The Virgin Game Plan Page 18

  Time to turn on my media skills.

  Dial ’em up.

  Crank them well past one hundred.

  “What made you decide to take the job with the Dragons?” I ask like he’s on my podcast. This is how I’ll get through the morning.

  “The offer came in at the last minute. I wasn’t expecting it, since they had someone during spring training, but I got a call the day before the first game. I was looking for something in sports broadcasting. I didn’t think I’d get such a great opportunity to be a major league manager though. It seemed like serendipity, since we’d already moved back here for Becky.”

  “And I’m so glad we did. It’s so great to be near family,” Becky chimes in as my dad heats the kettle.

  Next question, Reese. You can do it. I turn to the redhead carrying my half-sibling. “Do you have family here?”

  “Two older sisters. They’re all here with their families. Janie runs an animal rescue, and Cassie is a vet. I guess I’m the odd woman out,” she says with a laugh.

  “Oh? Why’s that? Are you a corporate lawyer?” I say, opting for lightness. At least, I think it’s lightness.

  “I work at a genetic research company. Doing all sorts of research on genetic diseases and developing therapies for them.” Her expression is animated, her eyes alight with excitement. She must love her job. I know that feeling.

  My dad beams as the kettle whistles. “Becky has a doctorate in science. She heads up a research department. She’s whip-smart.”

  Great. Just great. She has a fascinating job, she’s a woman working in science, she’s close with her sisters, she loves her career. I want to hate her, but I can’t.

  “And when did you meet?” I ask with a smile, marching down the interview path.

  “Twelve months ago,” she says.

  I do the math. He wasn’t married twelve months ago. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t cheat.

  When he returns with the tea, I pepper Becky with more questions—that, I can do forever. As I sip the English breakfast, I learn that she volunteers at her sister’s animal shelter, walking dogs and cleaning kennels.

  “But not much heavy cleaning at the moment,” she says, gesturing to her bump. “Which means mostly I just talk to the dogs and cuddle them.”

  “They must love that,” I say.

  “They aren’t the only ones,” Becky says.

  I learn, too, that she and my dad go for a two-mile walk every morning before her workday begins. Most of the time, they talk, but now and then, she listens to her favorite podcast while he listens to leadership skills audiobooks.

  “Which podcast is that? Your favorite?”

  “One of my girlfriends told me about it, and we’re addicted now. It’s called Badass Babe,” she says.

  I blink. Swallow. This feels like the moment in a movie when a critical clue falls into the heroine’s lap. But she isn’t sure what to make of the evidence. “My friend Tia listens to that podcast,” I blurt out, the first thing I’ve said other than a question in a while.

  “Do you listen to it too? It’s so empowering.”

  “I’ve listened to a couple of episodes. And it’s great.” I half-wish that I hated it. That we didn’t agree on something badass. That I weren’t living in an alternate world where Becky and I have anything in common, where we have similar tastes, views, perspectives.

  She’s supposed to be . . . an airhead.

  A homewrecker.

  A bitch.

  Instead, she’s . . . interesting, progressive, positive.

  There must be something wrong with her.

  Maybe she’s too young.

  That has to be it. She’s got to be my age. I can hate her for that. “How old are you?”

  “Forty,” she says, with a smile and a shrug, then a downward glance at her belly. And a look crosses her eyes that says, I’m on the older side for a first-time mom, and I hope it goes well.

  She’s older than me by a decade and a half.

  She’s still much younger than my dad’s fifty-six years, but not by a gross, hairball-retching amount.

  I turn to my father, ready to employ the same bluntness I’ve leaned on when talking to women, when talking to my friends, when talking to Grant.

  Even when talking to Holden.

  I want to ask my father how he reconciles this life, this home, this second chance he has to be a good father.

  I want to say so many things.

  How could you cheat on your wife? How do you feel about having a kid at fifty-six? How do you feel about the fact that you’ve been unfaithful many times over? How do you feel about the fact that you moved out of our home? That you left me when I was in middle school? That I had to figure everything out without you?

