The Virgin Game Plan Page 10

  This is what matters most.

  Not the man who might happen to be in this city too.

  11

  Reese

  On Monday morning, everything feels new.

  I put on a cute black-and-white pindot blouse, pair it with simple black slacks, and slide on a jacket.

  As I walk to my first day on the job as a PR manager, I savor the sprinkling of early spring warmth as I go, with the sun jostling its way to the forefront of the sky, shoving aside the fog rolling through the city.

  I cherished my time in Peru, in Colombia, in Chile. But Dorothy was right when she said there’s no place like home. I’m clicking my ruby-red slippers the whole way to work. I turn onto the block where my new office is housed.

  While I was abroad, I applied for jobs here in town and snagged an online interview with a progressive and innovative publicity firm that works with local businesses on their nonprofit initiatives, especially sports-centric ones. In short—my dream job.

  As I near the building, I pass a quirky stationery shop, then a wine and painting place. I bet it’s bustling in the evenings with San Franciscans on dates. Maybe someday I’ll go there with some new guy.

  The guy who feels right. The one I’ll want to be serious with.

  But not today.

  Not tonight.

  And not tomorrow.

  I haven’t moved here to look for a man. I’m here for the next phase of my career.

  I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and work with some awesome women who exemplify what it means to be a lady boss.

  I reach the office building right at the edge of Hayes Valley, next to a vegan ice cream shop and a pop-up shop advertising twenty-seven varieties of french fries.

  Oh, Dorothy, it is good to be home indeed.

  I push open the doors, a tiny bit nervous but still ready to tackle whatever comes my way. Inside, the office manager shows me around then introduces me to the woman who owns Moore Media.

  “So good to meet you in person,” Jillian says. She’s the former VP of publicity for the San Francisco Renegades, one of the city’s two football teams. A gorgeous Chinese-American woman, she’s also the wife of the Renegades’ star receiver, Jones Beckett. She left the franchise and started this firm on her own. In a few years, it’s become one of the most successful PR shops in the city.

  “And I’m thrilled to have you on board. Have you adjusted to being back in the Bay Area?” Jillian asks.

  “I carry a light jacket with me wherever I go, and I’m ready to eat trendy food at a moment’s notice,” I say with a smile.

  Laughing, she tucks a strand of sleek black hair behind her ear. “I’d say that’s all you need.”

  We sit down on her cushy couch, along with the VP of marketing I’ll be reporting to. That’s Adriana. She talks a mile a minute, but I’m digging the way her rat-a-tat-tat style keeps me on my toes. Her pretty voice has a faint trace of a Colombian accent in it. She was raised there, then moved to California when she was ten, I’d learned during our FaceTime interview.

  Now together in person, the three of us chat about the clients and projects they want me to work on. I take notes and offer suggestions, enlivened already by the work I’ll be doing. Building podcasts, crafting videos, expanding the social media presence for outreach initiatives from various nonprofits.

  Athletes with disabilities. Shelter dogs. The Rainbow Alliance.

  It’s everything my heart loves.

  “And tomorrow night, one of our clients—a former Olympic skier—is hosting a cocktail soiree at the Legion of Honor, a casual sort of silent fundraiser for various organizations that they work with,” Adriana says, giving more details, then adding, “I would love for you to go. I’ll be there too, and can introduce you to athletes, supporters, press, and so on.”

  I say yes, thrilled for the chance.

  When the day ends, I call my mom and update her on everything, then make plans to see her this weekend. That evening, Tia and I hit the Marina with Layla to play a pickup game of volleyball.

  On the way home, we say goodbye to Layla, then Tia and I pop into CVS to grab some face masks. Back at my place, we slather on pink charcoal goop to clear out our pores.

  “Question. How the hell did charcoal become the it thing?” I ask as I flop down on the couch.

  “Charcoal lobbied before the Cool Council. Got its blessing.”

  “Ah, makes perfect sense. Same council that gave the blessing to avocado toast and porkpie hats a few years back?”

  “Obvs.”

  Then she turns on the newest episode of Badass Babe, and we listen together as the charcoal does its thing.

  Old times are new again, and I’m a happy camper.

  A little later, Tia’s boyfriend returns from work and whisks her and her glowing face upstairs. I’m guessing he’ll be making her glow in other ways.

  Good for her.

  As for me, I’m all good too. I definitely don’t need a man. Not at all.

  The next night, I’m getting ready for the cocktail party, touching up my mascara, when my phone rings.

  A bolt of tension slides down my back as I see the name on the screen.

  Do I answer it now? Hit ignore? But I can’t ignore him forever, so I might as well take the call.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say tightly.

  “Hey, sweetie bear,” he says, making me cringe with the nickname he gave me when I was ten.

  Let it go. It’s no big deal. Who cares that it’s been years since you spoke? He’s still your dad.

  “How’s everything? How’s Becky? I hear you guys have some exciting news.” I brace myself for him to share how wonderfully excited he is to bring new life into the world, though he’ll probably cheat on Becky too, and divorce her as soon as the kid is potty-trained.

  Or becomes a teenager.

  Depends on how long it takes till he’s caught sticking his dick someplace else.

