“Yes, but do they get to play baseball with Cory Potter?”
Milly groans and rests her head against the wall. “Please, don’t remind me that you’re going to be playing baseball with my brother. It haunts me that he is playing for Satan’s team.”
Born and raised in Chicago, Milly Potter has been a Bobbies fan her entire life. When Carson even joked about playing for the Rebels, she nearly had a heart attack, so to say she took the news hard that her brother was going to be a Rebel is an understatement.
According to Carson, she cried sporadically for a week and refused to acknowledge real life until her other two brothers dragged her back to work.
“Have you worn a Rebels shirt yet?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, and I refuse. I can’t fathom the idea of even touching one. When Carson and I started dating, they went back and forth with whose jersey I would wear. I thought of making one myself that supported both men in my life, but now”—she shakes her head—“I only support my husband.”
Carson kisses the side of her head. “The way it should be.”
“Now that you’re back in Chicago, do you think you’re going to reconnect with any old flames from college or high school?” Emory asks.
“Old flames?” I take a bite of my sandwich and chew for a few seconds before swallowing. “I didn’t have any old flames, one-night stands, sure, but nothing I’d consider rekindling.”
“Are you open to a relationship?” Milly asks. “I know a few single moms who I’m sure would be interested.”
I glance at the two eager matchmakers and motion my finger between the two of them. “Are you guys trying to set me up?”
Emory shrugs. “You’re such a catch. It’s hard to understand why you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Taking a little too much interest in his love life,” Knox says from the side of his mouth.
Emory palms his face and pushes him away. “Don’t worry, your penis is the last penis I’ll ever touch.” Knox perks up with a smile. Such a douche. “But wouldn’t it be fun to all go out on a date together?”
“The guy just moved here, maybe give him a second to unpack before you start thrusting women at him,” Knox says gently. “Unless . . . do you want women thrown at you?”
I grab the bill of my hat and give it a nervous tug. “I don’t know. It would have to be the right woman, you know? Someone who’d handle my lifestyle, be understanding, and also despite playing for the Rebels, be able to cheer for me with pride. But I’m not sure if I’m quite ready. This offseason I have a lot to do for my charity, so I’ll be focusing a lot of my time on that and training. I might not have time for a woman.”
“If you find the right one, she’ll help you with your charity,” Milly says. “Which reminds me, if you need anything from Division One Athletics, let me know.”
That’s where Milly works. Did I fail to mention she’s a mechanics marvel when it comes to baseball? I would personally say the best in Illinois. She knows her stuff, helped Carson with his swing back in college, and they still work together. She works at one of the top facilities in the country, perfecting the swings of Chicago’s youth.
“Thank you, that means a lot to me. Still trying to get everything up and running. There’s a lot more to all of this than I thought, but my family has been a huge help.”
When I knew I was ready to start a foundation in honor of my brother, I turned to my family to help me. My sister was more than happy to step up, as well as my parents, especially after I told them it was to honor Joseph, who has cerebral palsy.
My twin, my biggest fan, the guy who gives me drive to do better every day. He’s the best person I know and because of him, I want to make an inclusion foundation that raises money for those with disabilities to be included in The Lineup by providing them with the right equipment to do so.
In high school, I had the most understanding and caring coach of all time. He saw my talent and saw the way Joseph yearned to be on the field with me, so my junior year, after I sat down with Coach and asked him if Joseph could be the bat boy, he said, “Why don’t I do you one better and put him on the team?”
I wasn’t sure how that would work given Joseph uses a walker to get around, which requires both of his hands, but Coach Whittaker had another vision: Joseph became a pinch runner.
After sitting our family down, Coach Whittaker asked Joseph, “Have you ever wondered what it felt like to score a run for your team?” When Joseph emphatically shook his head, yes, Coach told him, he was going to get that chance.
And sure enough, Joseph did.
Between our junior and senior year, he scored fifteen runs as a pinch runner.
Let me tell you, standing at home plate, my brother and his walker at third, begging to be able to cross that plate, nothing ever inspired me more to someway, somehow, get my brother to score a run for the team.
Out of those fifteen runs, I hit him in ten times.
That’s a feeling I’ll never forget, and something I want to be passed on from ballplayer to ballplayer. No matter your limitations, there’s always a spot for you in the lineup.
“Don’t you have that date thing coming up too?” Carson asks. “I’ve seen PSA about it all over the damn place.”
“Yup, I think people have one more week to enter and then the winner will be announced right away.”
“What date thing?” Milly asks while dabbing her mouth with a napkin.
“It’s with that group called Charity Hustle. They contacted me a few months ago asking if I wanted to participate. Basically, they set up an exclusive opportunity for fans to have dinner with a celebrity and the way you enter is by donating to the celebrity’s charity of choice.”
“Oh yeah, I entered a few,” Emory says with a blush to her cheeks. “There was one where you could go on a dinner date with Emily Blunt and John Krasinski. I knew it was a long shot but I donated anyway.”
“Aren’t you cute,” Knox says. “I can score you a dinner date with them if you want. Remember, I used to date Mia Ford. I know people.” Knox tacks on a smile, but it does nothing to help him from the scowl directed at him. Mia Ford is a well-known celebrity and while Emory and Knox were apart, he dated her. Let’s just say, I don’t think Mia is a name used often around their apartment.
