“¡Los amigos de Miguel!” he calls out over the sound of the rain hammering the awning.
Brooke steps forward and launches into Spanish, both of them half-shouting to be heard. I stand there understanding maybe every fifth word, rain dripping off my jacket and soaking through my jeans. Then the guy, who introduces himself as Javier, waves us into the office to get out of the weather.
Inside, it’s warm and smells like coffee and Javier gestures through the window toward a white Nissan sedan that looks older but well-maintained.
“He says this is his most reliable car,” Brooke translates, pushing wet hair off her face. “Good tires, new brakes. And he has a cousin who works at a lot near the Mexico City airport, so we can drop the car there when we’re done and his cousin will drive it back.”
“How much?” I ask, pulling out the pesos I’d exchanged at the airport back in Seattle.
More Spanish. Javier holds up his hands and says something that makes Brooke laugh.
“He says for friends of Miguel, five thousand pesos.”
I count out eight thousand and hand it over. “Tell him to keep the rest, and we really appreciate him opening up this early for us. Especially in this weather.”
Javier’s eyebrows shoot up when he counts the bills, and he clasps my hand in both of his. Then he shifts into what sounds like a different mode entirely, more serious, gesturing toward the mountains as he talks. His expression is grave now, none of the easy warmth from before.
“He’s giving us road advice,” Brooke says, listening carefully. “The highway through the Sierra Madre is dangerous in weather like this. The curves are sharp, especially near the pass at El Palmito. The guardrails are, and I quote, ‘suggestions.’” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Comforting.”
Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance, as if to punctuate the point. Javier keeps going, and Brooke nods along, her eyes narrowed in concentration, then Javier says something while gesturing at me.
Brooke laughs. “He says good luck, and drive safe, and he’ll be watching the fight on Saturday.”
“Tell him I’ll make sure it’s worth watching.”
She translates, and Javier nods approvingly. He hands the keys to Brooke, who immediately holds them out to me. “You’re driving, I assume?”
I lead the way out of the office and toward the car. “I don’t do passenger seat.”
“Control freak,” she laughs, walking around to the other side of the car without waiting for a response.
We load our bags, and I slide behind the wheel and adjust the seat back to make room for my legs. Rain pounds the roof so loud it’s hard to think. The engine coughs once, then catches and settles into a steady rumble that sounds healthier than the car’s exterior suggests.
Brooke unfolds the map Javier gave us in case we lose reception, and spreads it across her lap, tracing the route with one finger. “Highway 24 south to Durango, then 40 east, then 45 south into the city. He marked a few gas stations along the way. Really nice guy.”
“How far to the pass?”
“About two hours, if the roads are clear. Which they won’t be.” She folds the map loosely and tucks it into the door pocket. “The mountains are the hard part. Once we’re through the sierra, it should be easier. Assuming we make it through the sierra.”
I flip on the wipers and crank them to high. They beat frantically against the windshield, barely keeping up with the rain. Somewhere on the other side of those mountains, Roman is waking up in a Mexico City hotel room.
The team is already at the venue, probably, running through logistics, making sure everything is ready for the weigh-in. Three years of work comes down to the next forty-eight hours, and right now I’m hours away in a borrowed Nissan with an engine that coughs on ignition and a prayer that we don’t drive off a cliff.
I glance over at her. She looks tired but alert, her damp hair pulled back and no makeup, wearing the same sweater from last night. And it occurs to me, watching her settle into the passenger seat and squint at the map, that I’m actually glad she’s here. More than glad. That if I had to be stranded anywhere, with anyone, there’s no one I’d rather have beside me than Brooke Bennett.
Which is a strange thing to think about someone I’ve hated for most of my adult life.
She catches me looking and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I put the car in drive and pull out onto the flooded street, tires cutting through inches of standing water. “Let’s go.”
The wipers beat a frantic rhythm as we head south, and the mountains disappear into the clouds ahead.
“Not a chance in hell,” Brooke says, laughing.
“Come on, you really don’t think the Mariners can make a run?” I keep my eyes on the road as we wind through another series of switchbacks, the Honda hugging the curves. “Julio’s finally putting it together, and the bullpen actually looks solid for once.”
The rain eased somewhere around the first hour, thankfully, settling into a steady drizzle that the wipers handle without complaint. Though the clouds are still heavy overhead, threatening to shift at any time.
