The Game

by Anne Black

  Finn leans in and kisses me softly, putting his hands on either side of my face. Every fiber of my being wants this kiss to last forever. My head is spinning as we kiss again and again. He pulls back and the loss of his mouth from mine is almost painful.

  "Come on, Katey, take a chance," he says, kissing me again, this time closer to my jawbone and again down my neck. I can't respond because I am so distracted by the slow kisses he is trailing down the side of my neck. With each kiss, he pauses for a second. During one pause he whispers, "No one has to know."

  I take a deep breath and hesitate before responding, "No one?"

  "No one." Finn moves his mouth back up and kisses me hard. He runs his hand down my side, ending at the spot my shorts end and reveal my bare thigh. His hands slide up the outside of my shorts and hesitate before slipping under my tank top. His fingers graze the skin of my stomach and I gasp, kissing him with new intensity.

  He shifts his weight on top of me and the heaviness is delicious. I bend my knee, the skin of my bare legs rubbing against his own. I tear my mouth away from his lips and feverishly kiss his neck, a sweet hint of sweat on my mouth. I pull his shirt up and over his chest before he helps me by sitting up and pulling it over his head. Oh my God, that body. Years of discipline and intense workouts combined to produce a near perfect physique.

  He leans down on one arm, his free hand tugging my shirt up. I sit up and pull it over my head, and he looks hungrily at my breasts, running his finger along the tan line from my bikini. I shiver as he traces the line from my shoulder down to my nipple, now hard in anticipation of his touch. I sharply breathe in as he gently turns circles around it with his thumb and moan softly when he bends down and takes it in his mouth. My hands move up and down his arms, unwilling to break contact with him.

  I want all of him on me, around me, in me. I can't remember the last time a man made me feel like this. I sigh as he kisses down my stomach, inching closer second by second to spot aching for his touch. I open my eyes and he looks up at me from below, sensually licking a circle around my navel. It's so hot I might explode just watching him.

  Finn kneels, easing my shorts over my hips and down my legs, leaving me in the black thong I threw on before my run. He drinks in the view of my nearly naked body and I can clearly see it's turned him on. I can't believe I'm about to have sex with a man in broad daylight in the middle of my apartment. He slides upward and gently positions himself on top of me, once again kissing me. Our tongues twirl around one another and I feel the evidence of his arousal between my thighs.

  He cups my butt and pulls me closer to him. I arch my back, trying to connect every available inch of skin with his. I'm drunk on his kisses, unable to form coherent thoughts. As he grinds against the lace of my thong, I suck my breath in, biting my lip. I can't focus on anything but the feel of him between my legs.

  When a phone springs to life, I'm jarred back to reality. Finn's iPhone is simultaneously playing a rap song, buzzing and vibrating across the coffee table. He drops his head into my shoulder and sighs. Pushing himself up on one forearm, he leans across me and silences the music with the touch of a button.

  The spell broken, I awkwardly attempt to cover my near nakedness with my arms. Finn settles back down next to me, the length of our bodies still connected. He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face toward him.

  "To be continued?" he asks, softly kissing me.

  "I don't know," I say honestly. "I'm not sure this is the right thing."

  "Listen, let's take this slow. I want to take you to dinner--"

  I cut him off. "No! You can't take me to dinner. You're Ryan Finnegan. Every person over the age of six in this town knows who you are. You're featured in Page Four every other day partying here, hanging out there. One night with you and I'd be ruined!"

  "Okay, calm down. I'll make you dinner. At my place," he says.

  "You know how to cook?" I ask suspiciously.

  "Well, I know how to order take-out. You need to relax. It's not a big deal."

  "My career is a big deal to me."

  "Hey, Gloria Steinem, chill out. I'm not asking you to give up your career, I'm just asking you on a date. Would you like to come over to my place and eat a meal and drink some wine, possibly followed by more of this." Finn gestures to our unclothed bodies and smiles. "Next time, we both might even shower first. It'll be really hot."

