The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) Page 10

  My pulse spikes. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

  But Jacob barely needs my direction. He’s tearing down the third baseline, hell-bent on crossing home plate. The ball screams past the shortstop, skittering across the grass, as Jacob hoofs it. I cup my hands in front of my mouth. “You got it! You got it! Just go, go, go!”

  Jacob crosses the plate with the winning run, victorious as the rest of his team pours out of the dugout right as the batter lands on first base.

  Grant gives the batter a fist bump. I trot toward home plate, and when the kids break apart from their cheering fiesta, Jacob heads straight for me, a gleaming smile across his young face.

  “Thank you, Coach Cash.”

  “It was nothing,” I say, high-fiving the kid.

  But it wasn’t nothing. I know the coaching mattered to Jacob. To these other kids. That’s why we’re here. These grade-schoolers have worked hard all season, and they pulled it off, winning their local league championship.

  They make my heart swell with pride. I point at Jacob’s chest, stabbing a finger into his sternum. “You’re the man.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re the man.”

  I shake mine. “No, you’re the man.”

  Grant jogs over to us, arriving at home plate with a huge grin. “Maybe I’m the man,” he says, smacking palms with the kids, then me.

  Chance saunters over, joining the celebration. “Yes, it all goes to you, Grant. We couldn’t do anything without you,” Chance says to the guy who’s the steady force behind the plate in our major league games. They are a tough pitcher-catcher combo, one of the best pairings in all of pro baseball, with the kind of tempo that Posada and Rivera had with the Yankees back in the day.

  After we congratulate the kids, help them pack up their equipment, and straighten up the diamond, the three of us leave the field where we’ve served as honorary coaches, playing with a local team of fourth graders in a rougher section of the city.

  The kids needed equipment, a field, and some go get ’em spirit. So the three of us volunteered to do it, buying their equipment and pitching in as coaches.

  Once we leave the field, heading for my cherry-red Tesla, Grant points to the front seat. “Shotgun.”

  Chance rolls his eyes. “Back seat has plenty of leg room too. You always think you’re pulling one over on me, don’t you?”

  Grant winks at him. “Front seat is better. You can try to justify it. But the truth is I’m just faster.”

  Chance lifts a brow, his dark eyes taunting. “That’s what she said about you.”

  Grant shoots him a look. He clears his throat. “Maybe that’s what she said about you. But no man has ever said that about me.”

  Chance hums doubtfully, his dark eyes narrowing. “I dunno. Weren’t you in and out in, like, fifteen minutes with your Grindr hookup the last time we went out?”

  Grant shoots deadly laser rays straight at Chance. “Dude. That was DoorDash. I fucking ordered DoorDash.”

  “You hooked up with the DoorDash guy? Damn, Grant,” he says, whistling.

  Grant huffs. “I was on DoorDash ordering some Thai food for when I got home. I’m not even on Grindr, man.” He reaches into his back pocket, then tosses his phone across the roof of the car to Chance.

  Chance grabs it with one hand. “Cool. You want me to sign you up for it now? Should I put you down as In-and-Out-in-Five Guy?”

  Grant rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a single dating app on there. Because, wait for it, I don’t need ’em.”

  Chance winks. “Right. Sure. DoorDash is your dating app.”

  Grant cracks up, shaking his head. “It’s a miracle you’ve ever had a date.”

  I reach the driver’s side door, gesturing to the two-man comedy act. “Please tell me we’re not going to spend the entire car ride with the two of you debating your prowess in the bedroom with your conquests.”

  Grant and Chance shoot each other confused looks. “What else would we talk about?” Grant asks.

  Chance scratches his jaw. “That’s literally our only conversational fodder,” he says as he slides into the back seat. “If we can’t thump our chests and mock each other, I don’t know what we would discuss. So maybe shut your mouth, Crosby.”

  I hold up a hand in surrender as I slide into the car. “Anyway, that was a helluva good game. A good season too. Glad you clowns didn’t fuck it up for me.”

  Grant squeezes my cheek. “Aw, do we usually fuck it up for you, little Crosby?”

