We’re quiet as we bypass all the stadium cameras, keeping our heads down as we make it past the checkpoint where no media is allowed.
And that’s where she goes off.
“What in the actual fuck were you thinking back there, Martinez? You think tanking your career on one good hit during a career-defining game was worth it?”
“Three hits. And yes.” I start to unbutton my jersey and notice my swollen, bloody knuckles.
She sighs loudly. “Trust me, if I could get that asshole in a room for five minutes, I would have caused some serious damage myself. But on the field? In a world where instant replay exists?”
“You didn’t see her face. He said something to her.” I turn angrily and point in the direction of the field. “And if you think I would reel in any sense of control when I saw it happen right in front of my eyes, then I’m sorry to learn that you think so poorly of me as a man.”
She takes a step back, hands on her stomach, eyes wide. She starts to nod as she looks off to the side. “Wash up, get dressed, and get the fuck out of here before the mob gets you. I’ve already got your driver in the car and two police escorts waiting to get you home safely.” She starts to walk out when she suddenly stops and says over her shoulder. “Coach had a message for you, by the way.” She laughs humorlessly. “Said, ‘first tell him to fuck off for screwing us this early in the game. Then second, tell him that if it had been me, I would have done worse.’”
She turns to leave, muttering Spanish curses under her breath.
fifty-two
Monarchs lose.
And it’s all my fault.
After Charlie got me home safely, I turned on the TV to see what happened. Which was a bad idea. Because all I could see was the rage on Mateo’s face as his fist pummeled into Jeremy’s face.
I did this to him. A man whose reputation has been pristine for almost fifteen years has been officially tarnished because he felt like he had to jump in and protect my honor.
I shut the TV off and make my way upstairs to shower. But then it suddenly feels wrong to do so in the shower I’ve shared countless times with Mateo.
This home was built on his baseball legacy. And tonight, I played a part in tearing it down.
So I grab the few things I need and head downstairs to my old room. I shower and quickly get into my old bed. I have no ideawhen Mateo will get home. Shit, will he be arrested? I start to panic, the incessant alerts of people trying to reach me on my phone tipping me over the edge. So I shut it off and lower myself under the covers, hoping like I did when I was a child that the nightmares can’t reach me if I bundle myself tightly.
With barely controlled sobs and a mind-numbing headache, exhaustion eventually takes pity on me, and I fall into a restless sleep.
fifty-three
She’s not answering mycalls, and I’m starting to panic.
I know she made it home safely and that she’s still there based on the updates I got from Charlie.
I called my mother after I saw all of her missed calls, bracing for how this has impacted Anna when she saw what I did on TV.
Silver lining from her being sick is that she had taken her cold medicine and was fast asleep before the game even started. I’ll still have to sit her down and tell her about what happened, since I’m sure she’ll see or hear about it eventually, but at least I get to do it myself.
Now all I can focus on is Isabella.
And the daunting feeling that the other shoe has finally dropped.
As the elevator makes its way up to my home, I’m racking my brain as to how I can fix whatever pain that is consuming Isa.
I want it handled, I want it gone, and I want to do it myself.
Nothing has ever made me feel so powerless than seeing the woman I love get hurt right before my eyes. If I wasn’t so hell-bent on getting to her as soon as possible, I would probably be finding my way back to Monarch Stadium to get another round in with Anderson.
The elevator doors barely open before I’m barreling through, shouting Isabella’s name.
Our home is silent, and I wonder if she’s already asleep. Except when I search our room, she’s not there, and her shower gel is missing from our shower.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
