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“So, anyway,” she finally says, backing away from her phone so that Harold comes into view. She opens his cage and holds out her hand, allowing him to hop onto it and then walk up her arm to sit on her shoulder. “We’ve been working hard on some tricks, and he wanted to show his daddy.”
She turns to the fucking rodent with talons and makes kissing noises at him.
He does it right back.
I hate him.
“What’s this?” Yadi plops next to me on the bench, his head over my shoulder. I try to block him out, but it only makes him more curious, and he crows when he sees Millie. “My girl!”
“She’s not your girl.” I knock my elbow into his side, a little harder than necessary. “She’s not your anything.”
He chuckles, lifting his hands. “Mírate, pareces un novio celoso.”
I can’t translate that, so I choose to ignore him, watching Millie hold out a grape toward Harold for his full attention. “Say… Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Good boy,” she coos and feeds him the halved purple grape.
“Daddy,” Yadi repeats with a cluck of his tongue. “She calls you daddy?”
“The bird.”
“Mm-hmm.” He points to the screen. “Since when do you have a… Cómo se dice?”
“Cockatoo,” I fill in, angling myself away from Yadi, but he follows, watching Millie’s video over my shoulder.
This time, she points to her cell phone, directly at me. “Look there. That’s where your daddy is. Say, hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, dickhead.”
Yadi cracks up next to me as I grumble a curse and toss my phone back on the shelf in my locker, the vision of her in gray sweats and a tank top burned into the back of my brain. I’m almost positive she wore nothing underneath it because her nipples were hard, and whatever material that shirt was made out of was practically like a second skin.
Yadi stretches out next to me, as if it’s his spot. It’s not. But Darren Bowie’s getting his ankle taped, leaving me wide open to the rookie. “What is happening?”
“Nothing.”
“No? Just a video of your assistant calling you daddy?”
I tunnel my fingers through my hair, wondering if he’ll drop it. He won’t. Like he didn’t stop badgering me about watching Love Is Blind with him last night.
Honestly, I can’t stand him.
“Grab your glove.” I stand up, deciding avoidance is best. “Let’s go practice your changeup. Tell Valens to meet us in the bullpen.”
Yadi hops up, immediately trotting off. “You got it!”
I spend more time than necessary coaching him since we have people to do that, but when we’re talking grip and elbow position, I don’t have to hear him singing or telling stories or asking questions about the pretty redhead I hired to be my assistant.
And later, when he’s called out to the mound, he closes the game by striking out the side.
Still can’t stand him. Even if I let him jump onto me to celebrate.
The plane ride home is only two hours, the bus ride back to the field another twenty minutes, but I’ve been bobbing my leg up and down like it’s been two days. Ever since I received a text from Millie informing me that she’d be waiting when we arrived at the field.
As soon as the bus parks, I spy her leaning against her rust bucket, the breeze kicking up her hair. It’s cool tonight, and I’m glad she’s bundled up in a sweatshirt. Even more glad my teammates can’t see what’s underneath, like I could with her video this afternoon.
“Hey, Millie.” Yadi makes his way right to her.