“Do you want to spend the night in Jason’s apartment tonight?”
“I’m a good cuddler,” I say. “I’ll make sure you feel the love, but I do sleep naked, so it’s up to you.”
Knox rolls his eyes and pulls Emory into his chest, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “You know I’m kidding.”
“I want to know more about this date,” Carson says. “Are you really going to go out with a stranger?”
“Not by myself.” I shake my head. “I’m taking Natalie.”
“Smart.” Carson nods his head.
“For many reasons. First of all, who knows if this person is a psychopath? I need to make sure I have someone with me in case the winner tries to steal me and take me off to their organ harvesting den. And second of all, what if it’s a girl? My sister will be my chaperone so she can’t pull a fast one on me, like a ‘he touched me without my consent’ kind of thing.”
“Very smart.” Carson nods.
Knox asks, “Organ harvesting den? Is that something you’re really concerned about?”
“Yep.” I bite down on a chip. “I’m always concerned about my organs being harvested. You can never be too sure these days.”
“You’re insane,” Knox says while standing and picking up everyone’s garbage.
I clap my hands together. “Okay, who’s ready to help me unpack?”
Without another word, my friends stand and quickly make their way out of my apartment, the door shutting with their retreat.
Huh, I’m going to take that as no one.
Chapter Two
DOTTIE
Emory: What are you doing?
To tell the truth or not.
My
best friend isn’t here right now. She can’t see me, so there’s no need to get her mother hen feathers all ruffled by revisiting the rabbit trail of my failed relationships. That’s the last thing I want. Picking up my phone, I type out a curt response.
Dottie: Working.
Taking a deep breath, I give myself one more look at the memory Facebook decided to share with me today. Happy as can be, I’m smiling at the camera as Nick kisses my cheek. We’re standing in front of The Bean, Chicago’s iconic Cloud Gate, winter hats decorating our heads, and rosy cheeks from spending the day outside, sightseeing like tourists and enjoying every moment of it.
I thought he was it. I didn’t think I’d ever meet a more kind, caring, or empathetic man than Nick. He gave me a sense of confidence to be the killer in the boardroom that I am. He encouraged me, and he made me feel sexy when we were home, sharing a bed. And in those moments when I was weak, didn’t think I could stand up to the other tycoons I had to face daily, he stood behind me, rubbed my shoulders, and told me how intelligent I was, how ruthless, and how I could score any deal I put my mind to.
And I believed him.
I fell for him.
Head over heels.
I told my dad I was going to marry Nick one day. One day soon.
And then, I found out the true man he was. I wasn’t his love, I didn’t matter to him, and I wasn’t all the things he told me I was. And he wasn’t the things I thought he was. Instead, he was embezzling money from me, using me for my connections, and planning to be with me for a few more months before meeting up with his longtime girlfriend, where they’d ride off into the sunset together . . . rather than be with me.
I’ve never felt more foolish in my life.
More used.
Not only did I lose my self-confidence, I also jeopardized the biggest deal to date for my dad’s company. He salvaged that, thank God. Being new in my position as the president of business relations, making such a colossal mistake made every board member doubt my dad’s choice to put me in such a prestigious position. It made them question his decision-making and ever since then, it’s been an uphill battle to prove that not only do I deserve the position I’m in, but I was meant to hold it.
I stare at the picture, letting it brand my brain, reminding me that I will never let this happen to me again.
Ever.
Once I feel satisfied with the reminder, I close Facebook and turn back to the group text between my two best friends, Emory and Lindsay.
Emory: You’re always working.
Lindsay: Why did you even ask? I think we both know what she’s doing.
Leaning back in my white office chair, I glance out the window of my high-rise office, taking in the morning skyline before typing back to them.
Dottie: It’s nine in the morning on a Thursday. I think we all should be working.
Lindsay: The kids are taking a spelling test.
Emory: Cora is handling story time while I pretend to check in books.
Lindsay and Emory both work at Cedar Pine Elementary. Lindsay is a third grade teacher with a penchant to slip up with a swear word here and there—how she hasn’t been fired yet, I have no idea—and Emory is the librarian who seems to wear inappropriate-length dresses since she’s been called into the principal’s office a few times for dress code. Despite that, they’re the best educators I know, and I would be honored to have either one of them teach my imaginary children.
I say imaginary, because that’s as close to children as I’ll ever get.
I’m all set on the baby coming out of my vagina thing. Not really interested in that form of torture. Now, if you’d like to tie me to my bedposts and run your tongue over my body for an hour, making me cry out from carnal need, then yes, I’m interested in that form of erotic torture.
Dottie: Your work ethic is impeccable.
Emory: Not all of us can run the world like you.
Dottie: More like running the infrastructure of Chicago, but we don’t have to get technical. What do you two want?
Lindsay: I came across something last night and thought you’d like to take a look at it.
Dottie: Do not send me naked pictures of giant penises anymore. I’m sick of them.