  I laugh and grab my clothes off the floor, standing up with my back to him as I pull my shorts over my hips and my shirt over my head. I shake my hair out and wince as my ankle sends a small twinge of pain up my leg when I stand. The bright side is that at least I can put weight on it now. Finn stands, pulling on his own discarded shirt from the back of the couch. I face him with my hands on my hips.

  "All right, I accept your invitation. But we might have to wait until October for this date, seeing as we both work every night for the foreseeable future."

  Finn pulls me back down to the couch so I am sitting across his lap.

  "That's where you've got your facts wrong, Katelyn from the Chronicle," Finn says, tickling me in the ribs. "This coming Monday is an off day. So don't make any plans."

  I laugh from the tickling and beg him to stop.

  "I'll stop when you say yes," he says, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  I lean forward and kiss him, my lips slightly chapped from our earlier round and whisper, "Yes."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A night at home did wonders for my ankle, and while I won't saunter around in my Manolo Blahniks in the next few days, I can easily make it to work in flats today. Lucky for me, most of the press corps dresses like a bunch of homeless men with their stained T-shirts and baggy jeans, so no one will even look twice at a more casual outfit on me. But I am also having an incredibly difficult time choosing my clothes today, knowing that I will see Finn.

  I discard my third pair of pants and settle on my favorite turquoise and white paisley-print wrap dress with a pair of tan ballet flats. With just the slightest hint of cleavage and a respectable knee length, it says professional with a hint of cute. I take special care with my makeup, spending a ridiculous amount of time trying to appear as if I'm not wearing any at all. I flat-iron my hair, making sure every last strand is in place and then tuck the right side behind my ear to make it look a little more casual.

  In spite of myself, my stomach is doing little flip-flops in anticipation of seeing Finn today. I pack my work bag, making sure I have extra batteries for my voice recorder and at least three pens. I spy my laptop cord still plugged into the wall outlet in the kitchen and quickly stuff it in my oversized brown leather Coach bag, thankful I avoided what would have been a total calamity.

  I take another quick look in the mirror near the door. "Looking good, Katey," I say out loud before opening the door and heading out. I arrive at the ballpark and head for my seat, dropping my bag on the floor and exchanging pleasantries with the other reporters while we all open our computers and get ready for the pregame routine. I check my email, post a quick Tweet and read over the game notes the PR staff compiled for today.

  Ready for the gauntlet, several of us head down to the clubhouse to meet with manager Charlie Johnson. CJ, as everyone calls him, is somewhat of an anomaly in baseball. He somehow earned a law degree and passed the bar while toiling away in the minor leagues. He credits the boredom of those interminable bus rides for forcing him to study and luck for his passing score. His true calling was probably somewhere inside a courtroom, but baseball was his first love and after playing a few years in the big leagues, he became a low-level hitting coach. One thing led to another and here he is at the helm of the Stars' ship. CJ still insists he'll take an entry-level job at a small firm when he retires from baseball. In the meantime, he likes to practice his courtroom skills on the reporters who surround him each day.

  We all file into CJ's cavernous office, where he conducts his daily interviews, and find him reclining behind the desk wearing a Stars T-shirt and a pair of sho
rts. He's watching ESPN highlights from the previous day's games when he turns to us. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. And ladies," he adds, gesturing toward me and one of the TV reporters. "It's a beautiful day for a ballgame. Now, which of you is going to ruin this beautiful day with your nonsense?"

  CJ's least favorite part of this job is dealing with reporters. He thinks we're too intrusive, too inquisitive and that there are too many of us. He's constantly asking why thirty people need access to the clubhouse each day and why the press can't just pool its resources. "You all write the same thing anyway. What a waste of time and money," he likes to point out.

  A few reporters ask specific questions for stories they're working on and the rest dutifully write down whatever comes out of his mouth about today's matchup. I scribble a few notes before he dismisses us with a wave of his hand and a "now get out." At least he's honest. As we all file out, he yells, "Oh, Katelyn, stay back a minute, would ya?" Like a group of grade-school boys, the men all laugh and say, "Ooooooo, Katelyn's in trouble!"

