The Virgin Game Plan

by Lauren Blakely

  She gives me a firm, confident handshake. “And you must be—wait, let me guess—Holden Kingsley.”

  “Damn good intuition there.”

  “It kicks in now and then,” she says, much more self-assured than I’d have expected from a college student. Then again, she’s a senior, and I was pretty confident when I was finishing up three years ago too.

  She nods toward the stage, empty now as the other speakers mill about, chatting with audience members. “Did you enjoy your roundtable?”

  I crook a grin. “I did, but there was no table. What’s the deal with that?”

  Her mouth falls open in faux outrage, and lips-wide-open is a damn good look on her.

  Don’t get distracted, Kingsley.

  “That is so deceptive,” she says, parking her hands on her hips with a tsk of indignation. “Who hosts a roundtable without a table?”

  “Right? That’s what I thought.” I like this vibe—easygoing and as satisfying as catching a lazy pop fly. We’ll chat, we’ll make harmless small talk, then I’ll be on my way.

  “I hope you were able to roll with it,” she says.

  I shrug. “That kind of stuff can throw other men off their game. Not this guy.”

  A twinkle of mischief flickers in those blue eyes. “So you were able to handle that . . . curveball?”

  I groan at the pun, but then shake my head and say, “Well-played.”

  She gestures to the auditorium exit, starting us on our way up past the seats, her tone turning more professional. “The media rooms in Spark are great for interviews. I thought we could do the sit-down for the podcast in one of the soundproof booths before we do the walk-around portion of it?”

  “That sounds fantastic. No curveballs there,” I say, adding a wink. Because why not?

  “And you are adept at connecting with curveballs,” she says.

  The woman knows the kind of pitches I can hit? Damn. That is impressive. “Seems you’ve done your homework.”

  She gives a casual shrug and a bright smile, then rattles off some of my minor league stats and then my major league ones. “I know a thing or two about baseball,” she adds.

  That makes her even more appealing.

  No surprise there, since I’m a sucker for women who dig sports. No surprise, since my world and my goals revolve around them. Still, it’s hot as hell when a woman knows the difference between finding a gap in the outfield and finding a hole in the infield.

  I could start a list of all the ways she appeals—confidence, smarts, and a stunning face, and it’s only been five minutes—but best to stay in the charming zone. Easy in, easy out.

  As we cross the building’s foyer, I lower my voice and lean in slightly. “Confession: I study the opposing team and practice hitting what they’re likely to throw to me. So let’s hope that reputation continues.” I rap my knuckles on the door before I open it, dropping us onto the quad. “Knock on wood.”

  With a curious glint in those crystal irises, she asks, “Are you superstitious, Holden?”

  “Hey! If you start your questions now, what will we do for the actual interview?”

  “I’ll ask again, but you’ll be ready,” she says as we fall into quick matching step, walking across campus.

  I take a beat, unable to resist. “I’m always ready,” I say.

  “That’s . . . a very good skill,” she says, a flicker of delight in those ice-blue eyes. “I’ve been reading up on you, but there’s not a ton of material out there about you—just you as a guy. You don’t do that many interviews, do you?”

  “New guy,” I say, tapping my chest. “I kept my head down last season. I was a rookie who didn’t want to make rookie mistakes with the press. And this year, I haven’t been asked to do that many.”

  “Is that why you said yes to mine? Because you aren’t asked a lot?”

  Her questions are so straightforward that I don’t reach for the usual tricks I’ve learned from publicists—smile, nod, give generic “just want to help the team” answers. I’m digging her style as we walk and talk. “I said yes because I was damn impressed that you reached out directly to me. I like that. And because I know what it’s like to work that little bit harder to get what you want. To ask for what you need from professors or your coach.” She bristles at that, but I keep going. “For me, it was to ask for extra practice. To start early or work late. Or both.”

  She leans a little closer, almost like she’s going to bump her shoulder with mine. “Stop saying all your good stuff now, or we’re not going to have anything left for the interview.”