  He chatters on about the pregnancy, serving up details that I don’t care about.

  “How wonderful that the baby is the size of a honeydew melon.” My phone buzzes, thank God, and a quick check of the screen tells me my Lyft is here. “Dad, I have to go to an event for work.”

  “Are you free tomorrow? I’d love to talk more. Maybe invite you to a ball game.”

  Right. That’s what I want to do. Go see baseball with my pops. Grab some popcorn and peanuts and talk about which pitcher has the best fastball.

  Ugh.

  “Sure, call me tomorrow.”

  Hanging up, I do my best to put him out of my mind.

  I arrive at the Legion of Honor, the museum hosting the event, and it’s a whirlwind of canapés and conversation.

  I join Adriana, and we network our hearts and feet out, meeting clients, talking to athletes, and chatting with everyone. I’m on for three hours with her. When the event starts to wind down, she shoots me a smile, grabs her purse, and pats her big pregnant belly.

  “On that note, this baby and I need to curl up with our full-body pillow and crash. You’re welcome to take off anytime or to hang and eat more shishito peppers and ricotta toast.”

  “It’s hard to beat those shishito peppers,” I say.

  She narrows her eyes and faux hisses. “I’m jealous. I can’t eat anything yummy without getting heartburn. Oh wait, I can’t eat anything without getting heartburn.”

  “My mistake. What I meant to say is the peppers were awful and the ricotta was dreadful,” I say, with an exaggerated yuck face.

  Adriana nods wisely. “That’s what I thought you said.” She gestures to the exit. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you then.”

  I spend another half hour circulating, chatting and not stuffing my face. The food is great, but my job here isn’t to scrape together enough apps for a meal.

  When the soiree continues to wind down, I spot some late arrivals.

  One of them looks like the third baseman for the Cougars.

  Crosby Cash.


  Right behind him is Chance Ashford, the closing pitcher.

  Then, my heart stops. All the air in my lungs rushes out.

  Dark hair. Broad shoulders. A strong back I dragged my hands down. Clothes can’t hide the muscles. The man is toned everywhere.

  But can that be him?

  There’s no way that can be Holden.

  There’s no way I’m running into him already.

  It’s an optical illusion. That is someone else.

  Then he turns around, scans the room, and his eyes lock on mine.

  This is not a drill.

  There’s an entire orchestra playing in my chest, hosting a concert celebrating his return.

  Years seem to melt away.

  And I know. I just know.

  He doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  He says something to his friends, and then he walks toward me.

  12

  Holden

  What the hell?

  The text from my agent lands on my phone as I finish my four-mile run a block away from my gym, sweat-soaked but full of adrenaline, and now vinegar.

  I stare at the note one more time, willing it away.

  * * *

  Josh: Dragons just nixed their manager. Hiring a new one for the start of the season.

  * * *

  I heave all the sighs in the fucking city as I dial him. After a quick exchange, I dive into the deep and murky end. “Opening Day is literally tomorrow. I just returned from spring training.” I drag my hand across my jaw, annoyed as fuck. “What kind of club does this? Fire the manager right before the season starts? Wouldn’t this have been better, say, before spring training?”

  “It would indeed,” Josh says diplomatically, with a light laugh. “But these are the growing pains of the reorganization and the new management. They’re trying to make changes. They have deep pockets now, thanks to the new ownership structure. We need to remember that, Holden, and we need to remember that too because they were able to fork over some good money for you.”

  “Fine. I get it.” I take a deep breath, settling myself. He’s right. As annoying as it is, the Dragons ponied up when it came to negotiations. The contract I snagged this year will go a long way toward changing my family’s life. Hell, it’ll pay for my brothers’ college. Times two.

  “I’ll do everything to get an answer from them quickly,” Josh says, reassuring me as I reach the gym. “And listen, now that you’ve called, I’m getting some bites for sponsorships, but . . . here’s the thing.”

  I stop in my tracks outside the door, bracing my hand on the brick wall. Here’s the thing is the prelude to a kiss of death. “What’s the thing?” I ask.

  “You might want to be . . .” He trails off like he’s searching for the word.

  “Be what?” I bite out.

  “More outspoken,” he says.

  That’s odd. “About what? What kind of sponsors want me to be more outspoken? On issues, you mean? You want me to write in my Twitter bio that I recycle, I support marriage equality, I like adopting shelter dogs?”

  “All good causes, but not exactly what I had in mind. I mean, talk to the press more. You’re kind of the king of ‘no comment,’ Kingsley.”

  “And you damn well know why, Summers.”

  “I do know why. But it’s good when the watchmaker or the dog food company or the sneaker maker sees you talking to the media. Even platitudes like ‘It was a great game’ or ‘I’m just happy to be here.’ That’s literally all you have to do.”

  “And when they turn that into ‘My mom snorts lines with her latte every Thursday night,’ what should I do then? I hate lying, so it’s easier just to say, ‘No comment.’”

  “Just try. Try saying something about playing. About loving baseball.”

  “Talking to the press is my least favorite thing to do,” I spit out. The memory of the Seattle hatchet job still stings.