  My face red, I wait until everyone else leaves and CJ indicates for me to sit down in front of his desk. "I hear there was an incident with Mikey recently."

  I hesitate, crossing my legs and sitting up straight in the chair. "It wasn't a big deal. I took care of it. He apologized."

  "I want you to know that sort of thing is not okay," he says, taking his hat off and readjusting it further back on his head and puts his feet up on the desk. "I've got daughters. I know how it is around here. I won't pretend I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of crap like that, but I wouldn't want anyone doing that to my girls. If there's a next time with him, I want to hear about it from you."

  "Thanks, but I think it'll be fine," I said.

  "Good. Now get out." He smiles when he says it and I mock salute him as I stand.

  I wander out to the clubhouse and survey the scene. Players are in various stages of practice and game gear, some sitting at their lockers, some watching ESPN, some playing cards at a table in the middle of the room, a pair staring at a chessboard and a few chowing down on a meal prepared by their in-house chef. I see Finn stretching at the entrance to the weight room and quickly head out to the field before it can get awkward. I feel like I'm invading his space, but it feels equally like he's invading mine. But I won't lie: seeing his face makes me a little giddy.

  Heading outside to the field, I lean against the dugout fence and pretend not to watch as the pitchers take the field for the first round of batting practice. Finn effortlessly swings a weighted bat to loosen up and laughs with his teammates, completely unaware he's being watched. Scratch that, he knows he's always being watched when he's on the field. I guess he's just used to it by now and doesn't care.

  I half-listen to a conversation two interns are having about a guy one of them must have a crush on. They giggle and casually toss their expertly highlighted toffee-colored hair with well-manicured fingernails, also aware their every move is on display for everyone in the ballpark. I can never keep them straight, but Megan and Maggie are apparently joined at the hip and you never see one without the other.

  "He is so hot I could just die," the one I think is Maggie mock-whispers. "Seriously. I will be dead if he actually texts me."

  "When did you give him your number?" the one who must be Megan asks, smoothing her skirt, which is about two inches too short for the workplace. I've seen thighs more well-covered in my Bikram yoga class.

  "A few nights ago. I was at Vicious with some girls and they had a table," Maggie says.

  Megan interrupts. "Who were you with?"

  "Jennie, Caroline and that girl Bianca, who you hate. That's why I didn't ask you to come. It was Bianca's birthday."

  "I don't know why you hang out with her, she's such a bitch."

  "She's my sorority sister, first of all. Second of all, I think she's funny. And third, she was treating for dinner and drinks on her dad's card, so I wasn't missing out on a top-shelf night."

  "Listen, she's a total sororitute. She'll hook up with anyone."

  I snort at the "sororitute" jab and clear my throat while flipping through my notebook, trying to appear as if I'm not hanging on their every word. The cast of Mean Girls is so engrossed in their conversation, however, they don't even notice.

  "Whatever. Anyway. While we were dancing, this rando guy comes up and starts trying to grind on Caroline. He was totally gross and wouldn't leave us alone, so we decided to move to another part of the dance floor. When we moved, we were in front of the big VIP booths on the side. I was scoping out the booths, wondering if any celebrities were in town when there he was. I smiled and gave him a little wave and he must have recognized me because he waved me over to their table."

  The plot thickens. She previously knew the hot guy that could potentially kill her with his text message! The mating habits of Sorority Girls in the wild make for fascinating listening.

  "So I introduced all the girls and he asked if we wanted drinks. I mean, duh, of course we wanted drinks. Then they invited us to hang with them and we ended up staying until close. Bianca kept ordering rounds of tequila shots for the guys and letting them lick the salt off her cleavage, which was kind of gross, but whatever."

  "See? That's exactly why I hate her. Who does that?" Megan interrupts.

