The Virgin Game Plan Read online

  “You’re doing well.”

  “So my Crash Davis training worked?”

  “I’d say so. How do you feel about it?”

  He shrugs but smiles too. “I still want to be myself, but I keep saying, It’s a true part of me.”

  “And then I get to have the other parts.”

  He thrusts up his hips. “You can definitely have that part,” he says, all gravelly. He draws me in for a kiss, then whispers, “And all the other parts too.”

  “Good. I want all of you,” I say.

  “Have me,” he says, his voice vulnerable and all true.

  Like he is offering his whole self to me.

  He clears his throat and meets my gaze, his expression turning serious. “I meant what I said in New York. I’m working on a plan for us.”

  “Ooh, is it called the What-if Woman Loophole?”

  He laughs, but only briefly. “Something like that.”

  “So what is it? The plan?”

  “My agent is coming to town in a few days. I’m going to talk to him. Figure out the best way to navigate this whole . . .” He trails off, scrunching his brow. “Coming out thing?”

  I laugh at his wording. “That works. And so does your plan.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think talking to your agent is exactly the right way to do this. He sounds smart and strategic,” I say, wanting to be supportive through and through. I don’t want him to feel any pressure from me. His agent knows how to handle these situations much better than I do.

  But the fact that he has a plan thrills me.

  So, too, do these nights together. With Kevin Costner and Susan Sarandon playing faintly in the background, he asks me how the calendar is going.

  “I’ve started meeting with the sponsor and some of the athletes, including Rafe, who has the most adorable rescue mutt—it’s some kind of Norwegian elkhound crossed with a Chihuahua, so it looks like a little fox. I kinda wanted to scour all the rescues for one just like it.”

  His expression turns intensely serious. “Question. Do you think the dad was the elkhound or the Chihuahua?”

  I stare at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know, but I like to think the mama dog was the elkhound and maybe the Chihuahua dad had a footstool or something for easy mounting,” I say.

  Holden barks out a laugh, slapping his hand against the mattress. “Yes, he carries it around when he meets the tall lady hounds. He likes to be prepared for any encounter, large or small.”

  “Exactly. That’s why he’s so popular as a dog sire. The women find it quite considerate. Sometimes he brings biscuits too,” I say, and he loops his arm tighter around me.

  “He sounds perfect.”

  “They love him for his biscuits and his considerate humping style.”

  “You seem happy with the new gig. It’s your two-week anniversary there, right?”

  My eyebrows lift, and I smile. “Someone’s trying to impress me with his memory.”

  “Prepare to be astonished by this fact—I also know it’s your birthday in early October,” he says, tapping my nose with his finger.

  “Doubly impressed.”

  “But I got you a very early present,” he says with a devilish grin, obviously pleased with himself.

  “Holden, orgasms don’t count as presents.”

  As he reaches for a small gift bag on the nightstand, he says, “Gifts are gifts. Orgasms are mandatory.”

  Well, I can’t argue with that.

  Nor can I argue with the gift.

  I take a white short-sleeve sweater out of the bag. A pair of cherries are embroidered on the breast.

  “White for you. And red because it’s your power color.”

  I hold it up, grinning. “I have a meeting on Friday. It’ll be perfect for that.”

  “Excellent. Let’s keep the sweater here so you have to keep coming back every night till then.”

  “So sneaky,” I say, then set it down in the bag and kiss him, and the kiss turns into much more.

  On my way to work the next morning, my phone pings with a text.

  * * *

  Grant: Do you know what this weekend is?

  * * *

  Reese: Obviously.

  * * *

  Grant: And who are you rooting for in the first Dragons versus Cougars series of the year?

  * * *

  Reese: That is an excellent question. Can I plead the fifth?

  * * *

  Grant: Only if you don’t want tickets for the first baseline.

  * * *

  I nearly jump for joy, squealing with excitement.

  * * *

  Reese: The Cougars. Definitely the Cougars.

  * * *

  Grant: That was the right answer. I’ve got four tix for you. By the way, how’s everything with you-know-who? Do I dare to ask?

  * * *

  Reese: We’re seeing each other.

  * * *

  Grant: Oh, so it’s all official now?

  * * *

  Reese: Kind of. Almost. Soon it will be.

  * * *

  Grant: Ah, got it. Think you’ll level up?

  * * *

  Reese: I do. I hope so. At least, that’s the plan.

  * * *

  I send the text, then stare at it. Why do I sound like I’m trying to convince him?

  Or am I trying to convince myself?

  The next afternoon, I meet my mom during my lunch break, and we grab Indian food at a street vendor she’s been wanting to try. As she moans in culinary delight over the chana masala, she asks me how everything’s going at work.

  “Jillian is a mile a minute. Adriana is hilarious. They’re both smart and strong and fun.” I want to add that neither ascribes to rules that would limit love, but that’s not entirely the point of this mother-daughter talk.

  “It’s so great to work with good people,” she says. We sit at a picnic table in Hayes Valley, and she digs into the dish. “It’s good to have a job that speaks to your heart. Because sometimes when other things aren’t working, you need that—your career—to find your way through.”

  I pause my fork in midair. “Is that another one of your adages? Words to live by?”

  “When things were tough with your dad, I was honestly glad I had my job. It centered me, gave me focus.”

