“Funny that the expansion team has become the favorite child,” I say, but it’s not entirely a surprise—the Cougars won the World Series last year.
“Meanwhile, we’re more tarnished than an old set of candlesticks. We’re not anything but reviled. But I hope that changes with the new personnel, all-new players, new coaching staff. Spring training was good, and the guys on the team seem cool,” he says as he grabs his phone from his pocket. “I should check and see if Crosby is still around, since he drove.”
After he slides his phone open, he stops in his tracks, laughing at the message. “No surprise. They took off already. They say I can find my own damn ride home,” he says.
“They are ruthless.”
“It’s a guy thing.”
I laugh. “Yeah. I kind of know how guys are.”
He freezes, his eyes popping to planet size. “Oh. What do you mean? You know how guys are what?” he asks, stumbling over every syllable.
“Not like that,” I lower my voice to reassure him before we reach the lobby and the crowds. It’s still just us, so I say, “In fact, I haven’t been with anyone since you.”
The look in his eyes is pure joy, chased by heat. He blows out a long stream of air, then another. “Reese Fallon, what am I going to do with you?”
“Nothing,” I say softly. “Unfortunately.”
“I know.” He steps closer, glances around to make sure no one can see us, then wraps a hand around my arm. “I haven’t been with anyone either.”
I tremble, a full-body shudder traveling through me. “Not at all?”
He shakes his head. “No one, Reese.”
My head spins. I don’t know what to make of that—two years. “Was there a reason for that?”
With those green eyes pinning me, the man simply shrugs. “I don’t do hookups. And I didn’t meet anyone who made me sit up and take notice. You know me—I prefer connection,” he says, a refrain of the words he said the night we met.
Words that make my bones hum, my blood sear.
“Everything’s sexier that way. Better that way,” I say softly, repeating his words back to him.
“More real. Like this,” he says, and the warmth, the heat, the absolute fire between us crackles.
Electricity sparks like a power grid lit up after an outage, charging the whole city.
We stay like that, staring, gazing, like we’re about to crash into each other and combust. The two of us are a chemical reaction. We were before; we’re more so now.
The way his eyes travel up and down my body, the way his glittering irises linger on my lips turn me liquid.
I want him even more than I did the first time around.
But I can’t have him.
Thanks, Dad.
You suck.
I tear myself away though. Otherwise, I’ll climb him like a tree. “We should go.”
“Yes, we should,” he seconds, and a sadness clobbers my chest. This will probably be our last time doing anything.
“You’re my what-if guy,” I say.
“You were always my what-if woman, Reese. I even told Crosby that earlier this year.”
“You told him about me?” I ask, a smile tipping my lips, because I love that.
“Nothing private. Nothing personal. Just that there was this woman I couldn’t get out of my mind.”
My skin warms, and my heart flip-flops. This man makes me swoon over and over. “We really better go now, or we’ll both do something we regret.”
“I wouldn’t bet on me regretting it,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Are you sure there? I think you would.”
Dragging a hand through his hair, he sighs. “Stop knowing me so well already.”
I give him a soft, resigned smile.
“But for the record, I would not regret being with you. I’d regret crossing a line I shouldn’t.”
They’re pretty much one and the same, but I don’t point that out.
We reach the lobby at last. There, a woman with lush red hair whips her gaze our way, then flashes a grin at Holden. A local sports reporter, she seizes the chance. “Holden, good to see you. Exciting news about the Dragons and the new manager. With you on the team, and now Thompson, what do you think about the Dragons’ chances? You bring such a great presence to the club.”
He scoffs then says in a surly voice, nearly under his breath, “I love baseball, but I’m nobody’s savior. I just want to play.”
Oh no.
My shoulders straighten.
My radar pings.
That’s going to sound terrible in the press. All they’re going to run is a fat headline that says “Lone Wolf Kingsley.”
“Excuse me?” she asks. I’m not sure if she missed his grumble or if she’s surprised by what he said, but I take it for the lifeline it is.
I don’t wait for permission. I don’t care that he isn’t my client, isn’t my boyfriend. He’s a guy I care about, and that’s all the reason I need to help him.
I lean close to Holden and whisper, “Tell her this: ‘I’m excited about all the changes on the team and happy to be a part of it. Thank you so much.’”
Holden repeats after me, and that’s enough for the redhead. “Thank you, Holden.”
Once we’re outside, we stop on the steps, and I turn to him. Holden Kingsley has more to worry about than how the media would spin him sleeping with the coach’s daughter. Right now, he’s his own worst enemy.
“You need some lessons in how to talk to the press. And I know just the person to help.”
15
Holden
Four miles down.
A healthy breakfast.
A full round of weights.
Time to go to work for Opening Day.
I head out of my building, ready to snag a ride with Crosby to the Dragons’ ballpark before he goes to the Cougars’.
Dude likes to drive. More power to him, though I don’t get it. The best thing about San Francisco versus Los Angeles? Never needing my own wheels here is at the top of my list.
Crosby’s outside my place in Pacific Heights, tossing his keys up and down in his palm.