  I bat him away. “Sometimes you do. But fair play,” I say, shifting to a slightly serious tone as I start the engine. “You fuckers did good today. Did you see how Carson connected on his at-bat in the fourth?”

  Grant beams, a grin that makes his blue eyes sparkle. “That was dope. I was so damn proud of him. He’s come so far this season.”

  Chance pats Grant’s shoulder. “He’s a helluva catcher too. I can see him following in your footsteps, man.”

  Grant offers him a fist for knocking. “Right back ‘atcha. Christian, Vance, Marco—all the pitchers you coached made serious strides this season. Christian is going to be as fearsome at cleaning up the messes on the mound as you are, man.”

  It’s Chance’s turn to smile like a fool. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

  As the Cougars’ closing pitcher, Chance is indeed our cleanup guy on the mound. He’s the one we trust to get us out of jams. Bases loaded, no outs? Tough leftie at the plate? Winning run on third? Chance is the man. The team’s radio announcers nicknamed him Last Chance Train Is Pulling Out of the Station because of the way he freezes out opponents when he takes the mound at the bottom of the ninth.

  His skills with a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour cut fastball are unparalleled, but so is his smile. His laugh. He actually chuckles and grins while on the mound, twin traits that are about as unnerving as his arm speed.

  “It’s cute to see you two getting along every now and then,” I remark as I check the mirrors, then pull out of the parking spot and into traffic.

  “It’s been known to happen from time to time,” Chance says with a shrug.

  “Because we’re awesome and so are the kids we coach,” I say. “And that’s why you two will treat me to beers tonight.”

  “I’m down for that.” Grant taps out a drumbeat on the dashboard, then checks out the time. Close to six thirty. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Spotted Zebra?” I suggest.

  “Good answer. We’ve got to support my sister,” Grant says. “Did you know her bar was named the hippest in Hayes Valley in SF Weekly?”

  Chance chimes in from the back seat, “Plus, you like to pick up guys at the Spotted Zebra.”

  Grant shoots us a wicked grin. “I can’t help it if the bar draws an eclectic mix of hot men, and even hotter men who are wildly attracted to me.”

  “You do know the bar attracts women too?” Chance puts in.

  Grant waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah. I mean, sure. Have at them.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate that,” Chance says dryly.

  Grant, the wiseass, adopts a disdainful look. “You don’t see me going after the same opportunities you’re pursuing. I would think you’d be stoked that I’m not trying to horn in on your territory.”

  I glance in the rearview mirror at Chance. “Yeah, aren’t you so glad we don’t have to compete with this ugly fucker for the ladies?”

  Grant cuts in. “All I’m saying is, I don’t think you cats appreciate what I do for your odds. A thank you would be nice.”

  Chance leans forward, his hand curling over the back of Grant’s seat. “Wow. Thank you so much for digging men so we don’t have to compete with you.”

  Grant nods, long and confident. “That’s what I’m talking about. You are most welcome.”

  “By that same token, you’re welcome too,” Chance says, all offhand and casual.

  “For what?” Grant asks, puzzled.

  I slow to a stop at the light, amused by the pitcher and
catcher spurring each other on. That’s their style. Thick as thieves on the field, prickly as lions in warring prides off it. In the mirror I catch Chance batting his eyelashes as he says. “That I don’t ruin your odds.”

  Grant cracks up. “Well played, bro. Well played.”

  “And while we’re playing,” Chance adds, all cool and cucumber-y, “If you ever want to see who can rack up more numbers, you just let me know.”

  “For real? You think you can pull more babes than I can pull dudes?”

  “I think I can.”

  Grant barks out a laugh. “Love you man, but you do not know dudes. So don’t even attempt that or you will be schooled.”

  I cast a glance back at the pitcher. “Grant has a point. You ever seen the way they flock to him? Time to step down, my friend.”

  “Fine, fine.” Chance huffs, then strokes his chin. “Maybe I’ll just chat with Sierra then.”

