But still, I kind of can’t believe this is him.
A guy my brother knows. A guy my brother smack-talks with. A guy who’s going to the player’s auction tonight.
Sometimes the world works in mysterious ways.
Or perhaps intentional ones.
Because I know what I want, and I think I know how to get it.
Ransom
* * *
Hmmm. I’m thinking they met before the auction now. I have a sneaking suspicion that somehow they crossed paths.
Let’s go back a few more days.
Time to rewind.
Martinez
* * *
Earlier that week, a few days before the auction
* * *
When I come into the ninth inning of a game, whether the bases are loaded or empty, nothing distracts me.
I wear blinders because that’s my motherfucking job.
To drown out the noise of the crowd, the game, the day, the night.
Nothing else matters.
I take to the field, head to the mound, and enter the zone.
It’s a skill I’ve mastered, and I use it in other areas of my life too.
When I’m reading a book in the park, when I go to a museum, or when I have dinner with friends—I ignore everything else and am present in the moment.
That’s why it’s killing me when I sit down for an interview in a quiet coffee shop with a reporter from a lifestyle site who wants to do a feature on me.
“Devon Patrick.” The sandy-haired reporter interviewing me introduces himself, then gestures to a brunette with electric-blue glasses, pretty pink lips, and a gorgeous smile.
“Tempest,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’ll be here to sign for Devon.”
I’d been told by my publicist that an ASL interpreter would be here for the reporter. “Adrian Alejandro Martinez,” I say to both of them, then to her, I add, “Charmed.”
Because I am. She’s beguiling to look at.
Which means I need to apply the same focus to Devon that I would to a save situation.
The bases are loaded. There are no outs. The opposing team’s top slugger’s at the plate. I come in. Mow down the side.
The reporter begins with some standard questions, wanting to know when I moved to America, how many other languages I speak, if I go back to Europe often since I grew up in Spain, spent some time with family in Italy and visited grandparents frequently in France as a child.
I give him the answers that are widely known—when I was fourteen, Spanish, Italian, English and passable French thanks to my father’s mother, and . . . as often as I can.
Tempest signs all my answers for him then translates his questions for me.
Sure, I’m talking to him, but I can’t help but feel that I’m talking to her too. He says something to her with his hands, and then she translates for me. “Adrian, tell us about growing up mostly in Spain, since it isn’t widely known for baseball. Was that hard?”
“It came with its challenges, but I had great coaches and was determined to play in the Major Leagues,” I say.
She smiles then tells Devon what I said.
“And you’re close with your family?” he asks through her.
I nod, meeting his eyes as I answer, but I want to look at her, not only because I’m distracted by her soulful eyes and a smile I can’t seem to get enough of.
I tell myself she’s simply a woman I’m meeting as part of my job.
That I shouldn’t be so taken with her so soon.
And I’m not truly taken, I suppose.
Yet I want to keep talking to her. Or, really, through her.
“I see my mother and father every week if I can. They live just outside the city. I have them over for dinner when I’m able to and when I’m not playing.”
“What do you like to cook?” she blurts out, then she shakes her head, apologizes, and turns to Devon, signing quickly.
He chuckles, saying something to her silently with his hands.
She dips her head, then raises it, that smile curving her lips in an oops, did I really say that grin.
“I make a mean gazpacho. Paella, of course too. My father taught me how to make those. My mother is Italian and she loves classic Italian dishes. And, my grandmother in Paris made sure I knew how to make tarte normande. But I can’t have those too often,” I say, patting my belly and wiggling my eyebrows.
She grins. “It’s always good to make sure you can do the Gigante ads,” she says. Her fingers were flying as I spoke, and she signs her own comment as well, making the reporter chuckle again. I just get a kick out of the fact that she’s seen my ads.
“But I also like to bake pizza,” I add with a smile.
Devon grins, waiting for Tempest to translate. She does, and he replies through Tempest, “Pizza is life.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I say, tapping my chest then pointing in the air, glancing skyward.