Grant leans casually against the passenger side door of Crosby’s red Tesla. “For the millionth time, a hot dog is not a sandwich.”
Crosby scoffs. “Two pieces of bread. Something in the middle. That’s a sandwich, man,” he says.
As I bound down the steps, Grant whips his head back and forth. “It’s folded bread. It’s rolled. That’s not a sandwich. Not a sandwich on any planet.”
I clear my throat. “Pretty sure on Planet Inedible, a hot dog is indeed a sandwich. But on this planet, can we agree it’s on the same level with muffins?”
“Thank you,” Grant says, gesturing to me like I’ve vindicated his very presence on earth. “Thank you very much.” He turns back to Crosby. “Muffins and hot dogs don’t belong anywhere.”
Crosby holds up his hands. “Dude, I don’t eat either of those things. It was a semantics debate. Not a which-tastes-better-because-neither-does debate.”
“And the debate rages on,” I say as I slide into the back seat, Grant into the front.
It’s funny, seeing Grant in a brand-new light as Reese’s longtime friend. I don’t know him well, beyond agreeing on the wrongness of hot dogs, but I’ve always thought he’s a good guy, so I can understand why she’d be tight with him.
As Crosby turns on the ignition, he tosses me a glance in the rearview mirror. “How long do I have to be your chauffeur? You’re not even on our team.”
Grant speaks to him in a reassuring tone. “Now, now. We need to be nice to the poor Dragon. It’s tough that he’s not on a team as good as ours, Crosby. We should be magnanimous to the little guys.”
I have no choice but to flip them both the bird. I start with Grant. “This is for you.” Then the driver. “And this one is for you.”
Crosby adopts a simpering smile. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
&nb
sp; Grant makes a time-out gesture. “Clarification, for semantics and all. Is that the side where you’re with someone or where you’re all alone?”
“Alone. I bet you know nothing about waking up alone, tomcat,” Crosby says to Grant.
Grant flubs his lips. “Please. You think I’d let some rando sleep over?”
“Wait, so no one sleeps over at your place?” I lean closer to the front, interest piqued. “Are you a bed hog, or are you just one hundred percent against relationships?”
The Cougars catcher shudders. “No. I’m not against relationships at all. The issue is this.” He jerks his head around to level me with a stare. “Did you know most guys want to cuddle? So much. Like, all night long.”
“I didn’t know that. But I know this,” Crosby puts in, hooking a thumb at himself before he turns the next corner. “I fucking love it. So yeah, I’m not surprised. I had a hunch most guys were secret cuddlers.”
“I am here to out them. I’m outing them all. Guys like to cuddle!” Grant slams a hand on the dashboard for emphasis.
“I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a cuddle monster,” Crosby says. “I wrap my arms around Nadia all night long and don’t let her go. Space? Fuck that. I want her against me, and I want to be against her.”
“That’s my point,” Grant says, pointing at him. “But no one will admit it.”
“There are so many negative images of men in the media. Guys don’t like affection. Guys don’t have feelings. Guys don’t like relationships. Fuck that. I love all of the above,” Crosby says.
“Holden, what about you? Cuddle monster or solo sleep rider?” Grant asks, intensely serious.
I snort. “Who knows? It’s been a while.”
“Are you fasting, man?” Grant asks. “Like a woman diet?”
I shrug. “Seems that way.”
Crosby clears his throat as he turns on Van Ness. “But wait a sec, Grant. Didn’t you just disparage other dudes for cuddling?”
Grant nods. “I’m not disparaging dudes for wanting to cuddle or wanting to cuddle with me. I mean, I fully understand why they’d want to. Look at me. I’m the Mount Everest of cuddling,” he says, gesturing to his frame.
I laugh. “You want some coffee with that extra dose of cockiness you took this morning?”
“Nah. I’m full up. But thanks for the offer,” he deadpans, then continues. “But the thing is—I’m particular.”
“So you’re saving all your stores of pent-up cuddle energy for Mr. Right?” I ask.
“Yes. Yes, I am. Mr. Right gets all my cuddles,” he says playfully, then shifts gears lickety-split. “But now is not the time for cuddle convos. It is time for baseball and only baseball. Opening Day, men. Are we ready?”
“Always ready. I’ve even got my talking points handy for all the press.” Crosby slides into a gregarious tone. “‘It’s a brand-new season. And I’m ready to give my all every single day, every single game.’”
Grant picks up the baton, dipping into his most affable voice. “‘Do I think we have a chance at the World Series again? Of course we do, but it’s a long season, and you’ve got to play every at bat with your heart, mind, and body. That’s all you can do. Especially since every team wants the same thing.’”
Crosby whistles. “You’re the poster boy of media quotes.”
Grant flashes another grin. “The press loves me. The media had been champing at the bit for pro athletes to come out for years. For the longest time, sports were the last bastion of let’s pretend there are no queer players. Because that’s logical.”
“Of the seven hundred fifty pro baseball players, it made so much sense that none were gay,” Crosby says dryly. “Or any of the other majors.”