  Grant whips his head around all the way to the back seat, staring at the closing pitcher. “Do not. Do not go near Sierra. Do not. Do not. Do not.”

  Chance grins wickedly. “Maybe I should tonight. What do you think about that, Grant?”

  Grant leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and drags his hand down his face. “You can score as many digits as I can. Just stay away from Sierra,” Grant mutters, then turns to me, his tone shifting. “Speaking of sisters, what the hell happened at the wedding with you and Eric’s sister?”

  “Yeah, how does that dog collar fit around your neck, Crosby?” Chance asks. “Is it nice and tight, keeping you in line?”

  I tug at an imaginary collar as I merge into the right lane so I can turn. “It’s keeping me away from the women on the other side of the electrical fence.”

  “Except Nadia. You two looked pretty tight out on the dance floor,” Chance says, his tone doubtful. “I couldn’t join the guys for the inquisition because I had to talk to my agent then. But it sure looked like you were cozying up with her the rest of the night.”

  I flip the signal, turning right, and avoiding the question. “As cozy as Grant looked the other night when he met—who was that you met the last time we were at the Spotted Zebra?”

  Chance clears his throat. “Crosby, don’t deflect. We need to report back to Eric. We’re his proxies. What’s the story with Nadia?”

  As I drive, I flash back to Saturday night at the wedding.

  To the elevator, the hallway, the kiss outside her hotel room door.

  The way Nadia melted in my arms, her lips all soft and lush against mine, her body like a dream, her scent invading my mind.

  Then I replay our texts the next morning.

  Do I confess?

  Do I tell them we kissed?

  But there’s nothing to confess.

  Not a thing.

  We simply made plans to attend an event together that we were both already invited to. Potentially, we’re going to enjoy some more perks.

  That’s not breaking the pact. The pact was not to date. I’m not dating her. I’m only . . . benefiting with her.

  Ergo, it’s all good.

  “We’re going to the Sports Network Awards later this week. Just like we went to the wedding. We’re going as friends,” I say, cool and even.

  Grant’s eyes widen. “As friends?”

  “As friends,” I repeat.

  “Do you actually know how to be friends with a woman?” Chance posits from the back seat.

  “Yes, I do, turkey burger. I have been friends with Nadia for years. Since we were teenagers. Since we were even younger. I know how to be friends with her quite well, thank you very much.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you,” Chance says, his tone brimming with skepticism.

  “Look, it’s all for the best. She’s new in town, she doesn’t know a ton of people, and she’s the owner of the football team, so it’s good for her to be seen out and about with somebody when she goes to these events. Likewise, it’s good for me to be seen with someone who’s not—”

  “A train wreck?” Grant supplies.

  “A criminal?” Chance puts in.

  “Convicted for insider trading?” Chance continues, his voice going all serious. “Do you think maybe you have a problem with picking the wrong type of women?”

  I roll my eyes as we near the Spotted Zebra and I hunt for a parking space. “Gee. I wonder if I do.”

  Grant lets out a sympathetic sigh. “You just let people in too soon. That’s all. Got to protect that heart.” He smacks my chest. “Trust me.”

  For a second, Grant’s tone is deadly serious, and a little sad.

  “Speaking from experience?” I ask, no teasing this time, no mocking.

  Chance leans in closer, his tone low and menacing. “Yeah, did some dude hurt you? Because I will cut that fucker.”

  Grant shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’m all good now. It was a while ago. Right before my rookie season.”

  “Who was he?” I ask, since I’m not buying the no-big-deal routine.

  Grant waves a hand dismissively. “No one.”

  “He hurt you, and he’s no one? Was he a spring training hookup?” Chance asks.

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “Were you in love?” Chance presses.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grant work his jaw, clench it, then let go. “Doesn’t matter. I was young and foolish. It’s in the past. No biggie now.”

  “You sure?” I push.

  “Positive,” Grant says with a crisp nod, slicing off this line of questioning. “Anyway, back to Crosby.” He taps his sternum. “You need to watch out for your ticker.”

  “So Crosby should keep women at a distance?” Chance asks.

