Page 7 of Strikeout
He doesn’t laugh.
Shit.
That’s probably the dumb joke that killed my chance.
But Mateo says nothing. Until the doors almost come to a close and he mutters, “I plan on it.”
four
I can’t believe I just—
I’m so fucked.
five
My bedroom looked likea disaster zone by the time I was done packing the largest piece of luggage I could get my hands on. I needed options on how to dress for the upper crust of Manhattan while also being comfortable enough to run after a kindergartener.
My mom watched the spectacle as she sipped her third cup of coffee with a smug look on her face, boasting about the ways society would advance if everyone listened to their mothers.
My father, bless his heart, looked as confused as ever as I gathered my laptop and ancient iPad from the living room. When he finally asked what was going on, my mom answered. “This is what it looks like when I’m right, mi amor.”
If I wasn’t properly freaking out about making this one-week trial go smoothly and without a hitch, I would have probably reminded my mother about the fact that this was only a temporary agreement.
But I guess if I had a twenty-five-year-old daughter who had yet to leave the nest, I might have been drinking wine in that coffee mug. So I let her have her small win for the time being.
I decided to skip out on the typical Latine goodbye where you stand by the door for forty-five minutes chatting and instead gave both of my parents a quick peck on the cheek before heading out.
I felt like if I spent a second without moving, the gravity of what was about to happen would sink in.
I was moving in with Mateo Martinez.
A sports legend whose name is more revered than those of Brady and James. A celebrity in his own right. Dubbed America’s Sweetheart. Even though he is much more reserved than flirtatious. At least in the media. I have no idea how he is in his personal life.
Or even the story of Anna’s birth mom.
The internet exploded the day paparazzi caught an exhausted-looking Mateo pushing a stroller through his neighborhood. The look was completed with a diaper bag slung over his shoulder.
He then made an official announcement that he had, in fact, welcomed a daughter into the world but would be providing no further details and asked the media to please respect his privacy as he learned to navigate his new role as a single father.
The media did not respect his request, and instead created a frenzy around him. It got so bad that my mom told me he had to move out of his previous home when security cameras caught a reporter trying to break into the nursery window.
The search for Mateo Martinez’s baby mama became late-night show fodder. And more than a handful of socialites began wearing baggier clothes in attempts to have the internet believe that they could be the secret mother in hiding.
In the end, no one ever got the answer, and eventually, they moved on to the next big story. But I’ve always wondered.
Even my mom doesn’t have the full story, which means Mateo must have sworn his mom to keep the details surrounding his daughter’s conception under lock and key.
And now my nosy self is going to be living with him and will have to be on my best behavior if I want this to pan out.
I breeze out of my parents’ building, but freeze when I see an older man in a full suit and tie leaning against an SUV, smiling at me warmly.
No one smiles warmly in New York unless they’re related to you or plan on distracting you while stealing your purse. So to say that I’m instantly on high alert is an understatement.
“Ms. Morales, I presume?” he yells out over the noisy street.
“Uh…”
He steps forward, slowly bringing his phone close enough for me to see his screen.
