Long Ball: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read online

  I offered to go with him to his press conference, but he passed. Sometimes, I think there’s more to him than he lets on, too.

  She also makes me feel wildly underdressed, in jeans and a polo. How do women hike up and down those giant bus steps in heels that tall, anyway?

  “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite shortstop.” Her eyes light up when she sees me, and my nerves fade away.

  “If it isn’t my favorite local TV personality.”

  She curtsies with a beautiful grin. “Ready to read to some kids?”

  “Absolutely. I used to love reading to my siblings when I was younger, so this should be a great flashback.”

  “Aw.” She pouts her lower lip out a bit. “That’s so sweet!”

  “Nah,” I pretend to wave it off. “Besides, it’s good practice for later, when I have my own kids. I’ve always wanted a big family.”

  Here we go, establishing those lasting roots. Starting our story to one day tell our kids.

  “Ugh.” Her face wrinkles, and then her eyes widen. “Oh, god. I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love this program. Love. It’s honestly one of my favorite things about Kansas City. But I have never wanted kids in my entire life. My sister has like eight of them, and I always need a drink after leaving her house.”

  I offer a smile to hide the crushing disappointment surging through me. Well, minds can change, right? “My mom was the same, but she said it was different when she had her own.”

  “Yeah…” she drags the word out and shakes her head. “Not for me.”

  We stand there, quiet again, waiting for the bus. Okay, maybe it was a total rookie mistake to bring up kids before we’ve even been in the bedroom yet. Maybe she thinks I’ll try to knock her up anytime I come close to her. Surely that’s why she’s checking her phone right now.

  “Do you think— “

  “I wonder where the bus is. It’s a little late.” She cuts me off with another bright smile. “Ready?”

  “Of course.” I smile back. She’s right, this conversation isn’t appropriate right now. Maybe later.

  A group of guys walk past us, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish about their shift that just ended. Judging by their aprons and hats, I’d say a group of dishwashers, probably. One talks about sending money back home, and it strikes a chord of familiarity in me. I washed dishes a lot during the off season to still be able to send money home to my family.

  I turn to Shelbie, to tell her the story of my time in Omaha, but stop. Her eyes are large as she watches them, and she’s moved away from the curb, away from the guys as they walk away.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  I watch her force her face back into a smile. “Of course. I just wonder where the bus is.”

  I point behind me. “Did you know them?”

  “Hmm? Oh, um, no.”

  Before I can press her, the bus finally pulls up. I notice Shelbie still keeps an eye on the group of guys and doesn’t relax until they’ve rounded the corner. I lean forward and whisper, “They were only talking about their shift being over.”

  “Oh. Oh my god.” She places a hand over her mouth. “It’s not that, I just… okay, maybe I do know one of them and it’s not exactly friendly. But thank you for the translation.”

  Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and I find myself not believing her. Not the best start to our epic love story, but it could be worse, right? There’s a chance she’s not a racist. I mean, I’m South American and she hauled me off to a bathroom thirty minutes after meeting me.

  Right?

  The bus was full of the cutest batch of kids I’ve ever seen. Pigtails and ball caps and all the nervous, excited energy anyone could want. Lots of mini Latinos and Latinas, which makes my heart happy. This feels right, like where I belong. When Shelbie introduces me, they all cheer and a few of the kids ask for my autograph, which will always be the coolest thing in the whole world.

  Aside from eating out a gorgeous girl in a thumping club. Not that my thoughts have strayed that way while sizing her up in her tight dress…

  I’ve never done the bus tour before, so I take a seat and watch Shelbie read a few books to the kids. Her voices for the characters are a little flat, but she gets into it and the kids seem to really enjoy the story of a cow who ran away from the farm.

  A girl in the front row reminds me so much of my sister I can barely stand it. She may as well be a miniature Camila in those pigtails and dress. I get riddled with flashbacks of chasing her across my parents’ ranch, of reading her books while my mom cooked dinner, of tripping a little boy after her pulled her hair and made her cry. No boys on this bus better make her cry, or I’ll have to punch them by proxy.