  “Hello? I’m still here,” I point out.

  “Whatever,” Chance says. “Let your bros have your back.”

  “Fine. What sage advice would my bros give me tonight, then?” I ask as I pull into a spot.

  “Here’s the advice I’ll give you. Be careful. Be very careful who you let in. You’ll keep your heart safe that way,” Grant says, as I parallel park in three perfect moves.

  When I cut the engine, I go a little more serious. “Everything is chill with Nadia. We’re going as friends, and that’s all it is. Honestly, it’d be the same as if, say, Grant went with your brother to some type of event,” I say to Chance.

  Grant cringes as he swings open the door. “Are you fucking kidding me? TJ? You think I should date his twin?”

  “Yeah,” I suggest, egging him on. “Like, maybe if you needed a date. A plus-one for an event. Why not take TJ?”

  Grant’s jaw drops. It comes unhinged. It falls to the sidewalk. He gives me a duh look. “He looks exactly like Chance. No way could I kiss someone who looks like my friend.”

  “Aww. We’re friends now,” Chance says, bringing his hand to his heart. “I’m touched.”

  Grant flips him the bird. “Yes, asshole. We’re friends. But I’m not dating your brother. That is too weird.”

  The notion is indeed weird. But it’s also distracting.

  The debate over dating a friend’s twin occupies the two of them for the next hour as we go into Grant’s sister’s bar, order beers, and shoot the breeze.

  Neither one of them even tries to score any numbers. They’re too deep in their bar debate.

  They decide Grant’s chances of dating TJ are less than zero.

  Are those the same as my chances with Nadia?

  They should be zero.

  But when I click open my text messages after I finish my brew, a photo loads.

  Two pics, actually.

  The first is a shot of some silky fabric on her bed, a close-up of her dress. It’s the color of wine, and a growl forms in my throat as I imagine how that dress will look on her body.

  The next pic, though, knocks the breath clear from my lungs.

  She sent me a shot of her feet in a sexy-as-sin pair of heels.

  My mind springs several steps ahead, picturing those legs curled over my
shoulders.

  Wrapped around my waist.

  Spread open on the bed for me.

  Ah hell.

  The chances of me resisting her are not zero.

  Not even close.

  14

  Nadia

  I’ll see Crosby in less than forty-eight hours.

  I am most definitely counting down.

  I’m not even going to pretend I’m not.

  I’m counting down, and I’m shopping.

  Since I’ve bought shoes when dates have gone awry, I’m damn well going to buy shoes in advance of one that I’m sure will go fantastically.

  Okay, fine. It’s not a date. It’s an event where we’re pairing up. Still, events require shoes.

  With a pair of red heels in her hand, my mother settles onto a plush pink cushion on a chair at one of our favorite shops on Union Street.

  My mother and I bond over many things, shopping among them. Because shopping is great for talking, and that’s something we’ve always done well. We talk, and we share.

  “Over a week on the job back in San Francisco. What’s your verdict?”

  I peer out the window of the store. “It’s . . . foggy here.”

  She laughs as she slides on the shoes.

  My lips form an O as I check out the new footwear. “My verdict on those shoes is they are a must buy,” I say, pointing decisively at the beauties on her feet.

  “I do love them,” she says, pursing her lips as she studies the way they fit. “Where would I wear them though?”

  “Anywhere,” I say, as the sales associate returns with a gorgeous pair of amethyst velvet shoes for me. I thank her, then continue my ode to Mom’s cherry-red pumps. “Everywhere. Gardening. Jigsaw puzzling. Shopping. Going out for tea. Heck, I’d wear those babies walking around the house. And I’d stop and admire my feet in the mirror every time I walked past one.”

  She taps her chin. “All good ideas. I wonder if I should . . .”

  The light bulb goes off. “Wait. Are they for a date?”

  She dips her head, her shy smile giving me the answer I need. She confirms it with a nod and a soft, barely audible squeal.

  I sit down next to her, grabbing the jewel-like shoes from the box and sliding my left foot into one. “Tell me everything, you secret keeper.”