“Suit yourself.” I hit the elevator button.
“Mira, Martinez. Some players, like you, have to be a machine. And then other players, like me”—Molina rubs his rounded belly— “just have to gobamwith that bat, and then there you go, Papi. A home run for the team. I don’t need a pool. I have plátano power,” he says gleefully in his thick Dominican accent.
And he’s not wrong.
Pedro Molina may look like one of the most unathletic players in the league, but all his power is in his arm strength and hand-eye coordination.
The man doesn’t need to run and steal bases when, more often than not, the ball flies out of the stadium once his bat comes into contact with it.
“You’re right,Papi.” We laugh. “But I’m actually wiped. I’m going to get a few laps in, then call my daughter before it’s time for her to go to bed.”
Most of the guys nod in agreement. When it comes to my time with Anna, they know not to push.
I head up to my room and quickly text the hotel manager, whose contact information I was given at check-in, that I will be using their Olympic-size pool. They respond immediately that the facility has been cleared out and confirm that there will be hotel security on guard to make sure I’m not disturbed.
A part of me grumbles. It’s a bit overkill. Yet the other part knows that it’s the only way I’ll get this workout in without bumping into fans, or worse, people looking for salacious things to post about me. Unfortunately, some aren’t above trying to take pics of me having a wardrobe malfunction while I’m in the pool.
So I don’t dwell on it and quickly change into my swim trunks and a hotel robe.
I make it down to the pool, and as I was told, it’s empty except for one security guard standing at the entrance and another standing inside the pool area, saying he’ll be nearby in case I should need something.
I walk over to a pool lounger and disrobe, then place my phone by the edge of the pool.
As a parent, even when I’m at away games, I never allow myself to be far from my phone in case my little girl needs me. Even during the games, I usually have someone on staff hold my phone so they can inform me of anything I should be immediately made aware of.
We’re not supposed to have our phones in the dugout, since we’re supposed to be focused on the game. But there are a lot of supposed-tos in life that I don’t follow, or, I guess, don’t apply to me, given that I’ve dedicated my life to the game, and now Anna.
Even Coach Luke Weston was ready to rip me a new one when he saw what I was up to. Although a full scolding from Coach is usually an assortment of grunts and disapproving stares. To get that man to talk is an impossible feat.
He’s the youngest coach in the league, which naturally brings him extra media attention. But like me, he avoids it at all costs. No one even knows where the guy lives. There’s always locker room chatter that he must live somewhere in the mountains, since his looks went from Hollywood A-lister to reclusive mountain man during the years he escaped from the spotlight. But given what he went through after he gave up professional baseball at the top of his career, right after a World Series win too, I guess I wouldn’t have much to say to the world, either.
But just because he doesn’t talk, that doesn’t mean he isn’t perceptive as fuck. Which is how he must have known I would only be texting someone in regard to Anna during a game and only gave me a slight nod and turned back to the field.
Again, people know not to push when it comes to her. Even Coach.
I release a deep sigh as I wade through the water. Then I waste no time in getting to work. On my third lap, I hear my phone ringing and quickly make my way to it.
And staring back at me is Isabella, wearing an alluring smile.
I told myself after last night that I should remove her contact picture, but I just haven’t had the time to do it.
Liar.
Whatever. I’ll get to it when I get to it.
I have to try a few times to swipe and answer the call since my fingers are wet, but I finally manage it, and when I do, my precious little girl’s face fills the screen, and my heart swells.
“Hola, mija.” I greet her.
“Hi, Papi.” She squints as she takes in my surroundings. “Are you at the pool? No fair. I thought you were at work,” she pouts.
I smile at her. “Yes, I am at work, sweetheart. I’m swimming for my workout after my game. Trust me, the pool isn’t as fun without you here.”
“Okay,” she mumbles, probably still upset that she’s not here with me. Because my daughter loves nothing more than being in the water.
So I try to move on to safer conversations to get her mind off what she thinks she may be missing out on. “What did you do today after school?” I’m sure she had soccer scheduled for today, or was it French class? I always get those two mixed up.
Anna looks off screen to someone as she says, “Um.”