  But when I look at the man I used to depend on, the man I looked up to, the man I revered, my throat tightens.

  Words don’t come.

  I’m voiceless.

  Once again, I’m thirteen, and I’ve found him at the ballpark kissing another woman, and I don’t know what to say.

  When we move to the table, and Dad serves up a simple breakfast of bagels and fruit, I focus entirely on Becky.

  We banter about science, research, future remedies.

  As I take a bite of blueberries, Becky spreads a hand across her belly. “Oh!”

  Concern paints my father’s face. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

  She’s glowing. “He’s enjoying breakfast too.”

  He’s.

  I choke down the blueberries.

  I’m going to have a little brother.

  Tears prick the back of my eyes.

  Becky waves a hand. “Where was I?” She collects her thoughts and returns to the topic of genomes.

  As I finish the fruit, I’m grateful for her because she gives me an excuse not to talk to my father again.

  I still don’t know what to say to him. He’s still the part of my life that doesn’t make sense.

  But he’s also the thing that stands in the way of the romance I want to have.

  And I can’t wait to leave. On the way out, Becky mentions the shower. “I’d love to have you attend, but if you don’t want to, I understand,” she says, gentle and kind.

  A knot rises in my throat. She’ll be a good mom. Already she’s sharing her heart but giving space too.

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  Once I shut the door behind me, I let out a shaky, shuddery breath.

  There is so much I should say to my father.

  But right now, I want to talk to Holden.

  He’s the one I want to turn to. He’s the one I want to call, to curl up with, to talk to about my awkward morning.

  But I can’t say a word to him.

  That hurts more than the breakfast with my father.

  So much more.

  24

  Holden

  With a clutch RBI in one game and a blowout in the next, we finish off the Aces, winning the home stand 2 to 1.

  I knock fists with Dante, who started the game on the mound, and with John, who finished it, as well as Gunnar, our third baseman, who clobbered a homer in the seventh. He’s new this year too, but his half brother played for the Dragons at the height of the sign-stealing. “Good work, guys,” I say as we walk off the diamond. “Let’s keep this shit up when we go to New York.”

  Tomorrow’s a travel day, and we play the Comets on Wednesday.

  Gunnar wiggles his fingers. “Ooh, intel time. Need you to give up all the goods, man. Isn’t the closer there your former teammate? Shane Walker?”

  “I call him Shakespeare. And yeah, we were both traded at the end of last season,” I say as we head to the dugout.

  Gunnar gives me bummer for you eyes, coupled with a ridiculous sympathetic nod. “Sucks, man. When they have to get rid of the dead weight.”

  “Did I say, ‘Good work’? I was referring to Dante and John.”

  “Fine, fine. You’re decent at the plate. Now tell me everything.” He ru
bs his palms together. “I want all the dirt on their closer. That guy is insane on the mound. Did he strike a deal with the devil for that fastball?”

  “I do believe Shakespeare did.”

  “And so—to swing at his fastball or not to swing at his fastball? That is the question,” Gunnar asks in a most Bard-like tone, stroking his bearded jaw.

  Chuckling, I clap him on the back. “All the world’s a baseball game. And in this case, the answer depends on whether you want to strike out swinging or looking.”

  “Ouch,” Gunnar says with a wince.

  “Yeah, the dude has fire in his pitches. Actual fire. I kid you not.”

  “Then the answer is swinging, then. Always go down swinging,” Gunnar declares. “Go big or go home, right?”

  “Only way to play.”

  Before we hit the dugout, a confident young voice calls out, “Hello, Holden? Got a minute for KRGO?”

  Tension shoots down my spine as I recognize Erin Madison, a TV reporter. My fists clench. But then I remember Reese’s insight.

  Give them some of the truth, not all of it.

  I turn around, flash a smile to the local sports journalist who’s been making a name for herself, then answer a few simple questions about the game.