  But, you know, not hard or anything because I’m not a monster. Pinkie swear.

  The young woman she’s with is pretty. She doesn’t hold a candle to Shelbie’s glam, but she’s pretty in the down-home sort of way, in a t-shirt and jeans and a ponytail. Ever since I started with the Royals, all my girlfriends or flings all looked like Shelbie. That’s what I’m supposed to find, someone glamorous as arm candy to show off at charity events and for the paps that Kemp loves to show off for so much.

  But looking at her takes me back to my days in Omaha and it cripples my homesickness so much I almost don’t hear Shelbie talking to me.

  “Come again?”

  Her face looks a little strained as she follows my gaze. “I said, who wants to hear a book from Mr. Bonilla?”

  The bus cheers and the Camila clone bounces up and down. I can’t help but grin. Who could seriously tell these kids no, even if I wasn’t into it? Gauging my audience, I decide to go for something in Spanish. As I’m flipping through the books, I land on a Pat Mora book of poetry. Pat Mora was one of the first authors I discovered after coming to America when looking for books to send to Camila. She’s not Venezuelan, but I wanted to show my sister that the Latina culture was still alive in the United States. That we would still be celebrated even if we didn’t still live in our native country.

  It feels right to read right now, like I’m giving a part of myself to these kids. Like I’m reading to a tiny Camila in the front row.

  My reading is shit and poetry is awkward, but I channel my younger self, from all those years ago, and pretend I’m reading to my little sister. I even read the poems in English and in Spanish, despite the translation taking a bit of extra time.

  Meanwhile, I make a mental note to go buy a fuck ton of books in Spanish and donate them to the program. They have many, but they need more. Always more. Maybe my mom can send me some books from Venezuela, too.

  After we finish the Pat Mora book, I pull out every book in Spanish they’ve got and read those. I use stupid voices. I made stupid faces. At one point, I jump around the bus like a gorilla. Shelbie disappears into the background and all I can see is the little girl on the front row with her beautiful mother.

  What would my life be like if I never came to the United States? What if I stayed in Venezuela, took over the family business, found a nice local girl and raised a huge family? What if, instead of throwing balls, I threw chicken feed?

  My mind is flooded with what-ifs. It doesn’t help that, with every book, this little girl in the pigtails inches closer and closer to me, until she’s in my lap. The feeling that floods me is indescribable as her tiny hands broach my lap and she climbs in. I don’t miss a beat while reading, but I can feel my cheeks burn from the smiling. I can feel my hands hold her tight while turning pages. I can feel my desire to leave this bus and let this afternoon end completely disappear.

  Did I make a mistake? Did I come here too soon? Did I search for happiness, only to realize I was looking in the wrong places?

  I finish the books and someone else takes over. The little girl takes my hand and hauls me to her seat, so I can stay with her.

  “I’m so sorry,” her mother whispers. “She doesn’t usually do this!”

  “Oh, it’s no problem at all!” I whisp
er back, still holding the little girl in my lap. “She’s beautiful. Reminds me of my sister, so it’s my pleasure.”

  “You’re too kind.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Kate.”

  “Jamie.” I say, and immediately feel dumb. Of course I’m Jaime. They introduced me at the beginning. “I’m not an idiot, I promise.”

  Kate laughs quietly. “Never thought you were. I loved that you translated all those poems for the kids. I couldn’t understand any of it, but it was beautiful to listen to.”

  “Gracias.” I can feel myself grinning like a fool. “It’s a beautiful language. Unless I’m in the clubhouse, I don’t have much excuse to use it anymore. I’ve become painfully Americanized.”

  “Is that a bad thing, though?” She bats her lashes at me and a familiar rise runs through me.

  “If it means I’m closer to people like you two? Not at all.”

  The little girl turns around, puts her hands on my cheeks, and whispers, “I’m Cora.”

