The Virgin Game Plan Read online

  “I’ll tell you as soon as we leave,” I whisper, hoping it will hurry them up.

  I’m barely able to contain my excitement until we’re outside, where I grab my phone again and waggle it at them. “Here it is, in black-and-white pixels. Proof that I am the bomb. The goddess of sports podcasts.”

  This is what I couldn’t do in front of the others in the locker room. It sounds obnoxiously cocky.

  Because I am cocky, but only about things that I’ve worked my ass off for.

  Volleyball.

  Asking hard questions.

  And making a plan for the future.

  “Holden Kingsley,” I say, giddy about the opportunity that I made happen.

  Through gumption.

  Through going for it.

  “I nabbed an interview for my little old college podcast with the second baseman for the LA Bandits. It’s his second year in the majors, and he crushed it in his first,” I say, feeling like I could blast off to the moon without a rocket.

  Layla--whose name fits her perfectly, as if her parents knew they were going to pop out a six-foot-two volleyball star--squeals. “Shut the front door!” All sarcasm and resting bitch face vanish.

  Tia stops in her tracks, blinking. “For real?”

  I hold up a hand and swear, “One hundred ten percent.”

  Layla demands more with a dish it out wiggle of her perfectly manicured fingers—polished with silver sparkles and barely a nick. How she manages that while playing volleyball, I don’t know. It’s one of her many superpowers. She’s also gorgeous, with carved cheekbones and amber skin that’s always radiant. “All right. Tell us all the deets.”

  I give them as we walk along the athletic fields en route to the new café, saying casually, “I tracked down Holden’s email.”

  “Through your dad?” Tia asks.

  I sneer then wretch dramatically. “Please. I’d never do that. Plus, they don’t know each other. And I didn’t ask Grant either.”

  “Grant would give it to you in a heartbeat,” Tia says.

  “And I’d do the same for him. He’s like a brother to me. But nope, I didn’t call in any favors. I tracked him down through his agent, wrote a fantastic pitch letter that I sent via his people, and then, voilà, he replied directly to me.”

  “Damn,” Layla says, shaking her head. “I’m kind of in awe that you snagged an interview, and all with a little good old-fashioned elbow grease.”

  I shake my hips as we walk past the spring flowering of cherry blossoms. “I did indeed.”

  Tia holds up a hang on a sec finger. “So, help those of us who haven’t memorized the major league rosters. Holden Kingsley is the one who went here a few years ago?”

  I nod again, so excited my smile could span the entire campus. “Yep. College superstar, drafted in the eighth round, played in the minors for two years, and was called up last year. That’s him. Also, hello? Did you see his note to me?” I clear my throat and quote like I’m performing Hamlet, “‘Yes, Hell yes. Absolutely yes.’ I mean, is there any more enthusiasm than a triple yes?”

  Tia taps her chin thoughtfully. “That depends. Does he normally communicate in threes? Like, do you think when he ejaculates, he says, ‘I’m coming. Oh God, I’m coming. Oh God, I’m really, really coming’?”

  I swat her, laughing. “You’re so bad.” Layla laughs, and I wag my finger at her too. “Don’t encourage her. It’s like feeding the lions at the zoo.”

  “I’m hardly encouraging her,” Layla says, with a dismissive wave of her sparkling fingers. “I have no idea what guys do when they finish that thing they do.”

  “Come,” Tia says pointedly, staring sharply at Layla. “It’s called come. Just like you do when you finish that thing you do with girls.”

  I signal for a time-out. “Can we please not talk about coming right now?” There are a million reasons I don’t want to talk about any of our sex lives, especially mine, since it’s a cipher. “This interview has nothing to do with sex.”

  “Everything is about sex, honey,” Tia says, patting my shoulder.

  “That is not true,” I point out, but this is a futile argument. Tia, a psych major, insists sex is the underpinning of everything. I contend that humans possess enough higher brain function to set sex aside.

  Sometimes.

  “Generally, I agree with Tia on this,” says Layla, then pats her flat stomach. “But I’m starving, and sex won’t fill my belly. But food will. Plus, as we dine, we can talk about Reese being all badass with her podcast. You went from just the two of us listening to. . . a whole nation?”

  Laughing, I roll my eyes. “Definitely not a whole nation, but I have several thousand listeners now. The show is really helping me make a name for myself.”

  That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  To make my own name.

  To have my own reputation, my own thing, where I’m not just my father’s daughter.

  Plus, the podcast will open job doors for me in sports marketing when I graduate. An interview with a big-name athlete will be publicity for the show and more experience for my résumé.

  We turn onto a side street that leads to the latest new spot I found. Layla grabs her phone, taps on the screen, then clears her throat. “Ahem. Look at this—Holden Kingsley, with his arms of steel, his swoony green eyes, and his panty-incinerating grin, tops the Hottest Young Athletes Twenty-Five and Under list.”

  “Ooh. So he’s not too old for Reese,” Tia singsongs.

  “Please. That’s so not the point,” I say, because that’s crazy and not at all what the interview is about.