  I’m tempted to nudge her elbow in response. To throw a crooked grin her way. “But I thought we were just practicing? That you liked preparation too?”

  My tone is way more flirtatious than I expected.

  But there it is. So be it.

  A sliver of a smile touches her lips. “Maybe I do. I suppose this is like a dress rehearsal?”

  “Exactly. We’ll be so damn ready when we get into that soundproof booth.” I swear I’m not trying to sound flirty, but it comes out like that anyway.

  Probably because I want to flirt with her.

  I’d say it was a bad idea—distractions and all that—but, hey, one interview won’t last too long. Might as well have fun for the next hour. It won’t derail my plans for the day.

  “You sure seem ready, Reese. Knowing my stats and whatnot,” I say.

  “I’ve done so much homework on you, I think I know your shoe size,” she says, and an appreciative rumble works its way up my chest.

  Shoe size is innocent, but also . . . not.

  Does she realize we’re both playing with the fire of innuendo?

  She flashes a grin at me, and that sexy smile is dashed with something extra, something a bit spicier than that confidence I saw in the auditorium. Yep, it’s flirtation, and I like the look of it. I like it too, though, when she turns more serious, meeting my gaze and holding it earnestly. “Thank you for taking time to do this interview, Holden. It means a lot to me.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” We walk past trees bursting with cherry blossoms; Spark Hall looms fifty feet away. “Plus, I was impressed that you wrote. Like I said, it takes a lot of guts just to reach out to someone and say what you want.”

  “So, you saw yourself reflected back at you?” she asks with a knowing grin.

  This woman, she can read between all sorts of lines, the way she seems to understand people, their motivations.

  Yet another mark in the appealing column.

  She has too many for my peace of mind.

  “That’s fair to say,” I answer as I open the door, gesturing for her to go in first. “I appreciate you doing your homework.”

  “I try to be a self-made woman,” she says.

  “That’s why I said yes right away.”

  “I’m so glad you did.”

  “Me too.” The truth of that hits me in the solar plexus. It’s not just a polite response—I’m genuinely glad to be here talking with her.

  Five minutes in, and I already have the hots for this woman.

  Good thing I’ll be gone soon.

  She smiles a thank-you back at me. Then we head down a corridor of media rooms and soundproof booths. She opens the door to one, and I follow her in, where she settles at the desk, unzipping her fire-engine-red messenger bag. It’s the same color as her blouse. The same color as her lips.

  Her lush, full lips.

  My throat goes dry as I stare at her sensual mouth while she takes out her laptop. A flicker of heat travels across my skin.

  “You like red.” It’s the height of obviousness, and my voice dropped a little lower. I hope neither of those things gives me away.

  She looks up from her laptop screen, her eyes cutting to mine. “I call it my power color.”

  And I’m all sorts of intrigued. “Why is that?”

  “A woman in sports needs a locus of power,” she says, sure of herself, a trait that’s a crazy turn-on.

&
nbsp; Seems everything about her is a turn-on to me.

  I wiggle my fingers. “All right. I need to know about this power philosophy.”

  She gives an easy shrug, chased by a smile. “It’s a male-dominated field. We need to stay strong. There aren’t as many of us.” She says it matter-of-factly, but clearly, she’s thought this through.

  “This is something you take quite seriously,” I say.

  “I do.” She plucks at the fabric of her shirt. “I like red. It makes me feel confident,” she says, then laughs self-deprecatingly, pointing at me. “Now I’m revealing all my secrets to you, Holden. I’d better be careful, or I’ll tell you everything.”

  Ah, hell. She’s got me in her thrall, and I don’t want to be anyplace else right now. Fuck resistance. “Maybe I want to know everything.”

  She nibbles on the corner of her red lips, and I stifle a groan. “Starting with?” she asks.

  Swallowing roughly, I try to form words. Words that aren’t How do you like to be kissed?