  “Hi, Cora.” I whisper back. “How old are you?”

  “I’m five.” She looks very intently at me. “Are you seven?”

  Kate stifles a giggle and I fight to keep my face straight. “Do I look seven?” I ask.

  She looks at me for a moment, like she’s analyzing me, and finally says, “You look eight.”

  “Very good!” I can’t help but laugh a little, quietly. “You’re very smart.”

  “My mom says I’m the smartest ever.”

  “Does she now?” I look at Kate, who instantly shakes her head and holds up her hands.

  “I’m just the babysitter.” Kate whispers back. “Aunt. Babysitter. Whatever. Me and Cora are BFFs, though.”

  They fist bump and I feel myself slowly falling in love with these two beautiful girls. Again, my future in Venezuela populates in my mind. It’s not impossible to have a family in the majors. Plenty of guys do.

  Plenty of guys never see their kids or end up divorced quick, which huge child support settlements, too. One hundred and sixty-two games a year is a lot, and only around half at home, makes it hard to maintain a solid family life. Nothing like what I had with my parents.

  Is it worth it?

  Right now, I’m not so sure.

  My shoulders start to twitch, like someone is watching me. Not unlikely, with so many kids, but I glance around and find Shelbie staring at me, lips pressed thinly together. I smile brightly at her and give a thumbs up, because this was the best idea ever, and she sends a very fake looking smile back my way.

  Probably because there is a news reporter snapping photos everywhere. Guilt trickles through my, but I wasn’t really flirting. Not really. I’m South American, we’re all a little flirty. Or something.

  I swallow down the lump in my throat and instead focus on the small girl in my lap. I’m just here for the kids, after all. Kate sits quietly next to me, trying to coax Cora over to her lap, but she’s cemented to me, refusing to go anywhere.

  But then the next stop rolls around, and Kate smiles apologetically as she gathers her things. “You were so kind to us, Jamie. I can’t thank you enough. Cora never knew her father, so this is always such a wonderful thing for her She’s so attached to you that it’s sweet. Will you come back and do this again?”

  “Absolutely.” I don’t even have to think about it. I hope I’ll run into Cora every time, but even if I don’t, it would be such a joy to spend time with these kids.

  Maybe I can have the best of both worlds this way. Keep up my baseball career, spend time with kids, feel fulfilled all the way around. God knows my life has been painfully lacking for months. Years. Superficial and inconsistent.

  I walk the two to the doors of the bus and Cora gifts me with a giant hug. It takes everything I have to not get weepy. I’d bawl like a baby if no one else could get word back to the boys, who’d never stop giving me shit.

  Maybe not Doug. I remember the day his wife went into labor, and he raced away from batting practice to be by her side. He looked so happy, and he beamed with pride when we went to visit after they came home. Doug wouldn’t give me shit.

  Kemp, too, maybe. Despite his flaws, he’s a good guy. He just doesn’t always understand why I had to sit out from womanizing in the clubs.

  I wave goodbye as the little Camila-lookalike trots off the bus and jumps into the arms of another woman, presumably her mom. Cora turns to wave goodbye again and points to me, talking to her mom. The woman, another beauty in quiet clothes, looks up, smiles at me, and then immediately turns pale. Her mouth slacks into a silent “O” and her eyes grow wide. I look behind me, in case someone is there to offend her, but there’s no one.

  My heart starts racing. Did she think I was crossing a line by being close to her daughter? Does she not like men around her? My mind spins as the door closes and the bus pulls away. Just before we round the corner, it hits me so hard I can barely breathe.

  The girl. From Omaha. She’s the girl from Omaha at the county fair. The night I tricked her into tripping over my shoes, and stole her heart underneath a blanket of stars in the middle of nowhere. The girl who never told me her name, who left me in the middle of the night, who haunted my dreams until I covered her up with booze and made up women and more booze.

  That was almost six years ago.

  Cora said she was five.

  Shelbie taps me on the shoulder. “Cute kid.”

