“Why’s that, G-Man? Just waiting for Mr. Right and the all-night Cuddle Fest you’re hoping for?” I tease.
Grant cracks up. “Yup. It’s on my Vision Board.” He sweeps out his hand. “The Great Cuddle Fest is coming soon.”
“You have a date in mind?” I ask.
“May? June? Who the hell knows? A man can dream,” Grant says, with a wink, then turns back to his sister. “But I will pay for everyone’s drinks as my way of thanking you for the hard labor of being my first line of defense.”
“Wait. You pay for drinks?” I deadpan, acting shocked.
“Pretty sure that never happens,” Chance puts in.
“And I thought you were my friends,” Grant says. “Thanks, assholes.”
Chance gives him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to hear you labored under that delusion,” he says, then settles onto the stool and flashes a grin at Sierra. “I will happily take over buying drinks for your brother.”
As Sierra says thanks, I mutter, “You are so transparent,” to Chance, but I’m glad the guy seems happier again than he was in the dark days immediately following his split. I amble away with Grant, joining him, Crosby, and Gunnar on a black-and-white striped couch at a table in the corner.
Crosby knocks back some of his beer, then parks his elbows on the table. “Do you two Lizard Kings want to give us any tips on the team you just played, since we’re playing them next?”
“Lizard Kings? That’s what you’re calling us now?” Gunnar asks with a laugh. “Maybe we’ll call you the Kitty Cats? Wait. No. The House Cats. Hold on. I have a better one.” He takes a pregnant pause worthy of a stand-up comic. “The Mousers.”
“You might think that’s an insult, but barn cats are motherfucking killers, so thank you for the compliment,” Crosby says. “Now, what’s the name of your team, then? Geckos? Chameleons? Moray Eels?”
I lean back against the cushions. “And to think I abandoned a hot new word search for this abuse.”
Crosby winks. “Salamanders. That’s it. Anyway, give us the deets on the Aces. Whose bat is hot, whose bat is not?”
“Ah, so that’s why you invited me here tonight,” I add.
“You didn’t think it was just to see your face?” Crosby posits, his expression intensely serious.
I shake my head. “Nope. Never. Also, by the way, Daniel Craig was the best Bond.”
He mimes slamming a buzzer. “Wrong. Sean Connery.”
That ignites an epic argument between Grant, Gunnar, and Crosby not only on who’s the best Bond, but which flick was the best of all-time.
Casino Royale is the verdict.
Obviously.
It’s another hour I shave off the don’t think of Reese agenda.
As the clock ticks closer to midnight, Nadia sails in, derailing all of Crosby’s attention as he smothers her in kisses.
When she joins us, we catch up on her football team briefly before she and Crosby head to the bar to grab fresh drinks.
Gunnar yawns, saying he needs to take off.
“See you on the plane tomorrow,” I say, then I catch the tail end of a SportsCenter segment on tonight’s hot plays. Grant stares at the screen too, uttering a whoa when the shortstop for the Comets wins the honor of Play of the Night with a fierce vertical jump to nab a scorching line drive. He shoots airborne four or five feet, leaping over the sliding runner to glove the ball.
“Hot damn, that was a helluva play,” I say in admiration of the man’s epic fielding.
“Yeah. It sure was,” Grant says, his voice far away.
It’s not a tone I hear from him often.
He sounds almost lost in time.
I snap my gaze to him and find that he’s watching the replay as SportsCenter serves it up from multiple angles.
The volume is down, but the words flash across the screen in subtitles.
Declan Steele shows all of Major League Baseball why he’s following in Derek Jeter’s footsteps. Nearly a decade in the bigs, and the Comets shortstop is still at the top of his game.
“Top of his game indeed,” Grant repeats, and he’s somewhere else entirely.
I nod as the screen shifts to a slow-mo. “Damn. I’m going to have to pay for grub when I see him. Pretty sure I bet that he wouldn’t be Play of the Night so soon.”
“That so?” Grant still sounds like he’s in another world.
What’s that about?
I furrow my brow as a memory resurfaces. Several weeks ago, at the Sports Network Awards where Grant received a trophy for best sportsman, I chatted with Declan at the event. He was only supposed to be in town for a night, but he wound up staying longer than he’d planned. The morning he was taking off for New York, Crosby and I bumped into him a block or two away from Grant’s house. “Oh, right. When he was in town, I saw him at that coffee shop near your . . .”
My remark jolts Grant from his daydream before I can say house.
He snaps his gaze to me, intensity written in his eyes, almost like his irises are begging me to be quiet.
In a heartbeat, I connect the dots. I don’t know his romantic history, but I’d be willing to bet it involves Declan Steele. “Yeah,” Grant says, answering my unfinished question. “We got coffee.”
Pretty sure whatever happened with Grant and Declan wasn’t just coffee.
But it’s not my place to say. “Got it. That place has good joe.”
“The best.” Grant grabs his beer, knocks some back, and seems to reroute his thoughts. “What’s happening with Reese?”
Probably best to tread carefully here. “Has she said anything to you?”
“Is there anything to say?” he counters.
