Clutch Hit, Faith O'Shea [read along books TXT] 📗

There was concern in her voice when she’d asked, “How did you get here?”

She’d sensed his body stiffening, as if she were a threat to his well-being.

“A fishing boat.”

His eyes kept wandering to the doorway as if he were expecting someone, or maybe he’d been planning his exit strategy. She still wasn’t sure which.

“When? Recently?”

His eyes had narrowed at her inquisition.

“This morning.”

He’d slid off his stool and took some rumpled bills from his pocket to place on the bar.

“I must go.”

She’d put a hand on his arm. The sizzle that came was mind numbing.

“Where? Where are you staying?”

She hadn’t seen the duffel he had with him until he picked it up and shouldered it.

“I do not know yet.”

No wanting to let him go, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I am a ball player and I must find a way to get to America.”

All she’d heard was ball player. She’d whisked him away to her hotel room, all thoughts about physical satisfaction receding into the mist.

She’d sat him right down, pulled his whole history out through a series of questions.

When he’d told her he played third base, she’d felt the hairs on her neck rise in attention.

He’d played for the Camagüey Alfareros, one of the provincial teams, and he’d seen some action on the national team, had traveled to Rotterdam and Canada with it.

She’d known only the best were given that prerogative.

When she’d asked why he left, he’d told her he was tired of playing for no more than blood, sweat, and the glory of the state.

Expecting the worst, she held her breath after she asked if there were any repercussions that came out of the exodus. She let it out when he’d told her he’d landed safely, without any problems. Only later did she find out he’d come with little money and no real strategy on how to get to America.

During the many conversations that followed, she’d asked what he would have done if she hadn’t come along. He had no answer other than he’d waited for a mystical solution. He’d quoted something written by Rumi, about his soul needing to be somewhere else and he intended to end up there.

She’d been stunned by his reply. The man read Rumi. She didn’t know much about him other than he was a poet, centuries back. She’d shaken her head at his faith in the impossible, thought the sentiment might have been wishful thinking, if it hadn’t worked.

It made her wonder if her presence had been fated? She’d almost chosen Cozumel as her starting point. Almost hadn’t gone, once Casey had told her she was needed in Boston.

Unwilling to dwell on it, putting it down to coincidence, she’d gone right to work.

It had taken days to do her vetting, and when she was finally convinced that he might be the third baseman she’d been looking for, she’d called an agent she knew and got the official ball rolling. It was Keith Zamoutto who’d ultimately helped Mateo apply for a visa and began negotiating a contract with a major league team. Her major league team.

It had taken months to get him here, along with a few sacrifices. She’d put the organization before her own personal integrity.

Now she had to live with it.

Enrique dos Santos’s voice brought her back to the present. He was the new shortstop they’d acquired from the Mets and he was slapping Mateo on the back, obviously pleased with something. Enrique had been a risk. Was a risk. He was known for his partying, disrespect for the utility role, and he’d gotten lazy over the last year. After reviewing reams of information and getting positive feedback from Reid Jackson, their ace and Rique’s brother-in-law, she’d decided all the shortstop needed was playing time. They could give him that. His stale performance spelled tradeable and she’d suggested they jump on it. She didn’t want to take the chance his stock would go back up, so she insisted Dan get right to work negotiating the trade. The deal was ironed out just over a week ago, in time for spring training.

The other man out on the field, Sebastian Layden, had been languishing in the minors, his stats compelling them to move him up, but their man filling the position was still winning Golden Gloves. When Atticus Carleton, their veteran left fielder, blew out his knee, there was no choice but to invite Seb to Sanford for spring training and possibly a permanent placement on their roster. She had no doubt he’d do the job. There was just one tiny little problem. He’d dumped her best friend right before college. She’d have to spend time with him so they could come up with a development plan and she didn’t know how Casey would take that. The only reason he wasn’t completely on her shit list was because he’d done it right. He’d never cheated on her, but when he’d felt he needed some space, he’d taken it. Casey had been singing “Going to the Chapel,” while he’d been humming the tune “Goodbye to You.” It wasn’t his fault she had higher hopes for their relationship than he had. What he’d left behind was a broken heart and…

“Hey, Allie. What’s up?”

She looked up to see Seb alone and walking toward her, a smile on his face. Rique, who was from Brazil, the dark features giving him an international flair, was concentrating on something Mateo was saying. With bat in hand and wearing a serious expression, the Cuban looked to be showing Rique a different way to hold it. From what she was seeing, her belief that he could be a leader in that aspect of the game was confirmed. He had it all.

The tongues of guilt and regret tickled her fancy. The attraction was still there, the one she’d almost acted on, would have acted on had he not mentioned he was a ball player. Her body was recommending she pick up where she’d left off, but he was way off-limits now.