  “But is it really? You’d rather, say, have your balls waxed than talk to the press? You’d rather do sprinting drills, burpees, bear crawls?”

  “Yes, to all four.”

  Josh laughs. “You are a special kind of ornery. Think about it, Holden. Just think about it.”

  “I will,” I tell Josh, then end the call.

  I wasn’t always ornery when talking to the media.

  I was the opposite.

  But I don’t think about the press when I head into the gym to hit the weights.

  Instead, I work on word games in my head. I toss out a six-letter word, and I make as many combos as I can while I lift.

  I like to work my mind at the same time as I train my body. It’s one of the tricks and techniques I’ve perfected over the last few years. Rather than turning my mind into a blank, I ask it to work as hard as it can.

  Then, when I’m at the plate, I can zero in on details like possible pitches, where they’ll land, where they might go.

  Same thing applies to when I’m fielding second base.

  All of that thinking helps my body and mind to work together on the diamond.

  To focus all my energy on baseball.

  It’s my special skill—No Distractions Holden.

  The press is a distraction. So, I don’t think about it.

  Later that evening, I grab some chow with Crosby before the event he talked me into attending with him. He drags along Chance too, his closing pitcher on the Cougars.

  We’ve just arrived at the Legion of Honor, and Crosby has just turned his car over to the valet, when my phone rings with a call from Josh.

  I answer at the speed of light. “What’s the story?”

  “The manager is in, and the news is golden.”

  That piques my interest. “Yeah? Who is he?”

  Crosby’s eyes are wide—he can hear Josh’s end of the conversation.

  “Former major league utility player. He was a minor league manager, and he’s been a sportscaster for the last few years. Great track record. Edward Thompson.”

  A grin takes over my face. Something terrible just turned into something awesome. “Excellent choice.”

  I thank Josh for the news, then turn to my friends. “Thompson is the guy who gave me this great piece of advice a couple of years ago when I was in Seattle. I’m indebted to him.” I scratch my jaw, amazed at the luck and coincidence. I tell Crosby and Chance about that Webflix-movie moment in the Seattle ballpark. Who’d have thought he’d wind up as my manager?

  “He sounds like a Baseball Buddha,” Crosby says, unruffled as always.

  “That’s exactly what he was. In thirty seconds, he knew precisely what I needed to do to improve my game.”

  Chance taps his chin, his dark eyes going thoughtful. “I’d like to meet this wise man. See if he can tell me how to pick up two miles per hour on my fastball. I’d be throwing at Mach speed then.”

  In a much better mood, I bound up the steps. The guys and I are hitting the tail end of the cocktail party, but that ought to be just enough socialization for me. Behind me, Crosby tells Chance, “You’d be unhittable, man,” and rubs his palms together at the prospect.

  Chance raises his chin. “You mean even more unhittable. Especially if you’re Holden.” Chance shoots me a smirk. “If memory serves, aren’t you oh-and-ten against me at the plate? I threw to you when you were on the Bandits. Got you out every single at bat.”

  I sneer. “I hit you once.”

  “Fine. Once, but it was a tiny little piddle to first,” the confident closer says with a laugh. “I got out of the inning unscathed.”

  Crosby laughs, clapping Chance on the shoulder. “Never, never leave the Cougars. You’re our secret weapon.”

  “Not so secret though. Everyone knows this guy is one of the most vicious closing pitchers in the league,” I say as we make our way through the lobby and into the room where the cocktail fete is winding down.

  I give myself a new mission between now and when we face the Cougars—work on hitting the unhittable Chance Ashford.

  Already I�
�m devising a plan to study his games and his pitches, ask one of our pitchers to—

  I stop thinking about strategy. I stop thinking about sports, which I didn’t imagine was possible.

  My skin buzzes. The air crackles.

  I’m seeing a mirage, an oasis in the desert.

  A motherfucking vision.

  Nearly two years after I saw her last, Reese is as beautiful as she was that day. Maybe more.

  My body has forgotten nothing about Reese Fallon as my pulse spikes and a grin spreads unbidden on my face.

  Everything else fades away. The party. My friends. The music. “Be right back,” I mutter to the guys, and then I head to the woman I could never completely force out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried.

  13

  Holden

  I go first with a “Hey.”

  “Hi,” she says, all soft and breathy.

  The sound of her voice is an elixir I didn’t even know I was looking for, but one I want to swallow down whole.

  “How are you?”

  I can’t stop looking at her. My body is floating, my brain is singing. How the hell could I spend one day with her and still feel this way nearly two years later?

  This must be the chemistry talking. That’s the only explanation.

  “I’m great.” She can’t seem to stop smiling either, the sexiest grin I’ve ever seen on anyone. “How are you, Holden?”

  The way she says my name sends hot sparks down my spine. She says it like she’s thinking of me the same damn way I’m thinking of her.

  “Good. Yeah. Really good,” I reply.

  Wow. Talk much, asshole?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to form questions, intelligent ones, not grunts and yeahs and wows.

  But I am floored by her.

  By her presence in this longitude and latitude.

  In this city.

  In this room.

  The music grows louder, and I gesture to a nearby alcove, away from the hustle and bustle. It’s quiet here, and more private.