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

drawn to Mateo’s form as he ran around the outfield, now a few strides ahead of Seb and Rique. She was glad she’d found him when she did, glad she’d been able to get him here for the start of the season, and she was glad he was making friends. There were still some concerns, and one very major problem but she wasn’t going to worry about it today. But when she glanced over one more time before leaving, he was smiling at her. His eyes were bright, his cheeks crimson from exertion, an unruly wave pasted against his forehead. He was bathed in sweat.

Okay maybe there was more than one major problem, the one that had her marry the man.

She wanted to kiss those cheeks, drown in those eyes and share that sweat. She gulped back the desire and retreated.

CHAPTER TWO

Mateo Alvarez watched Alicia leave the field as he came around the circumference of the path, he’d set for himself. It was the first he’d seen of her since they’d disembarked from the plane that had taken him from Brazil to Boston, the country where he’d been counting down the days until his visa was approved. Keith Zamoutto, his agent, had been waiting at end of the concourse, and had whisked him to the hotel where he was now in residence.

He still didn’t understand why she’d turned down his request to stay with her. She’d given him a variety of reasons, but none made much sense. She’d told him that she didn’t have room, that it would look odd, but more importantly, she couldn’t set precedent. Didn’t her job include helping the new recruits settle in? And the thing about setting a precedent was laughable, from his point of view. He was sure she’d broken that in bigger and better ways than anyone would guess. It should have irked him that he’d gone along, but there was something about her that drew him in. Add that to some universal hand’s intervention in the pairing and it couldn’t be ignored. She’d become the river flowing through him and he finally understood what Rumi had meant when he said lovers didn’t meet, they resided in each other for all of time. It had to be that. They hadn’t spent enough time together since meeting in that bar in Cancun last October to grow this feeling. It had taken less than a week for her to work out all the arrangements for his transfer of talents from Cuba to America, from hiring Keith to getting his contract negotiated. He was now owned by the Boston Greenliners, one of the National League teams in Major League Baseball. It still felt surreal. Not only would he be competing against the best in the sport, but he’d be earning money doing it. And that was only one small difference between here and there. Here there’d be no shortage of audio or visual electronics, no gaping holes in the stadium’s roof or ramshackle seats, and no lack of a livelihood. The stadium where he’d be playing home games was brand- new, the locker room fit for a king, and he’d be earning a huge paycheck, in addition to a small percentage from the sale of his merchandise. He might not be playing for the celebrated socialist sports machine any longer, but he’d eat well. That he had to defect, leaving behind his citizenship, hadn’t made the news. It was no longer a story. It was the wave of Cubans who’d come before that had stolen the spotlight with some grizzly tales about how they’d gotten here. He’d learned well from them and had slipped quietly away in the dead of night with a friend and trusted ship captain to arrive safely on Mexican shores. He hadn’t even been a blip on the radar.

The one thing that was the same? Baseball was a fixture in both cultures. Now he just had to prove he had what it took to play here.

Seb’s laugh finally caught up with him.

“Do you always have to show us up?”

Mateo slowed down, coming to the end of the three laps.

“Sorry. I need to prove I am worth the money they are paying me.”

“You are so ready to play here it’s crazy. I don’t understand why they think you need handling. You can speak English and you have a burning desire to be the best. You don’t need much else.”

Rique, out of breath, asked, “Is Alicia hiring someone to help you navigate the ropes?”

“What kind of ropes?”

Rique was bent at the waist, his hands on his thighs.

“Income taxes. That was a big one for me. Make sure you have an accountant. American laws are very strict when it comes to paying your fair share. And learning to drive here. There are a lot more traffic laws here than in Rio.”

Seb nodded at that but added, “And the fans. They can be obnoxious. Doesn’t matter you’re starting at ground zero, you’ll have a base in no time with the way you hit. They’ll be hounding you to sign just about everything from your number thirteen shirts to your balls, and I don’t mean baseballs.”

The number he’d chosen to wear had a significance, but he wasn’t sharing what it was. Not yet.

What he did share was his aversion to what Seb was suggesting. “The women are that forward? I thought I left that behind with my Alfareros shirt.”

Rique said with a labored breath, “Too bad you didn’t leave your hat behind. That violation could have earned you a couple thousand more laps.”

Mateo had made the mistake of wearing his Cuban team’s baseball hat to his first meeting with Leo. Wearing an opposing team jersey had gotten Rique a tougher workout than usual and he’d wasted no time pointing out Mateo’s mistake.

Repeating the words Leo had spoken after he whipped it off, Mateo said dryly, “I didn’t bring an attitude.”

“I’m exorcising that as we speak.”

If the shortness of breath and sweat were any indication, he was