I sigh. “Look, you know the deal. I’m crazy about her, but it’d be risky as hell.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Crazy about her?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” I say.
He shrugs casually. “Don’t be so sure. I might believe it.” He straightens his shoulders, his eyes intense. “Just be careful with her heart, okay? She’s strong on the outside, but she’s had some shit to deal with. I just want you to think about that.”
I want to tell him we’re not anything, but I’ve got a feeling that Grant wouldn’t be fooled, just like I wasn’t fooled by his we got coffee.
“She’s kind of all I think about. Well, besides baseball.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like your head’s a mess. I know how that can be.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m getting out of town.”
“You’re heading to New York next? To play the Comets?” Grant asks, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle, sounding like he’s fishing for info because he damn well knows I’m off to New York.
But the guy’s been good to me, so I decide to toss him a line. “Yeah. I’ll probably grab a bite with Declan. But don’t worry, man,” I say, tipping my forehead to the screen where Declan last appeared. “That’ll stay between us.”
His eyes are etched with relief. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
For a conversation where little was said, I feel like we both understand each other completely.
And I understand myself all too well, since the first thing I do when I land in New York is click on the picture I took of Reese by San Francisco Bay, the wind blowing her hair, the ferry docking behind her, right before I bought her the chocolates.
My heart squeezes.
I wish I were seeing her when I return to California, bringing her chocolates as a gift.
I wish she were at my games, the good ones and the bad ones.
I wish I were by her side at her events, supporting her.
What the hell is happening to me?
I throw out the plan of resisting Reese, and I listen to my instincts, the ones that say talk to her, and I send Reese a text.
25
Reese
Like a kid sliding across the hardwoods on Christmas morning, Jillian practically skids down the hall, stopping sharply
at my workspace.
“Come, come,” she says, waving me out of my cube. “Adriana has big news.”
I jump out of my chair. “She’s about to deliver?”
Jillian laughs, shaking her head. “No. But I can’t wait to meet her little daughter in another month.” My heart grows two sizes at the thought. I barely know Adriana, but I’m looking forward to her sweetie pie arriving soon. I’m not even a baby person, but suddenly I’m surrounded by preggers women, and I’m looking forward to all the coming-soon baby snuggles.
I follow Jillian to the VP’s office.
Adriana is doing a victory dance, shimmying and shaking, arms in the air, but all belly, just like Becky.
An image of my father’s wife carrying my half brother seizes my attention, along with the invite to the baby shower.
I still haven’t RSVP’d, and time is getting short.
Work comes first. I need to focus on that.
Hell, I’ve been focusing on that. I had my moment with Holden, and that’s all it was—a moment in time.
Nothing will come of it.
So I keep putting one foot in front of the other. My job, my friends, my life.
That’s all.
Adriana clears her throat, adopting a grand-marshal-for-a-parade stance. “Ladies, as you know, we work with Webflix, and the streaming giant is also the corporate sponsor for USA Hockey’s Disabled Hockey Festival, and they want to do a calendar with their athletes and . . . wait for it . . .” She spreads her hands wide like she’s lighting up a marquee, then she finishes with a flourish, “Rescue dogs.”
Cue the squealing.
The three of us lose our minds with glee because . . . dogs.
“That is the cutest thing ever,” I say, brimming with excitement. “That’s, like . . . everything.”
“Dogs are life. Jones and I have a Chihuahua mix named Cletus,” Jillian says, whipping out her phone and showing us a picture of a little dog leaping over an agility seesaw. “Jones does dog agility training with him, and it’s the cutest thing in the entire universe.”
I bring my hand to my heart, sighing happily at the photo. “That is one hundred percent certified adorable.”
“But you know what is cute too?” Jillian asks, with a waggle of her brows. “Rafe Wilson has a rescue dog as well. And he’s going to be in the calendar,” she says, mentioning the sled hockey player who’s become an advocate for athletes with disabilities. “Reese, I want you to work on this project. You could maybe even interview him for your podcast.”
“Actually, I have talked to him,” I say, lighting up. Rafe and I connected on the phone for my show a year ago while I was in Chile. “He’s fantastic. Well-spoken. Funny. So intelligent.”
“And so single,” Adriana adds, then licks her lips. “Oops. I’m sorry, was that inappropriate? I know I shouldn’t say that, but the man really is a hottie.”
Jillian shoots me a love is in the air look. “Maybe you’ll work on the calendar with him and fall head over heels.”
I blink. Did she just authorize love on the job?
Adriana points at Jillian. “Like you and your hubs did.”
Holy smokes.
She did.
She’s not drawing lines; she’s firing Cupid’s arrows.
Ones I wasn’t asking for. Ones I didn’t expect to fly.
I turn to my boss. “I didn’t know you and Jones were one of those work-together-on-a-calendar-and-fall-in-love stories. Those are the best.”
She shrugs sheepishly, smiling the whole time. “It was rescue dogs and cats. We didn’t stand a chance of resisting. Anyway, I was the publicist for the Renegades then, and he was, and still is, the star receiver. So we kind of dated secretly at first.”
