You’re killing me here, kid.
I’ve been trying very hard to convince myself that Mateo’s pitching mood has nothing to do with me or the fact that I’m wearing his best friend’s jersey.
Because that would be beyond silly.
Like seriously, Mateo is an actual grown-up. With his life put together, a child, and a retirement plan of some sort, I assume.
He wouldn’t be hung up on something as trivial as a dumb jersey.
The crowd around us starts to cheer in waves. Nothing has happened on the field, so I’m confused by the sudden commotion.
“There she is. She’s in the stands!” someone yells behind me.
I crane my neck to see if there’s a celebrity making their way to their seat, and for a millisecond, throw up a prayer that it’s Beyoncé.
That’s when a force of nature turns and starts to make her way down the front row.
No way.
That’s Luisa Álvarez.
She’s like the reigning queen of sports and is currently on the cover of three magazines for earning the spot of general manager for the New York Monarchs.
It probably doesn’t hurt that she’s drop-dead gorgeous and could probably double as a lingerie model with her height and curves. Her perfectly clear dark skin could easily snag a brand deal with a skin care line. Hell, she could create her own with how perfectly it glows. If I didn’t already know that she was Dominican, her big brown eyes would be a dead giveaway. They always seem to twinkle with determination and mischief. And in the sky-high heels she’s usually sporting, she could probably tower over most of the men in the stands.
But right now, she’s all business, and somehow, deep in my gut, I know she’s heading my way.
My excitement and fears are confirmed when she stops in front of me and nods my way. “You Isabella?”
My eyes widen and my jaw drops when I realize that not only is she talking to me, but she knows my name. “Yes, this is Isa,” Anna chirps helpfully while I try to recover my ability to speak.
“Special delivery.” She pulls an oversized jersey from under her arm and rips off the tag with her perfectly straight teeth. “Fresh out the gift shop.” She tosses the three-sizes-too-big material on my lap.
Confused, I lift it up slightly as I smile. “Um, thank you?”
She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “It’s not from me, sweetheart. It’s from number thirty-five. And I have special instructions to make sure you swap it out with the jersey you’re wearing before I go. So…” She waves at the jersey in my hand, seemingly exhausted by the task she’s been given.
No fucking way.
He did not—
I look around her, and sure enough, Mateo is standing off the side of the dugout, watching our whole interaction go down, with a satisfied look on his face.
I give my attention back to Luisa as I plaster on a fake smile, trying my best not to give any of the attitude that I will keeplocked and loaded for whenMartinezgets off the field. “Hi, I’m sorry he put you up to this. But as you can see, I’m currently wearing a perfectly good jersey. So you can tell him thanks, but no thanks.” I ball up his jersey aggressively, making sure to make eye contact with Mateo, and shove it into my small tote bag.
I can tell he’s chuckling by the way his chest moves.
Luisa pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath. “As if I didn’t have enough to deal with working with Mr. Fucking Stonehaven.”
When she looks down at me, I give her a curious stare, letting her know I heard that juicy piece of chisme. She puts her hands together in a prayer pose as she gives it to me straight. “Listen, I’ve got work to do, and playing telephone between you and my star pitcher isn’t it. So this is how it’s going to go. You put on that jersey, he loses the bad temper, and we all get to go home after the game being happy campers. Capisce?”
Anna tugs on my arm before I’m able to give my defiant rebuttal. “Isa, this is a way we can help dad look less grumpy.” She worries her bottom lip. “You’ll do it, right?” She puts the full power of her puppy dog eyes on me, and before I know it, I’m folding like a cheap lawn chair.
“Okay, fine. But only because you asked so nicely. All right?” I huff as I pull the crumpled jersey out of my bag and stand.
I place it on Anna’s lap as I take off my own jersey. I ignore a random whistle and catcalls, since this little display has garnered some attention from the people seated around us. I hand my jersey to Anna as she gives me the new one. I know what the back must say, but I check, to confirm the lunacy of the situation.
In big bold lettering, the nameMartinezand the number35stare back at me. I fix my stare on Mateo as I roughly slip my arms through the oversized jersey. Then I give a tight, closed-mouth smile and two thumbs-up, hoping he knows I really wish they were my middle fingers.
