* * *
Holden: Just like the French Fry Exemption.
* * *
Reese: French fries and chocolate—clauses, loopholes, and exemptions abound for them.
* * *
Holden: Like a hall pass.
* * *
Reese: Grant and I used to make a list of hall passes back in college. Fair warning – Chris Hemsworth was top of our list.
* * *
Holden: Funny. His sister mentioned that someone looking like Thor was asking for him. But he was decidedly uninterested.
* * *
Reese: Ah, well, some crushes you get over. This is where I confess as much as I love Chris, I’m over him. I suspect Grant is too.
* * *
Holden: Is that why you guys are so close? Crushing at the same time?
* * *
Reese: Nah. That’s just fun stuff. We were close long before boys came into the picture. We connected because, well, things were sometimes tense at my house and at his growing up. So, we went to our grandparents’ and hung out with each other.
* * *
My phone is quiet for a spell, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. If I was too frank. But talking around the topic of family is exhausting. I don’t want to dance around issues with Holden. I want to be real with him, even as I try to figure out what this is with us.
* * *
Holden: Reese?
* * *
Reese: Yes?
* * *
Holden: Sometimes I think you want to say something about your dad and then you don’t. Maybe you hold back because of my relationship with him. But I understand that your ties with him are different than mine. I’m not asking you to tell me things you don’t want to share. But I’m saying you don’t have to treat the issue with kid gloves around me.
* * *
My heart thumps harder at the way he gets it. At how he somehow knew I needed to hear that.
* * *
Reese: Thanks. I’m not sure I’ll say anything, but I appreciate you telling me I don’t have to sugarcoat it.
* * *
Holden: No Sugarcoat Loophole, beautiful. I like you as you are. I want you as you are.
* * *
I close my eyes, clutching the phone, wishing he could have me as I am. That I could have him too.
Now isn’t the time to push him. Not over the phone. If he wants more, he’ll have to decide that on his own.
I sink deeper into my bed, sidestepping my feelings—the emotions that surge whenever Holden and I connect.
* * *
Reese: As for Grant, he was my rock growing up, and I was his. That’s why we’re so close.
* * *
Holden: He’s like your brother.
* * *
My throat tightens. What will it feel like when I have a half brother? Will I be able to tell Holden how I feel about having a brand-new sibling soon? How do I feel? I’m not even sure. I dodge my own emotions.
* * *
Reese: Where are you right now?
* * *
Holden: Team hotel. The Luxe, overlooking Park Avenue. I should get to sleep soon. It’s almost two a.m. But I’m thinking of you. I’m taking a pic now and posting it on Instagram. You’re the only one who’ll know what I was thinking when I took this shot.
* * *
Reese: Sweet dreams.
* * *
Holden: They will be now. It was great chatting with you. Can I text you tomorrow?
* * *
I click over to his Instagram. A moody shot of a New York City street after midnight hits the top of his feed. There are only two words: Craving chocolate.
My heart flutters and then thumps harder as I stare at his last question, wondering how there could be any answer but yes.
26
Holden
We keep up like that, chatting and texting.
As I go through the next day, I fire off questions before our game.
* * *
Holden: New York? Love it or leave it?
* * *
Reese: Love it, of course. Think about all the trendy, hip, and divey eateries I could check out.
* * *
Holden: You’d have an endless supply.
* * *
Reese: I’d roam around the city listening to the Badass Babe podcast and soaking in everything New York has to offer.
* * *
Holden: You seem like a New York kind of gal. Badass and loving it.
* * *
Reese: That’s me!
* * *
Holden: I’m running along Fifth Avenue now, passing the Met. Your feelings on museums? Thumbs-up or down?
* * *
Reese: What do you take me for? A philistine? Of course I love museums. BUT I’d much rather spend the day in Central Park, playing volleyball or softball on the sports fields.
* * *
Holden: You are my kind of woman.
* * *
Then I return to my podcast app, click to her show, and peel off another couple miles as I catch up on some of her newest episodes—an interview with a top college player in women’s basketball, another with an Olympic snowboarder, and then a popular episode from a few months ago with Asher St. James, the so-called American golden boy of soccer—a retired American star in the most European of sports.
“Moment of truth—how did it feel to play the most popular sport in the world?” she asks.
He laughs deeply. “Finally, someone understands that soccer is the best sport there is.”