  I scan the desk for a diversion and spot a photo of Reese and two women on her laptop background. One is Black; one is Asian. “Your friends?”

  “That’s Layla and Tia. We met freshman year on the volleyball team. Layla is going to Italy to play professionally. She’s practically as tall as you,” she says. She points to the woman with the sleek black hair. “Tia is a psych major. She said I should wear red today.”

  “Because it’s your power color?”

  “Yes, and she said it looked professional,” she says, handing me a pair of headphones.

  I try to glance away, but hell, we’re talking about how she looks. “You do. Look professional,” I say, trying to steer this conversation that’s wiggling away from me. “And I think it’s even better that you figured out what you need and want to succeed in this field. I like that you use red. It’s like you’ve weaponized a color.”

  There. That’s professional.

  At least, I think it is.

  As she clicks on a software program, she purses her lips together, then almost—maybe subtly, or maybe not—presses them together then releases them, like she’s blowing a kiss. “I have.”

  My breath hitches. I clench my jaw and swallow a groan, like that’ll hide how much I want to taste her red lipstick, kiss her lips.

  I try to focus, pulling on the headphones as she does the same. She sets up mics, then says, “Are you ready, Holden Kingsley?”

  My name on her cherry-red lips sounds dangerously good, like she’s weaponizing my name. Hell, she can use it against me anytime.

  The plan, man. Stick to the plan. Do the interview and only the interview.

  I slap on my game face, square my shoulders, and dig in like I’m at the plate. “I’m always ready,” I say.

  They feel like famous last words.

  She counts down. “Three, two, one . . . Hey there, sports fans. I’m your host, Reese Fallon, with another deep-dive interview into sports, the business of it, and the personalities behind it. Today, I have a very special guest—second baseman for the Los Angeles Bandits, Holden Kingsley, who also happens to be an alum of our very own university. Thank you so much, Holden, for coming here today. I’m ecstatic to have you as a guest.”

  Ignore the innuendo. All of it. Doesn’t mean anything.

  “I assure you, the ecstasy goes both ways,” I say. And wow. Fuck. That was dirty, and I need to remember I’m not on a date.

  “Ecstasy abounds here on my show,” she says with a smile that’s borderline naughty. Then she dives into the questions, asking about my sophomore season so far, the biggest challenges, what pitcher has the nastiest stuff, my first baseball memory, the best coach I’ve worked with, and what the sport means to me.

  “Baseball means everything,” I say, speaking from the heart. “I have the chance to do the thing I love most, and I hope to take care of my family. When I was growing up in Seattle, my mom and dad rearranged their lives for me, making sure I made it to every practice, every game. They made everything possible, and I want to live up to their trust and faith in me.”

  She sets a hand on her heart. “I love your honesty. I can hear it in your voice. And thank you for saying that. Some celebrities can be all about the fame and forget the people. Saying you owe it to your family—that’s what a lot of young athletes need to hear.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without them, so it’s the truth and nothing but.”

  “Now, final question—since you grew up in Seattle, I have to ask this. What’s your favorite coffee drink?”

  That’s easy. “Cortado,” I say.

  “I’m a macchiato person myself, but I’m down with a cortado.”

  “Good to know,” I say.

  See, we’re coffee buddies now.

  I’m hardly thinking about those gorgeous lips anymore.

  Well, not much.

  She turns back to the mic. “You heard it here first. If you ever run into this guy at your local coffee shop, buy him a cortado.”

  She clicks off the mic and pulls off her headphones. As I remove mine, I observe, “You interview like a pro. Is that what you want to do? As a career?”

  I’m fascinated with Reese “I Weaponize Red” Fallon, even more so after the interview.

