Page 3 of Strikeout


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I continue my bobblehead impersonation as I say, “I can do this. No, better yet, I deserve this. I deserve to give my dreams a chance. And this is an opportunity of a lifetime. I can’t keep letting the trolls win.”

“¿Qué diablos are trolls?”

“Never mind. I’m having a moment here, Ma,” I say, sounding a bit out of breath even though I haven’t taken a single step. “I’m gonna reach out to Mateo and let him know that I’m interested in the position. Hopefully, since he knows me, and you, and, well, basically everyone else who knows me, that’ll do for references. Yeah? Cool? No? Please tell me when to stop, Mami.”

“Stop,” she deadpans.

“Okay, thanks, because for a second there, it kinda felt like I was on a runaway train, and you were gonna let me keep on—”

“Isa, cállate la boca and listen to me.”

“Mm-hmm.” I bite down on my lips.

“You’re gonna take a shower, then you’re gonna get dressed. While you’re doing that, I will call Bethzaida and have her put you on Mateo’s visitor list.”

“Wait, visitor list? Why?”

“Because, hija mía. You will go to his apartment today. Now, actually, and ask for that job his mother and I have tirelessly been working on you two to agree on. These kinds of matters are best handled face to face.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and guides me to our small bathroom. “And besides, I have a whole pan of Beth’s flan you can take to him. That man will never turn down his mother’s cooking or sweets.”

I quickly give my mother another squeeze before stepping into the bathroom. “Thank you so much for supporting me, Mami. You’re the best.”

I faintly hear her huff out a “por fin” while I take the world’s fastest shower. I don’t have time to straighten my hair, so I use a bit of my mom’s nice hair product to comb the sides and throwmy hair into a high ponytail, letting my curls go wild as I sway my head.

I dress as quickly as a deranged Tasmanian Devil through the apartment, hopping into yesterday’s jeans and accepting the floral blouse my mom hangs in front of my face. I slip my feet into chunky-heeled sandals. The two inches won’t do anything for my five-three frame when I come face to face with Mateo, but a girl needs a little armor when going into battle.

I grab my purse, and I’m almost out the door when my mom shoves a heavy pan of flan into my arms. “I already ordered you an Uber and texted you their details. They’ll be downstairs in two minutes.” Right. Thank God for my mom, because I don’t even know Mateo’s address. She reaches out and wraps a loose curl around my hair tie. “You got this, Isa. I have a feeling that this will be good for you.” She places a gentle hand on my cheek.

“Thanks, Mami.” I beam. “I love you. Thanks so much for the not-so-subtle push.” I laugh. “And don’t worry. I’m getting this job. I can feel it in my bones.” I raise the flan to my head and smile widely. “Besides, who can say no to this face?”

two

“NO.”

“No?”

“No.”

“But… but I have flan,” Isabella pouts.

I sigh. This is one of those moments where I wish I had a front door and not an elevator as an entrance to my home. Can’t exactly herd her back into the elevator with as much finality as a slammed door. So I let my manners kick in for the first time since I laid eyes on Isabella Morales standing in my home, taking the flan from her iron grip and waving her farther into my apartment.

“I’m sorry you came all the way downtown. I’m sure my mother put you up to this, but like I toldher, I’ll figure out the nanny situation on my own.” I set the delicious-looking flan, my mother’s, I’m sure, and turn to face Isabella.

But she’s not behind me. She’s still standing by the round table in the foyer, wide eyed and slack-jawed.

I never have guests over, so I tend to forget how intimidating my place can be for someone who’s never been here before. Especially for someone like Isabella, who grew up in the same neighborhood as me on the Upper West Side.

This lifestyle is a far cry from my childhood, when I used to sit on bodega crates as street furniture while hanging out with my friends or playing baseball until the streetlights came on.

Now, that neighborhood is filled with skyrocketing rent prices and fancy restaurants. But back when I was a kid, there was nothing like playing in the streets until the neighborhood abuelita yelled at us to get home to our families.

And while I love the life I’ve built, I sometimes find myself craving the simpler times. When I could walk out of my house and run a simple errand without informing my security detail. Or take my mother out to dinner without having to factor in an added hour for fan pictures and autographs.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to my old neighborhood and reconnect with those childhood friends. Because even though I’m a thirty-three-year-old baseball player living in one of the most expensive buildings in Manhattan, there’s no shaking the feeling of heading past 96thstreet and basking in the sense of home.

And that’s what Isabella reminds me of.

Home.