammates if they wanted to post something about the Monarchs.
“Come on, Golden Boy!” Ace Middlebrooks, my third baseman, taunts. The entire team knows how much I despise the title the media has bestowed upon me, so naturally, they use it to rile me up.
Yes, I know how to behave myself in public, and I smile at children and wave at fans, which nowadays is more than enough to brand me as America’s Sweetheart.
Clearly, the bar is set extremely low for athletes.
“Come on. Don’t be a dick, Ace. We’re trying to actually convince him to leave his hotel room this time around. Haven’t you ever heard that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar?” Julian Delgado, my left fielder, pipes in, his signature grin on full display.
I wave them off. “It’s late, and we have a game tomorrow. You guys should be resting, not drinking.”
