“So how’s it going with Isa—I mean the new nanny?”
I pick up my beer, the one and only I’ll be drinking tonight. “Don’t start.”
Torres gives me a droll look. “I’m not being a dick. I actually really want to know how she’s doing.”
I raise a brow as I take a sip of my drink, my eyes never leaving his.
He chuckles. “Correction,my wife, that nice lady I never stop talking about or putting a baby in, you know, that one?” he deadpans as I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, she is quite fond of Isa. The girl is basically family. Yet Denise can’t get her to call or text back. Know what that’s about?”
Huh. That’s interesting.
“She’s my employee. I have no idea what her texting habits are, aside from when I need her to update me on how my daughter is doing.” I grab my phone out of my pocket and decide to send Isabella a text. It’s seven p.m. in New York, so she should be having dinner with Anna right about now. I could text my mother, since she will be accompanying Isa and staying in my home with her while I’m away, but I decide to text Isa insteadbecause she is my employee. And it is her job to update me on my daughter. Yep. That’s it.
“You texting her now? Be chill about it. Don’t throw Denise under the bus. She understands that Isa sometimes needs… time. But I don’t want to make her feel like—”
“Yes, I’m texting Isabella. As I mentioned a second ago, she works for me. No, I am not asking her about why she hasn’t gotten back to Denise. That is out of the scope of our work conversations.” I put my phone down on the low table in front of us and turn slightly to give him my full attention. “And what did you mean about Isabella needing time?” I know I shouldn’t ask, but it’s better I do it now that he’s just mentioned it rather than hours from now while I’m still dwelling on the comment.
He sighs. “You know, man. After all that bullshit went down with her and… she was different after. I guess, who wouldn’t be?”
My hand tightens around the beer bottle, and I force myself to relax, knowing that if Torres spots my white knuckles, there will be more than playful curiosity toward my instinctual reaction. “Yeah. I remember when that went down. But it’s been, what, five years since the news broke?”
He looks off into the crowd as he says, “Yeah, I think so. But it was rough, man. The poor girl’s face was plastered everywhere online. There was no escaping it.” He shakes his head. “Things got better once she left the state and finished her degree out of sight. But when she got back, I dunno… I think she might have slipped back into herself and doesn’t know how to let herself live.” He faces me now, any trace of my usual humorous friend gone. “I swear, Mateo, had I ever crossed paths with that sick fucker, I would have put hands on him. Fines, punishment, even reaming from my old coach be damned. When he hurt her, he hurt a lot of us.” He takes a sip of his beer. “And to think he got labeled a playboy and went on with his life, his pathetic career,while Isa had to—” He stops abruptly. “Sorry, man. Only a few things get me really fired up nowadays. But knowing that I got two little girls at home makes me want to rid the world of scum like Anderson.”
I suppress a low growl at the mention of his last name.
Jeremy Anderson.
A poor excuse for a man and a stain on the league, if you ask me.
Very rarely are athletes penalized for indiscretions they make in their personal lives. Although this one was.
“He was drafted to your old team, wasn’t he?” he asks, rubbing his chin. “And then randomly got swapped out to another team only two months into his contract.” He leans his forearms on his knees. “You wouldn’t know the real details about that deal, would you?” He eyes me skeptically.
This time, I can’t hide my reaction. Mostly because I’m proud of my actions and the power my name has in the major leagues.
A slow, mischievous smile unfurls on my lips as I shrug. “Nah, man. No clue at all.” I pause, my voice turning conspiratorial. “But I will say, it is a shame that he got downgraded to a team that hadn’t made the playoffs in more than a decade and was bound to a contract that would keep him therefour long years.” My devilish eyes meet his. “But like I said, I haven’t got the slightest of clues.” I finish the rest of my beer in one long pull.
I’m still relishing the memories of how I spoke to the higher-ups and played hardball with them. I was a free agent that year and fresh off a World Series win. They maxed out the amount they could offer me for a one-year extension, and I had every plan of taking it, but once my mom called me in tears, telling me about what happened to her best friend’s daughter and who was responsible for it all, it was an easy call.
My agent was confused, but he knew better than to question me since the 15 percent of my earnings he receives is more thansome players’ full contracts. So I made the team a counteroffer they couldn’t refuse.
I’d sign on the dotted line if Anderson was out.
All it took were a few quick glances, as if this deal were a no brainer.
Because it was.
Me or him.
He never stood a chance, especially fresh out of the draft.
He seemed so confused when the news was broken to him. I didn’t have the slightest idea how HR spun it, and frankly, I didn’t care.
Yet that didn’t stop me from giving him a word of advice on his way out.
“Watch how you treat women. If not, there’ll be much more hell to pay. It’s a promise, rook.” I still remember his face as I said it. The puppy dog eyes he usually reserved for me, his “baseball hero,” as he proclaimed multiple times while we were at practice. All that awe and admiration melted the moment it all clicked for him.
That I had just given him his walking papers, and the team he’d worked his entire life to be drafted to had turned its back on him.