  “That might be the point. Wait. This press release says he’s coming to campus,” Layla says, gesturing to the screen like a game-show hostess. “You’re not just doing a phone interview. You’re talking to him in person, aren’t you?”

  “Yes! It was his idea!” The temptation to squeal rises again, but I dial it down. I’d better not squeal when I’m with Holden in person. “He’s doing an alumni roundtable event with some other former student-athletes, so he said he wanted to do it face-to-face.”

  “Do it,” Tia snickers as Layla opens the door for us.

  “There truly is a twelve-year-old boy inhabiting you, isn’t there?” I ask.

  Layla waves for attention. “Hello? I can be perverted too.”

  “I’m well aware. But you’re not as bad as her.”

  “I guess that gives me goals, then,” Layla says dryly as we walk into the café.

  I glance around at the simple decor—dark reds and golds with a few sparse flourishes, like teapots with curved handles, and soft music to set the mood—then say hello to the woman at the counter. “This place looks great.”

  “Thanks. We just opened a few weeks ago. Let me know when you’re ready,” the waitress says, then steps aside and presses some buttons that make the spaceship-like coffee machine whir to life.

  As I consider the options on the menu above the counter, even though I’ve memorized it from the website, I notice Tia studying me like I’m a science experiment.

  “Is there something on my face?”

  Her dark-brown eyes lock intensely with mine. “Wear your red blouse,” she pronounces decisively. “The cap-sleeve one with the black pearl buttons.”

  “It’s an interview, not a date,” I say, like she’s suggested something crazy.

  Tia laughs. “Duh, that’s why I’m telling you to wear the red one. It’s professional.”

  Then she cocks her head and studies me again, and Layla joins her in staring as if she can see right through me, the way best friends can. “You’re blushing,” Tia says with a hum of satisfaction.

  Layla cackles, pointing at me. “You have a crush on Holden ‘Arms of Steel’ Kingsley.”

  “I do not,” I say, vigorously denying the accusation. I don’t have a thing for an athlete, and the heat rushing to my face is not a blush. That’d be ridiculous.

  Tia shoots me an I caught you grin. “Are you sure? Becau
se that pink in your cheeks seems to say you’re getting a little hot and bothered thinking of a certain ballplayer.” She glances around and then lowers her voice. “Do you think he might be the one?”

  My eyes pop, and I stare at her, aghast. “He’s certainly not the one,” I whisper vehemently.

  “But, if you like guys,” Layla says, “he’s an appealing option for punching your V card, right?”

  Oh, hell no.

  That’s not happening.

  For a ton of reasons.

  I shush them frantically and mime zipping my lips. We are going to shut the hell up about my V card in this public place. “It’s an interview for my podcast,” I murmur as low as I can. “Not for the job of chief deflowering executive.”

  “Maybe not yet,” Layla says.

  “He definitely seems like your type,” Tia adds. “Why wait for love when you could just get under that smoking-hot bod?”

  “I can’t take you two anywhere,” I say, tossing up my hands in defeat.

  “That is true,” Layla adds, “but we’re glad you brought us here for half-price fries.”

  We order said fries, along with the hummus and baba ghanoush plate to split, and find a table.

  Once we sit down, Layla drops the teasing tone. “This could really be your big break.”

  “I know.” I flush, proud that I didn’t need to call in favors from Dad to do it. “A break I need. Some of us aren’t going on to play professional volleyball.”

  “Sì, this is true,” Tia says, laying on a heavy Italian accent, since Layla’s been recruited to play in the land of pasta and Renaissance art next year.

  “Listen,” Layla says, softening and patting my hand. “I was just having fun about him being the one. I know that’s important to you, and I know, too, that this interview is an awesome career thing.”

  “Certifiably awesome,” Tia agrees, adjusting her bandana. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he is smoking hot—if you’re into that whole tall, dark, handsome, tatted, and athletic look. And who isn’t?”

  Layla raises her hand, sarcastically poker-faced. “But if you like muscles—and we know a certain someone does . . .” She trails off, pitching up at the end to egg me on. “Admit it. He’s so your type.”

  The heat returns to my cheeks. “I don’t have a type.”

  That’s mostly true.

  In high school, I dated one guy, and he was the class clown. He made me laugh, plus he was taller than I was. In college, I went out once with a science geek, twice with an exchange student from Greece, and three times with a history major who was uber-intellectual.

  They all had one thing in common.

  None of them had sex with me.

  Call me old-fashioned, but I want sex to mean something.

  They also had another thing in common—none were jocks. I’ve avoided athletes entirely.

  So, sure, I can appreciate a firm AF physique, but I can’t imagine that Holden Kingsley is even my speed.

  The first time I fell in love was with volleyball.

  I’ve always been good at the sport. A natural, even.

  But I also knew that college was as far as I was going to go. But something else, something more, came of my love of the game—a love of other sports and a voracious hunger to learn everything about them.

  Their history, their opportunities, their place in the sporting pantheon . . .

  I became a sports scholar as well as a sports lover, and that has served me well in my strategy for the future.

  Planning ahead is something I learned from my mom, along with some other gems.

  Don’t forget to send a thank-you card.