  "It doesn't matter. What matters is that when we were hanging in the booth, space was kind of tight so I ended up sitting on his lap. The music was so loud that we couldn't hear anything and I kept having to lean in and yell in his ear for him to hear anything I was saying. One of the times we both leaned in at the same time and bam, we were kissing."

  "Shut up. You kissed him?"

  "Yes! But then he stopped and said we had to be careful because there were too many people around. That's when the lights came on and they said everybody had to go. I said I would be totally up for hanging out sometime and he asked for my number and said he'd text me."

  "That's insane! I can't even believe how lucky you are. I mean first you get to make out with him and now you get to see him every day?"

  "I know. But he still hasn't texted, but whenever I see him here, he smiles with that flirty little grin of his."

  Hold up. What is she talking about when she says she gets to see him here?

  "Look at him," Maggie says, her silver Ray Ban aviators hiding her eyes while she looks in the direction of the players warming up. "He is ridiculous hot."

  Megan shoves Maggie's arm slightly. "He is. I can't even believe you made out with our star player."

  My entire body tenses. Pinpricks of tears threaten behind my eyes and my stomach rolls with a wave of nausea. I grip my notebook tightly in my left hand and wonder if it's socially acceptable to punch another woman in the face at work. My next thought is to wonder if it's socially acceptable to punch a man in the face at work, because both of those things would make me feel much better right now.

  The wonder twins perk up when a cameraman summons them and quickly walk away, leaving me to deal with the fallout from their gossip. There's no mistaking what they said and I am sick to my stomach that I actually trusted Finn, that I allowed myself to think that he was different, that he wasn't one of those players who leaves a wake of womanly devastation everywhere he goes.

  I want to scream, to throw my notebook at him, to take the bat out of his hands and bash his knee with it. I get a grip on myself and collect my thoughts. I narrow my eyes as I look in his direction and he looks up at me at that exact moment. He smiles shyly, but I stare coolly back at him, betraying nothing before I turn and walk away up the stairs to the seating area.

  Maggie can't believe she made out with Ryan Finnegan. Neither can I, Maggie, neither can I.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For the next few days, I alternated between revenge fantasies and pretending I never heard the name Ryan Finnegan. I found ways to avoid him at work, even on the day he won another game. I made myself watch the game with detachment, never really looking at him and instead observing
him like an animal in a zoo. I hung back in the crowd during the postgame interview, letting the other writers fawn all over him, not drawing attention to myself and quickly left when he was done speaking.

  And now it's Monday and I think if I just stay busy, I won't think about the date I'm not keeping. Except the date is the only thing I can think about. I remember his hands in my hair, the breath I held while he traced lines on my stomach, the anticipation of his mouth on mine. Then I dive into a shame spiral, wondering why I compromised my beliefs and beating myself up for not staying away from trouble.

  My ankle still tender, I decide to go for a swim instead of running. After I slide into the pool, I stand in the shallow end, tugging my orange goggles over my eyes and pulling my hair back in a low ponytail. I take a deep breath and push off, the rhythm of my strokes and breathing the only thing I can focus on. I don't think about Finn, I don't think about work, I don't think about anything but moving my arms and legs and turning my head to breathe. I drag myself to the edge of the pool deck thirty minutes later, catching my breath with my head on my crossed arms. I push myself up and out of the water, grab a towel and head for a hot shower.

  After drying my hair and changing, I dig inside my bag and check my phone. Three text messages are waiting for me, from a number I don't recognize. Finn. I want to throw the phone across the locker room, but seeing as I just replaced the phone I broke two weeks ago, I squelch that instinct and read the messages instead.

  "We're on for tonight, right?" reads the first.

  "My address is 401 N Wabash. The doorman knows to expect you," reads the second.

  "I can't wait to see you," says the third.

  Why does 401 North Wabash sounds so familiar? The four-hundred block is the river over there. But why does this ring a bell? I Google the address and my jaw drops. Of course he lives in the Trump Tower, why would I expect anything else?