Mainly because it’s been a dry spell for me for months upon months now. It’s scary how long it’s been since I’ve seen a real-life penis in person, and the last thing I want is to get turned on at work because Lindsay has the need to send me dick pics. Women have it bad enough on dating sites; we don’t need dick pics from our friends as well.
Lindsay: It’s not a dick pic, but that reminds me. You’re due for one soon.
Great.
Emory: I can vouch for her that it’s not a dick pic. It’s even better.
Dottie: Better than a dick pic? *taps chin* Are you sending me a close up of a man’s pierced nipple?
Lindsay: No, but do you have one of those?
Dottie: What do you think?
Lindsay: Sarcasm is really hard to read through text messages . . .
Dottie: I don’t.
Lindsay: Damn.
Emory: Can we get back to the reason we’re ignoring the youth of America and tell Dottie why we’re texting her?
Dottie: That would be appreciated since I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.
Lindsay: Right. So I came across this little fundraiser and thought I’d send it to you.
Confused, since my friends never pry me for money even though I have shitloads of it, I type back.
Dottie: What kind of fundraiser?
My computer lights up with a new email from Lindsay. The subject line says: Be a Rebel with Me.
What the hell is this?
Lindsay: Just sent you the link. *giggles*
Oh God, whenever Lindsay types “giggles” I know it can’t be good.
Dottie: Get to the point.
Emory: Do you remember the giant crush you had in college?
Yes, I do. It was borderline infatuation.
Dottie: I can’t recall any crushes.
Lindsay: Puh-lease. I bet you still have a folder in your phone of pictures of him.
Emory: You can’t deny this, we both know your weakness for a bubble-butt catcher who stole your attention at baseball parties.
Dottie: Please get to the point.
Emory: Jason Orson, the man you’ve lusted after for so long, is back in town, and he’s having a fundraiser where you can donate money to his charity to enter to win a date with him. We know how much you love donating money . . . and since you refuse to let me set you up with anyone, why don’t you put it to chance?
Dottie: Are you daring me?
Lindsay: YES! We dare you to donate to Jason’s charity and possibly win a date with him.
Dottie: You both are demented. I fear for the children at Cedar Pine. And if I really wanted a date with the man, I would have asked you to set me up, but I’m not into dating, you know that, especially a guy known to love love. He’s hot, yes, and I would love to smack his bare ass, but he’s everything I try to avoid. He’s a relationship kind of guy.
Emory: It might be nice to settle down. Take a breather from your demanding job.
Lindsay: Or just get your ovaries tickled every once in a while.
And these are my friends. I love them very much, especially since they care about me so much, but this constant badgering to go on a date is starting to get old. They were obviously there for me when Nick picked up and left. They carried me because I was fragile, barely held together by my own body. I gave that man everything in me, and he ripped it apart. Since then, I’ve focused on work and only work.
Apparently, they have a problem with that.
Dottie: I pray you don’t talk to your third graders like that.
Lindsay: They don’t even know what ovaries are. If I told them I was about to tickle them, they’d probably cover their armpits.
Emory: Please don’t threaten to tickle your students’ ovaries. Seriously, Lindsay. What is wrong with yo
u?
Lindsay: I didn’t eat a proper breakfast.
Dottie: As much fun as this has been, I’m going to pass. I have to get ready for this meeting. I’ll talk to you two later.
I stuff my phone in the drawer of my desk to avoid any more distractions and then pull up the Briar Hurst account folder that’s been on my desk all morning—along with a fresh latte and a cut-up apple. I flip open the folder and review the bullet points I need to remember for this morning’s meeting.
After I graduated from college, my dad pulled me into the family business, buying and selling buildings throughout the city. First started in California, my dad has grown Domico Industries and expanded it to Chicago, where he’s been able to triple the profit margin within a matter of years.
I wasn’t handed my position; I earned it, working my way up through the company, but now that I have it, I’ve helped the business grow even more. My dad credits my tough negotiating skills and ruthless business sense that I learned from him. My mom, on the other hand, wishes I’d soften up more. Wear my hair down occasionally, try on a colorful blouse, as she puts it. And just like Emory and Lindsay, she wishes I’d put myself out there again.
I prefer to stay hardened and closed off, only focusing on business, because even though I miss the touch of a man, I’ve been burned enough times by men who either can’t handle my success, or those looking for a handout. I’ve found it easier to focus on work, and that’s what I plan on doing.
I reach for an apple slice, missing the plate completely. I look up to find the apple in front of my computer and when I do, I spot the email from Lindsay, and even though I try to stay focused, I can’t keep my curiosity from spiking.
Jason Orson.
God, the man. My teeth roll over my bottom lip. I remember the first time I saw him in a pair of athletic shorts and a skintight Under Armour shirt. It changed the way I looked at the male physique. Up until that point, I had no idea men could have asses. I thought it was a thing for women to boast about, you know, just like our boobs.
But Jason Orson proved me wrong one sunny day on a walk to class.
I can still see it in my head. It was outside the economics building, he was standing with a few other baseball players, all wearing workout gear, all with wet heads from recent showers. His backpack was pulled high on his shoulders, giving me the perfect view of his backside.
The Lineup Page 2