  The answer is always no till you ask.

  And then this one: know your limits.

  She learned that from experience, and I did too, right along with her.

  That’s why I’ve been so goal-oriented since I stepped foot on campus. The podcast is part of that.

  And so, the next week I take Tia’s advice.

  Buttoning up the short-sleeved red blouse with the cute black pearl buttons, I consider my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  The blouse is professional enough, but also it doesn’t make me look like I’m playing dress-up. I look like who I am—a college woman who takes herself seriously, but who isn’t pretending she’s at the helm of a news desk already.

  I pair the blouse with jeans, then slide on flats.

  There.

  I look dressy, but casual too.

  Trouble is my hair.

  I can’t decide what to do with it.

  I snap a selfie and send it to my BFF for life. Grant and I grew up on the same block, and since our grandmas were besties, naturally we were too. Grant is also the catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, the team we rooted for religiously in high school.

  * * *

  Reese: Should I wear my hair up or down?

  * * *

  Grant: Did you really just ask me for fashion advice?

  * * *

  Reese: I come to you for advice on literally everything and have since I was five. And you’ve given me hair advice before, so don’t act so surprised!

  * * *

  Grant: I’ll tell you what I always do—wear it down. Straight guys like it down.

  * * *

  Reese: This is for a podcast interview!

  * * *

  Grant: My bad. I thought you were going on a date. Who is the interview with?

  * * *

  Reese: You might know him. Holden Kingsley. Plays for the LA Bandits.

  * * *

  Grant: Damn, woman! Of course I know him. He better give you a good interview. If he doesn’t, he has me to answer to.

  * * *

  Reese: You’re so weirdly protective.

  * * *

  Grant: You’re so weirdly like a sister to me.

  * * *

  Reese: You’re my weird sorta brother.

  * * *

  Grant: True. And everyone in your life better be good to you.

  * * *

  Laughing, I close the text thread, figuring it’s best to keep the interview details to myself, just in case Holden turns out to be rude or unhelpful. I can only imagine how that’d irk my buddy.

  Leaving my hair down, I exit my apartment to head to Helen Williams Hall, the marketing and communications department building, where Holden’s roundtable discussion is taking place.

  Along the way, I think about Tia and Layla’s teasing last week.

  I do not have a thing for Holden. How could I? I’ve never met him.

  I’m picky with men. The world’s most overprotective father trained me to keep them out of my pants, but it was my mother’s advice that had more influence on that. She told me it’s best to wait for someone special to me.

  So, I’ve waited, and I’m fine with that. I want to know someone, care for someone—hell, I want to love someone—before I let him into my body.

  Nothing wrong with that, as far as I can tell.

  When I arrive at the building, my nerves clamor at me, but I shut them down. This interview is a vital step on the ladder of my goals, but I can handle it. I’ve made a plan, outlined my questions. And thanks to years of playing sports and hosting interviews, I have plenty of poise and chutzpah.

  But when I enter the auditorium, all that falls to the wayside. No planning or poise could prepare me for how charismatic Holden Kingsley is in person.

  I spot the Bandits second baseman onstage, answering one of the moderator’s questions—forest-green eyes, thick dark hair, and a smile that lights up the room as he talks. He’s wearing a navy-blue button-down shirt, rolled up once at the cuffs. Casual, but still well-dressed.

  When the session ends, he scans the auditorium, and his eyes meet mine where I’m sitting in the front row.

  He lingers for a beat, maybe more, that gaze taking a leisurely stroll up and down my frame. There’s something in that look—the first tantalizing flickers of pleasure, the promise of mom
ents to come, of kisses, of touches . . .

  Or maybe I’m reading too much into one hot gaze.

  He steps off the stage, strides up to me, and offers a big hand. “You must be Reese Fallon.”

  There aren’t enough nets in the world to catch all the butterflies fluttering inside me right now.

  I’m pretty sure that Holden Kingsley is precisely my type of guy.

  2

  Holden

  I’m not immune to pretty women. I’ve never pretended or wanted to be.

  The thing is, though, women—especially the brainy, confident, and beautiful ones—are a temptation, and temptation gets in the way of things like, say, winning.

  If not winning, then doing my best every single day.

  That’s what I need to do to achieve everything I’ve dreamed of. Not just for me, but for my family.

  As I head down the steps and off the stage, I spot a woman I recognize instantly from her picture on the podcast web page. Once I lock eyes with her—a pair of eyes so light blue and pure they’re like crystal—I try to activate my defenses.

  Don’t be lured by her gorgeous looks.

  Don’t get sucked into the vortex of those cheekbones, that thick blonde hair, those bow-shaped lips, all red and cherry-ripe.

  Women are distracting.

  Focus on the plan, the schedule you made for today.

  Do the interview. Snag a workout. Go to bed early. Catch the morning flight to Dallas and crush the ever-loving hell out of the Texas Scoundrels in a three-game series.

  That’s what I’m going to do.

  But after I check her out. She’s just too beautiful not to appreciate.

  When I reach her, I flash my most professional, headshot-worthy grin, then extend a hand. “You must be Reese Fallon.”