“I said ‘most popular.’ Not ‘best.’ My heart belongs to the baseball diamond,” she answers playfully.
Asher sighs dramatically. “And I thought you were a kindred spirit. But I’ll answer anyway. It was spectacular, and I miss it, even the regular explanations of the differences between football and soccer.”
“Did that happen a lot?”
“Daily. Some guy I went out with the other month thought I was a fullback. And played on a field,” he says, with an exaggerated huff. “When I said ‘striker,’ he was terribly confused.”
“I take it there was no second date?”
“Oh, well, he was quite cute, so I didn’t hold soccer ignorance against him.”
They both laugh, then Reese continues her questions. “If you had to pick another sport to play besides soccer, what would it be?”
“If you made me choose, it’d be karaoke. I challenge anyone to out-karaoke me when it comes to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer.’”
I laugh as I finish the episode, then text Reese.
* * *
Holden: I will see St. James’s Bon Jovi challenge and raise it.
* * *
Reese: You do karaoke, and I’m just learning this?
* * *
Holden: I’m excellent at Elvis. Also, “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
* * *
Reese: Adele or Lady Gaga for this woman.
* * *
Holden: You pull out the big guns.
* * *
Reese: I don’t fuck around when it comes to my tune choices. Also, I can’t believe you listened to that episode! I’m flattered.
* * *
Holden: I’ve listened to several. Your podcast is great, but that’s no surprise.
* * *
Reese: Thank you. That makes me so happy to hear.
* * *
We text more that night after my game, and I catch her up on the conversations I’ve had with my parents, the latest Christmas movie they watched on Webflix, and my brothers.
We talk about Crosby too, how he is utterly besotted with Nadia, and Reese tells me more about Tia and Wayne, and Layla and her fiancée.
She shares details of her coworkers, of Adriana’s burgeoning belly and fiery attitude, of Jillian’s upbeat, take-no-prisoners style, and I tell her about the guys on the team, like Gunnar with his deadpan wit and Dante with his laser focus.
As I take the subway to the ballpark in the Bronx on Thursd
ay with some of the guys, the car filling with more rowdy fans the closer we get, she texts me about her work projects and the calendar she’s putting together.
With one arm looped around a pole and my cap pulled low, I read her latest text.
* * *
Reese: And then Jillian asked if I found Rafe Wilson attractive.
* * *
A dragon of jealousy roars inside me—bellows fucking fire. I google this guy, and I’m no expert on dude attractiveness, but I can tell he’s got it going on—strong jaw, thick hair, muscular arms.
I reply.
* * *
Holden: And your answer was “He’s fine, but he’s not Holden Kingsley”?
* * *
I swear I can feel her laughter vibrate across the country as she types.
* * *
Reese: Actually, that’s not far from the truth.
* * *
A knot of worry tightens my spine, but curiosity leads me on.
* * *
Holden: Okay, I’ll bite. What happened?
* * *
Reese: Don’t worry. I didn’t say I had a thing for you. But when we were discussing the calendar, my boss told me she doesn’t have a problem with employees dating athletes. She said she doesn’t put restrictions on that. Which means my worries about how dating you might look for my career aren’t really a thing. So, there’s that.
* * *
I inhale sharply, letting the enormity of that intel sink in. She’s . . . free.
Entirely free.
There are no issues for her.
The issues are mine, all fucking mine.
I breathe out hard through my nostrils, tension tightening in my shoulders, wishing my manager would say, “Cool, sure, date my daughter,” or my agent would say, “Everyone will love that!”
But those are pie-in-the-sky dreams.
Those are homers at every bat.
That doesn’t happen.
Still, as I read her text, possibilities start to press on my mind. Nascent ideas. Burgeoning options.
I don’t know which ones to pursue or what to do next.
All I know is everything is in my hands.
But she’s putting zero pressure on me.
She’s simply letting me know the score.
I write back.
* * *
Holden: Don’t date Rafe. Or anyone else. Please. Just give me some time.
* * *
I stare at the text before I hit send, rereading it as the train slaloms into the Bronx, slowing down as we near the stop for the storied ballpark.
Time.
Am I doing this?
Am I asking for this?
What the hell am I going to do with this time?
No clue, but I need to start to figure it out.
Because these conversations Reese and I have feel like ones we could have every day and every night.