  “Great question, Erin. The Aces are always a tough opponent, and we played hard till the end of the ninth,” I start with, then finish with “And we’re looking forward to seeing what the Comets have this season. Thanks so much.”

  “Thank you, Holden.”

  As I head into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, Gunnar gives me an approving nod. “Someone’s not so grumpy anymore with the press. Getting laid, bro?”

  I bark out a laugh. “If only that were the reason,” I say.

  Though, in a way, it is.

  Only, Reese has always been more than sex.

  She’s the woman I met at the wrong time. Then, at the wrong time again. Emptiness settles into my chest, taking up camp there. A persistent reminder that though I want so much more than sex with her, I shouldn’t have anything with her at all.

  Trouble is, the only thing I want right now is to text Reese, tell her thanks, let her know her training is working.

  Hell, I want to go to her place, curl up with her, and give her the download on how I’m no longer the king of “no comment,” thanks to her.

  But I don’t do that, because I can’t do that.

  I could text her about the interview, let her know it went well. But that would lead to flirting, and flirting is what I have to resist.

  After a shower, and a round of good jobs from Thompson, I get dressed, ready to hit the sack a little early, play some word games, and try not to think of a certain blonde.

  Besides, rest before the cross-country flight tomorrow is a wise idea.

  That’s my plan, at least, until my phone buzzes in my locker.

  Crosby’s calling, so I pick up, and he dives right in. “I know you don’t like going out, but you’re coming with us tonight.”

  “Who said I don’t like to go out?” I say, buttoning my shirt.

  “I bet you were just making plans to play a word game or something. Admit it—you were gonna curl up with your phone and try to find ‘stipend’ or ‘vitriol’ upside down or diagonal or inside out.”

  I scoff, denying the stone-cold truth. “Maybe I was going to watch SportsCenter at the local bar with my teammates.”

  He laughs. “Oh, come on. You’re such a homebody. You were not.”

  “Is there a reason you called? Or is giving me shit reason enough?”

  “It is absolutely reason enough. Also, I’m calling to demand your presence. You’re coming with us because we’re going to the Spotted Zebra. Cougs won tonight, and so did your team. How often is it that we both win at the same time at home?”

  “Hard to say because this is the first time I’m playing for the same team in the same city as you,” I say.

  “Just show up. That’s all you need to know. You’re lucky we let you be friends with us.”

  “I’m so grateful.”

  So that’s where Gunnar and I go on a Monday night.

  Two nights post-Reese.

  Three games post-Reese.

  Fifty-six hours post-Reese.

  Not that I’m measuring time by her.

  Oh hell. I totally am.

  Maybe a night out with the guys will take my mind off her. Distract me from the reel playing on a loop in my head.

  We catch a Lyft and head from the ballpark to Grant’s sister’s establishment in the heart of Hayes Valley.

  Chance is standing by the bar, an elbow on it, a crooked grin on his face as he chats with Sierra, his whole demeanor saying one thing and one thing only. I can read him from a mile away. He’s into Grant’s sister. Which is a damn good thing. The dude’s wife put him through a hell of a divorce last year, Crosby told me, so it’s good to see him getting out there.

  I stride over to him first as Gunnar motions he’ll join Crosby, who’s chatting with Grant at a corner table.

  “Sounds good,” I say to Gunnar, then head over to Chance.

  The tall, deep-voiced, and intimidating closer swivels around, lifts a brow, then shoots me a cocky grin. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the enemy.”

  I laugh. “Is that who I am to you guys now?”

  “What else would you be?”

  I shake my head, amused. “So that’s why you guys invited me here? To celebrate with the enemy?”

  “Don’t you know the saying?” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  Sierra rolls her brown eyes, cutting in. “Just ignore him. He’s ridiculous. Also, nobody is ever an enemy at my bar, Holden.”

  “Thank you very much, Sierra. I appreciate that.” I slug Chance on his thick slab of an arm, then gesture to Sierra. “See? She welcomes me. She likes me.”