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  I’m genuinely surprised. “You don’t? You’re a natural.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I love the podcast, and I definitely want to keep doing it. I’ve always wanted to do my own thing with sports,” she says as she slides her laptop back into her bag. “But mostly, I started it because I want to gain experience with media. I want to work in nonprofits that advocate for athletes who don’t have the same opportunities as others. Female athletes in some cases. Athletes with special needs, or with disabilities, and especially LGBTQ athletes. I have a lot of friends who play sports and are queer, and who you love should never limit your career or advancement. It shouldn’t be a thing at all,” she says, obviously passionate about the subject.

  She’s smart, sexy, and has a big heart?

  I might as well throw in the towel.

  Plus, I agree with her. “I’m glad the major leagues are making strides in acceptance. It’s great to play alongside out athletes. And I think it's terrific that you want to make it your career," I say.

  “Well, I love sports,” she says with a grin. “I’ve played volleyball my whole life. It’s given me my closest friends, the chance to go to this school, and some hard-won truths about winning, losing, and dealing with it. Athletics can give you so many tools and skills in life. So I think what I really want to do is sports marketing or advocacy with an outreach angle.”

  Hot damn, this woman has her shit together. If I’m not careful, I might fall for her in the span of an hour.

  “So, the podcast is a vehicle for that,” I say.

  “Absolutely. It’s a chance for me to gain experience and make a name for myself. I interviewed an athlete in Spanish and English once, and that interview had a ton of downloads.”

  “You speak Spanish too.”

  “Double major,” she says, with a twinkle of well-earned pride.

  I shake my head, impressed. “You’ve really got it together. Will you miss volleyball?”

  “We had our final game last week.” Her voice goes all wistful at the end, her eyes a little dreamy. “I’ll miss it, but I’ll keep playing. For fun. With friends.” She angles her head to study me as she asks, “Do you think you would play baseball if you weren’t playing professionally?”

  I mime stabbing my chest. “Way to wound me, Reese, making me consider a reality so horrible.”

  “I’m so cruel.” She pats me on the thigh. It’s a fun, playful gesture, but it’s also incredibly flirty.

  My eyes drift down to her hand. Maybe she’ll keep it there, but nope, it’s a quick move, and it ends too soon.

  “But you don’t have to think about that,” she adds.

  I wipe my hand across my forehead. “Than
k God.”

  I’m enjoying her too much to stick with my get in, get out plan. I’m glad we have the walk-and-talk part of the interview left, but I don’t know if that will be enough. I don’t want the part of my day assigned to Reese to end.

  Time to upend my own damn schedule.

  Besides, one day won’t distract me from my goals.

  Hell, I spent my entire rookie season with blinders on, lasered in on the game. Now it’s my second year in the majors, but I’m still all about the focus. This afternoon is a reprieve from the eat, sleep, breathe round-the-clockness of pro ball.

  I want to devour this afternoon with her.

  “You ready to do the walk-around-campus thing so you can show me all your favorite places here and share your favorite memories?” she asks.

  I flash her a grin, feeling it deep inside my soul. “I’d be ecstatic to show you everything.”

  A faint blush crawls across her cheeks, a sexy splash of pink. “Let’s do it, Holden.”

  Yeah, she gives good banter too.

  Already today is shaping up to be one of my favorite memories of this place.

  That was not in the plan at all.

  But it is absolutely in the chemistry.

  3

  Reese

  The man has a mouth for innuendo and lips made for dirty talk. Words seem to fall from his tongue laced with seduction.

  And I can’t not give him a hard time about the particular word he just used.

  “Ecstasy?” I say as we leave the media booth. “Is that your favorite word now?”

  “Seems it’s yours,” he counters.

  “I did start it,” I admit.

  “And I continued it. So, apparently, for today, it is my favorite word,” he says, all playful.

  “Do you think listeners will know you kind of blushed when you said it there at the start of the interview?”

  “I did not blush,” he says, like he’s highly affronted.

  I shoot him a doubtful look. “You’re kind of blushing now too.” He’s so easy to tease. Maybe because he seems to love the push-pull, the back-and-forth.