Suddenly, I need to know everything. I have to know. All along, I’ve assumed I’d be playing with fire at work if I dated Holden. But was that a wrong assumption?
“Was there any issue at the organization once that came out? Did you lose your job?” How did she navigate that patch of thorns? Now’s as good a time as any to ask. Even though Holden faces the bigger issue, I still want to know how a woman I admire managed that work-love conflict.
“I told my boss when I realized I’d fallen in love with Jones. I thought she’d want me to tender my resignation. But instead, she said to be prepared to handle myself with grace in the public eye, since I was about to be in the middle of it. She was right. And she had faith in me—in my track record with the team, and in my ability to handle the scrutiny. I was damn lucky to work for such a lady boss.”
“That was it?” I ask bluntly.
Why is it that I’m able to talk to women so easily, to dive right into the heart of things, and speak the straightforward truth, but I can’t do this with my father?
Jillian wags a finger at me, all conspiratorial. “Do you like Rafe? Is that why you’re asking—you want to date him? Because I would have no problem with that. I’m not here to police who you date.”
I’m silent at first, processing the words no problem.
Aloud, they make perfect sense, but I didn’t think they were words I’d hear.
I assumed they weren’t, and my assumptions were false.
My boss wouldn’t care if I dated Holden, and a weight lifts from my shoulders, vanishing into thin air.
I feel lighter already. So light I laugh, both wildly grateful for her forward-thinking answer and eager to correct her assumption. “I think Rafe is fantastic, and he’d probably be wonderful, but I wasn’t angling to date him.”
Adriana gives me a serve up the goods look. “Someone else, then? Another athlete?”
A kernel of hope blooms inside me. I picture dates, and daytime, and snaps of the two of us at the Ferry Building.
A reel flickers before me of more than nights—of days.
“Maybe,” I say, lingering on the word long enough to make it clear my answer is actually yes. “But I don’t think anything will happen,” I add quickly. I’d do well to remind myself of the score.
Know your limits.
Holden and I have plenty of limits.
Namely, I don’t fit into his life.
Even if my limits are gone, even if I’m free to see him, his hurdles haven’t disappeared.
He didn’t vault over them in a few short days.
Nor is he likely to. His case is vastly different than mine.
Jillian might be able to wave a magic wand of coolness and ease my worries, but she can’t click her ruby-red slippers and wish away the media circus Holden could face.
Or the consequences my dad might dole out.
Or the perception of the public.
No one can control that, and perception is important to his goals, his career, his family’s future.
Jillian frowns. “Why? Doesn’t he feel the same way?”
“He does. But it’s a complicated situation,” I say, though we aren’t even in a situationship, Holden and me. We aren’t in a holding pattern either. We’re . . . nothing.
Still, it’s a relief to give voice to what’s on my mind, to share it with smart women, even if I can’t serve up the details. “He’s not a client,” I add, quick to dismiss that as a concern. “But someone I’m connected to nonetheless.”
“Love is rarely easy,” Jillian says, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. “Sometimes we meet someone, and it feels all twisted up and knotted with other things, and we think we can’t make it work.”
She’s talking my language, speaking straight to my bruised heart. A heart that misses that man. “So what do you do about that?” I ask, even though I don’t hold the cards here with Holden. He does.
“My belief is as long as two adults consent and treat each other with respect, who am I to ever put a line on love?”
“We’re kind of a love triumphs all sort of place,” Adriana chimes in.
Gah. Now I’m in love with my job even more. “That’s one of the things I like about working here,” I say, though the organ in my ches
t still aches. It still misses him.
“And look,” Jillian adds. “The reality is, when you work in this industry, you often meet people you might want to date in sports. And sometimes they’re athletes.”
Did she ever hit the nail on the head. “That’s what happened to me,” I confess. Relief flows through me. That day with Holden was incredible, and I don’t need to shout it to the office, but it’s good to at least admit—without details—that I fell for someone. “And I just wanted to say I really appreciate that I feel comfortable enough to ask you these questions.”
She waves a hand as if to say it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. I wasn’t looking for her permission, but I’m damn glad I have it.
Especially since Holden texts me that night.
I read it several times, debating whether to write back, asking myself if this contact tests my limits.
I wish I knew his limits and if they’ve changed.
And I decide that talking to him doesn’t test them or break them. I know my limits, but I also know when they’ve changed.
Mine stretch further now. They’re more accommodating. I have room for a little something more.
I write back with a clear mind and a hopeful heart.
As for his limits, there’s no way to know if they’ve changed unless I talk to the man.
Maybe, just maybe, he’s seeing how far he can push.
Holden: Did you ever have the chocolate, and if so, how was it?
* * *
In my apartment, I take the bag out of my purse and pop a disc in my mouth.
* * *
Reese: Indulging now. It’s as delish as I expected. And what do you know? It makes me think of you.
* * *
Holden: Mission accomplished. Also, I bet your lips taste incredible.
* * *
I lick them, then write back.
* * *
Reese: Well, they taste like chocolate, so I’m confident that I taste yummy. I believe it’s called the Chocolate Clause, since chocolate is always good.
The Virgin Game Plan Page 19