I feel like I could be flying home to see her after these games.
It feels like we are together.
* * *
Reese: You have nothing to worry about in that regard.
* * *
But she won’t wait forever.
I say goodbye when I get to the ballpark because it’s time for baseball and only baseball.
That night, Declan goes on a tear. The star shortstop destroys Dante in an epic twenty pitch at bat, swinging and fouling, swinging and fouling, staying alive at the plate until he slams a three-run homer over the left-field fence. He rounds the bases, chin up, and I curse the motherfucker because that’s a hell of a hole to put us in.
We don’t climb out of it, especially when Shane sews up the win for the Comets with his shut-the-front-door dominance in the ninth, striking out the side on nine pitches only.
Including Gunnar.
My third baseman flings his batting glove on the dirt when he watches a nearly invisible fastball fly past him.
Game over.
I clap my teammate on the back as we head into the locker room. “Told you. The dude pelts fireballs from the mound.”
“You did not lie. I swear I saw smoke come off that last strike.”
The next morning, I tell Shane as much when I meet up with him and Declan for a run in Central Park.
“I think it’s time to change your name to the Fireman,” I tell the English closer.
“Not a chance, Romeo. Shakespeare is working just fine for me on the field and in the pickup scene, thank you very much,” he says. “And it’s so much better than the British Bad Boy of Baseball.”
Declan snort-laughs. “Yeah, that’s a mouthful. Glad to hear that Holden settled on the right name for you because if you’d have come to New York with the other one, I would have ripped it apart.”
“Duly noted. But if I ever need another one, Fire Starter is an excellent option,” he says to me.
“Either that or Game Over,” I add.
As we round the Reservoir, we talk shop, shooting the breeze.
Declan tosses me a look as we head into our third mile. “And how the hell is it out there with the Dragons? New coach treating you well?”
“He’s the Baseball Buddha. The man knows the game, knows what we need, knows how to motivate,” I say, singing Thompson’s praises.
“Except when you’re playing against us,” Declan says dryly.
I growl. “We’ll destroy you tonight. Rest assured.”
Shane laughs out a “Don’t bet against us,” but his words are cut short when his phone rings. He grabs it from his shorts pocket, glances at the screen, and says, “My agent. I’ll catch up with you in a few.”
He falls behind as Declan and I continue at our pace, chatting briefly about family. Declan’s a private guy, and has never said much about his parents. I gather his dad is out of the picture, though I’ve no idea why. But he’s close with his mom and his stepdad. “How’s your mom and her hubs? Is she doing well?”
He flashes a smile. “They’re great. They still come to a lot of my games. I fly them out here often. But I miss San Francisco a lot.”
Does he miss someone in particular? But it’s not my place to ask.
“What about you?” he asks. “Are you still all nose to the grindstone, focused only on baseball?”
I arch a brow as we climb a hill. “Takes one to know one. You’re the same way.”
He scoffs. “Maybe that’s true. Or maybe it was true. And if memory serves, last time I saw you, you hadn’t had a date in a long, long time.”
I flash back to our last convo—other than at the Sports Network Awards, it must have been in the fall when I played his team as a Bandit and we grabbed some grub after. No point lying. “Fine, you got me there. I haven’t seen anyone for the last two years. Well, except for this one woman,” I admit, and it feels good to say it, even though Reese and I aren’t technically anything.
We could be. But for now, I don’t know what we are.
Text buddies?
No.
Work friends?
Not that.
One-time lovers?
That feels all wrong.
Declan arches a brow. “So there is someone?”
“Sort of,” I say with a shrug.
He shoots me a skeptical stare. “Why is that a ‘sort of’? You either know or you don’t know.”
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck as we hit the straightaway in the path. “She’s somebody I knew before, and then I ran into her again.”
“Ah, the plot thickens. Is she the reason you didn’t date anyone for two years?”
When he puts it like that, direct and frank, there is no other way to answer but with the truth. I nod, absorbing the intensity of the realization, saying it aloud maybe for the first time. “She’s the reason. I’m not sure I was entirely aware of that as it was happening. But yes, she’s definitely the reason. She was out of the country. Crazy, because I didn’t even know her that well, but now I do. So, yeah, in some ways, I was waiting for her to come back.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
The Virgin Game Plan Page 20