  Yup, these two are quite a distraction. They’re like a sideshow, thanks to Chance.

  Sierra flashes a bright smile then flicks a strand of her pink-tipped hair off her shoulder. “Everyone at the Spotted Zebra is a friend.”

  I drum my fingers on the bar, checking out the chalkboard menu of cocktails, but cocktails aren’t my speed. “What do you recommend tonight that’s on tap, Sierra?”

  She studies me with intense eyes, sizing me up like she’s reading what kind of drink I want.

  Chance deals me a don’t you dare go for her look.

  “I say you’re in the mood for a pale ale,” she says, issuing her official decree.

  “I never disagree with the bartender.”

  She heads over to the taps to fill a beer, and I turn to Chance, having a blast calling him out. “Do you actually think I’m flirting with Grant’s sister?”

  Chance has the good sense to act shocked. “Why would you think I was even thinking about how you were talking to her?”

  I crack up. “That was some doublespeak right there. But I would think it from the look that you just dealt me. Like you wanted to slice me to pieces in a deli meat cutter.”

  “I didn’t give you a look,” he says, jerking back. “And I don’t like deli meat.”

  “My point exactly.” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You definitely gave me a look.”

  “There were zero looks delivered from me to you.”

  “You gave me a look that said, Why the hell are you flirting with my woman?”

  A laugh bursts from his chest. “She’s not mine, so I’d have no problem with you flirting with her. Why would you even think I’d have a problem with you flirting with Grant’s sister?”

  “Because you’re into her,” I say, emphasizing my point.

  His brow knits, and he rearranges his features into a most skeptical stare. “Everyone knows you don’t bang a teammate’s sister.”

  Ouch. Now we’re tangoing too close for comfort. This convo isn’t helping my efforts to put Reese out of my mind. “I didn’t say you were banging her. I sai
d you were into her.”

  “And you know where being into someone leads to. It leads to banging. You know the rules,” Chance says, counting off on his fingers. “You don’t bang a teammate’s sister. You don’t bang a coach’s sister. You don’t bang the coach’s daughter. You don’t bang a teammate’s mom. You just don’t cross those lines, so I’m definitely not doing that.”

  Ouch, double ouch, triple whammy motherfucker ouch.

  He’s right, but I’m not going to confess that I’m guilty on one of those charges.

  And that I want to be guilty again.

  My fingers itch with the desire to call Reese. My lips ache to talk to her. My mind returns to her over and over again.

  Sierra returns with my drink as Grant strolls over, joining us.

  “Isn’t this so typical—all the guys flocking to my sister?” he says, sounding like a lion watching over his pride.

  Sierra rolls her eyes in his direction. “You think it might have something to do with the fact that I’m pouring the drinks?”

  Grant flashes her his winning grin. “Well, obviously. Why else would it be?”

  “Gee, thanks, Grant,” she says, then flips him the bird. “I guess I won’t mention the smoke show who came by last night and asked for your number.”

  “Sounds like a regular night for you then,” he says, leaning back against the bar. “All the hotties trying to find me and whatnot.”

  She sticks out her chin, giving him a taunting look. “And maybe I’m not going to give you any details on the Chris Hemsworth look-alike who wanted me to pass along his digits to my supposed hottie brother.”

  “Ooh, Thor. He’s your fave, isn’t he?” Chance asks, ribbing Grant.

  “If I liked straight guys, he’d be my fave.”

  “So you’re going to call this dude who left his number?” I ask, admittedly a little curious as to Grant’s strategy. Does he really pick up guys at his sister’s bar?

  Grant shakes his head, swings his gaze to Sierra. “Nah. But listen, I do appreciate you handling the sorting of the dudes for me.”

  Sierra shoots him the kind of dirty look only a sister can dole out. “Why do I even let you have drinks here? I am not your social secretary.”

  “And you may have noticed, I never ask for numbers from the dudes who pass them on to you,” Grant points out.