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can see, smell, taste, is that county fair in Omaha, years and miles away.

  4

  There’s no way she’s mine.

  There’s no way she’s not.

  She looked just like my sister, I mean a damn near a carbon copy. Kate said she never cozied up to strangers, but I couldn’t get her out of my lap. It’s like Cora knew who I was, knew we had a connection, and didn’t want to break it.

  I don’t even know her mother’s name. But there’s no way I’m not the father. I can feel it in my very bones. Cora is mine.

  Mine.

  How many other Latinos are in Omaha? Okay, scratch that–there were quite a few of us. The opportunities are excellent, and not just for ball players like me. She didn’t strike me as the kind of girl to sleep around, but she also left me in the middle of the night.

  No matter what I thought of our connection, we never met again. We slept together without knowing each other. We created life after four hours together. I have to find her. I have to see Cora. I have to know.

  Kansas City is too big to just walk downtown and find them. What if they were living here for months and I’ve only just now seen them? But, that’s impossible, right? She recognized me right away and I’m all over the television stations because of the games, and because I’m usually the one hauling a completely wasted Kemp home.

  To be fair, after his last conference and set of away games, he’s really kept his promise to keep his shit together, but that doesn’t change the fact that my face has been plastered all over the city more than once. How could she miss me?

  Maybe they just moved here. Or maybe, after our time together, she swore off baseball players forever. I always looked for her at every Storm Chasers game with the hopes she would come see me. I left messages for her on the big screen and waited at the field until they kicked me out in hopes she would show up. Never. My country angel never wanted to see me again.

  Was it because she was pregnant? Was she worried I would abandon her and figured it’d be easier to never tell me? I would have been there for every second. I could have been there the day Cora was born, held her tiny body to be the first person she saw when she opened those beautiful blue eyes…

  “Bonilla!” Someone snaps their fingers in front of my face and I blink. Kemp is practically nose-to-nose with me, steaming. “Bro, are you okay? Or are you going to keep missing every goddamn line drive that rockets your way?”

  I shake my head and reality comes crashing back down on me hard. The roar of the crowd, the blinding lights, Coach Bart making frantic han
d gestures at me from across the field that I know are all meant to tell me, as nondescript as possible so he wouldn’t get fined, to fuck the fuck right off.

  “Shit.” I smack myself with my glove. “Sorry, man. I just— “

  “Focus.” Kemp trots back to his place between first and second base, a look somewhere between concern and frustration radiating off of him. I glance over my shoulder and George has his arms crossed, clearly unhappy.

  Fuck.

  I try to pay attention to the rest of the game, but it whizzes by and I feel dizzy under the lights. What if Cora is here? What if her mom found out my name and came here… so Cora could meet her dad? Formerly?

  The inning ends with a pop fly to left field and Coach is already scowling at me before I can get in the dugout and reach for my bat.

  “That’s twice this game, Bonilla.” Coach doesn’t look at me, just keeps his arms crossed and stares at the mound. “I understand some you’re just not going to get, but it’s like you don’t even give a shit out there.”

  “Sorry, Coach.” I grab my bat and fiddle with my batting glove, trying to avoid the stares of everyone else on the team. “Won’t happen again.”

  “The hell it won’t. One more error and your ass is on the bench for the next four games. Got me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His glare doesn’t subside when I strike out, either. If Cora is here, she’s got to be embarrassed that her dad is playing so poorly.

  “Talk to me.” Kemp corners me during the eighth inning while we wait for the Rangers to make a pitching change before coming up on the middle of our order.

  George looks like he wants blood tonight. At least someone has their shit together, because I sure don’t. Even though the stadium is impossible large, I find myself staring down each section, wondering.

  Are they here?

  “Hey.” Kemp shakes my shoulder. “Jamie, do we need to get a trainer?”

  “No.” I manage, tearing my eyes away from the stadium. “Sorry, bro. I’ve just had a hell of a few days.”