“Exactly. Then everything changed when Sandy Hildebrand bought the Dallas football team fifteen years ago,” Grant says.
Hildebrand was the first openly gay team owner, and once he started having Pride nights at the stadium and working with queer men and women who ran TV networks and big businesses, things started to change, both in college and the pros. Sponsorship opportunities poured in, the leagues opened up.
“That got the ball rolling,” I say, since I know the history he’s talking about too.
“Exactly. More athletes came out of the closet and the media flocked to them. Fans too,” Grant continues. “So now, I’m like a reporter’s wet dream.”
“Not if you say that to a reporter. ‘Wet dream,’” Crosby snorts.
“Maybe consider using ‘nocturnal emission,’” I deadpan.
“Duly noted,” Grant says.
“Meanwhile, I’m the opposite—the king of ‘no comment,’” I say.
“You weren’t last night,” Crosby points out.
I frown. He’d already gone when the reporter ambushed me and Reese helped me with what to say. “How did you know?”
“Nadia saw a quote this morning when she was scanning the press clippings. It was in a local athletes’ roundup thing.”
My heart rate surges.
Please let it be good.
I grab my phone, hunting first through my scads of messages. Good or bad, I’m willing to bet Josh texted me.
Yup, he did.
I open his note.
* * *
Josh: This is what I’m talking about. Quotes like this! “I’m excited about all the changes on the team and happy to be a part of it. Thank you so much.” Keep that shit up. We could even get you a press person just to keep you on point like that. More of that, man!
* * *
Holden: I’m on it. I’m meeting with somebody this week.
* * *
Josh: Great. You will soon master the art and science of saying nothing useful with a smile.
* * *
Holden: I hate lying.
* * *
Josh: It’s not lying. It’s spinning.
* * *
Holden: It’s lying because they can tell I don’t want to talk to them.
* * *
Josh: You did it last night. Do it again. Keep doing it. Got it?
* * *
Holden: Yes, Daddy.
* * *
I put the phone away, and Crosby glances in the rearview mirror as he nears the ballpark. “What’s the story?”
“He wants me to have some media training. So I can keep saying shit like ‘Everything’s coming up roses.’”
Crosby jumps on this. “Dude, that’s what I was telling you before. I think that’d be an excellent idea. All you need is a coaching session, and you’ll be spinning words into sponsorship gold like G and me do,” he says, clapping Grant, who has more endorsement deals than even Crosby, on the shoulder.
There is no more golden boy in baseball than Grant Blackwood.
But do I tell them that Reese offered to help me out last night? That I’ve got a meeting with her this weekend? To go over some media tips, then practice them in a quick follow-up interview for her podcast.
Before I can say a word, though, Crosby barks at his phone.
“Hey Google, call Nadia.” As it’s ringing, he says to me, “She just started working with this new press firm on all her charitable stuff. The woman who runs it is great. I’m sure she’s got someone who can give you a quick coaching session.”
Yup. Better to tell him. “I’ve already got—”
But I don’t snag a chance to finish the sentence, since Crosby is talking into the speakerphone to his girlfriend. “Hey, sweetheart. Can you hook my helpless friend Holden up with a one-on-one session with someone over at Moore Media?”
“Of course. Jillian has a new hire who’ll be perfect for him. Reese Fallon. I think she even interviewed him a couple of years ago.”
I pipe in before this gets out of hand. “I’ve already got a meeting with her. It’s all good. Thank you, Nadia.”
“I’m so glad to hear that, Holden,” she says to me. “Jillian was so excited to hire her. She started one of the fastest-growing new sports podcasts in recent memory.”
“I’m glad you two are working together,” Nadia says.
“It’s not really work. I’m doing a quick follow-up interview for her podcast—a ‘where are you now’ thing. And then she’s just helping me out with tips. As friends,” I point out, since we aren’t athlete and client.
But are we truly friends?
We’re sort of professional, but we’re more like . . . almost lovers.
When Crosby pulls into the lot to drop me off, he takes the phone off speaker and lowers his voice for Nadia.
As they talk quietly, Grant swivels around, a smile on his face but lasers in his eyes. “Whatever happens with Reese, do not break her heart. Or I will no longer be Mr. Nice Guy.”
I blink, surprised at first, but then I nod, understanding him completely. “The last thing I want to do is hurt her.”
“She’s like a sister to me,” he adds tightly.
“You have nothing to worry about. Because nothing can happen between us.”
I leave and walk into the clubhouse.
As I pull on my uniform, I’m chatting with the guys on the team when Edward Thompson strides in.
The energy shifts in the room.
The guys straighten their shoulders, stand taller, and lower their voices as they wait to hear from the new skipper.
I tuck my shirt into my pants and turn around as the man, salt-and-pepper in his hair, an inviting smile on his face, moves down the line of lockers.
He shakes the hand of one of our starting pitchers. “So good to see you, Dante. How’s Macy?”
“Excellent,” he says. “She just released a new mystery novel.”
The Virgin Game Plan Page 12