  “I’m glad I have my job too.” A voice in the back of my head asks if I’ll be glad I have it when things go sideways with Holden. Then I dismiss it. There’s no reason to think things will go in any direction but forward. That’s the plan.

  My mom asks more questions, wanting to know how Tia is, how Layla is, how Grant is. I answer all of them, updating her on my friends. “And this weekend, the Dragons are playing the Cougars. Do you want to go with me? Grant got four tickets. Or would that be weird, with Dad coaching and all?”

  She shoots me a don’t be silly look. “I still like baseball. Don’t worry. Your father didn’t ruin baseball for me. And he definitely didn’t ruin spending time with you and your friends. I would love to be your baseball date.”

  I smile, glad she’s up for it. But at the same time, I want to ask her more—like should I root for the Dragons or the Cougars? Should I root for the guy I’m falling for, or should I root for my best friend?

  Instead, I guide the conversation to other topics. That’s so much easier than telling her about the guy I’m kind of dating and kind of not.

  But not telling her makes him feel like a secret.

  And I hate secrets.

  28

  Holden

  The next afternoon, I meet Josh at a dive joint near the ballpark to grab a light meal before the game. We sit at the counter, and after we order, he dives into business. “And now, do you want to know why I’m really in town?”

  I flash him my best pro-baller grin. “Because you missed me?”

  “That and I have news for you,” he says with a glint in his eyes. “Potential good news for you.”

&n
bsp; Now’s my opening. “I have news for you too.”

  His shoulders tense. “You better not be dropping me.”

  I crack up. “Paranoid much?”

  “Damn straight. Every good agent is.”

  “Relax. I’m not dropping you. But you go first.”

  With a satisfied grin, he points at me. “You are doing damn fine work with your media image.”

  I give a slight bow of my head. “Thank you.”

  “So much so that advertisers are noticing.”

  That piques my interest, and I sit up straighter. “Tell me more.”

  “I’ve had a few meetings about you. About potential deals for a range of clients.”

  He shares a few more details until the food arrives, and when he wraps up, I give him a small smile. “Good to hear.”

  “We’re not going to celebrate yet, but it looks promising. I knew once you worked on your surly media attitude, we’d have more interest from sponsors, and it’s started to happen already. You did some fast work. Now you just need to maintain your choirboy rep.”

  I nearly choke on my chicken sandwich.

  I grab my glass of water, down some, and take a breath.

  It’s now or never.

  When I’m breathing fine again, he lifts a brow. “Since you’re not dying, want to give me your news?”

  I expected this to be hard.

  I figured I’d need an extra serving of guts to tell him my news.

  I don’t though.

  Turns out I’ve been prepping for this my whole life. Every night, I get into the batter’s box as a man on the mound launches fireballs at me.

  I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.

  “I met a woman,” I say.

  Josh beams, waving his hand in my direction. “Excellent. You’ve got a bit of that man-in-love vibe about you.”

  I smile. Wait till he hears who the woman is. “Yeah, that’s a fair assessment. She’s amazing, and I’ve absolutely fallen in love with her.”

  “This is fantastic. I couldn’t be happier,” he says, then takes a bite of his burger.

  The pitch flies over the plate. I swing. “She’s Edward Thompson’s daughter.”

  And it’s my agent’s turn to nearly choke on his lunch. After a few coughs and sputters, he gives me an anguished look. “Say that again?”

  “I met her a few years ago. Didn’t know she was his daughter. We reconnected right before Opening Day. I started seeing her. I’m in love with her,” I say, and I haven’t said those words to Reese exactly, but it feels fantastic to voice them aloud.

  Only, Josh doesn’t seem thrilled.

  He grimaces, sweeping his arm out to indicate the city of San Francisco. “Of all the women in this city, did you really have to fall in love with the coach’s daughter?”

  “Seems I did.”

  He drops his forehead into his palm. “Dear Lord, why are you testing me like this?”

  I laugh. “Sorry. Not sorry.”

  “Does Thompson know?”

  “Not yet,” I say, my stomach curling. I know that conversation won’t be easy. But it’ll be necessary.

  “Dude . . .” Josh says heavily.

  “You think he’ll bench me? Trade me?”

  Dragging a hand down his face, he groans. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Because you have one thing going for you in that regard.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not a playboy. You haven’t dated anyone publicly in a long time, so that’s good. If you were swinging your dick around town, that’d be an issue.”

  “No dick swinging here. In that regard, I have been a choirboy.”

  “Good. But still.” He raises his face. “The optics of this, man.”

  “Optics? Can you just speak English?”

  “If this comes out the wrong way, it could look bad.”

  “Sure. I understand that, but why is it inherently wrong?”

  The second I give that voice, something in me transforms. The concerns vanish because there’s nothing wrong with Reese and me.

  I square my shoulders and speak from the heart. “I mean, I get that there’s this whole taboo around it, but we’re both adults. We’re both making this choice. She’s not some off-limits seventeen-year-old siren. She’ll be twenty-five in the fall. I’m twenty-seven. We met through an interview for her podcast. We fell for each other. And when she left the country, I didn’t date anyone else. Nor did she. Now she’s back. What is so bad about this?” I say again, getting heated, pushing him for an answer beyond optics.

  A small smile tugs at his lips. “See, when you put it that way, it’s great. But you know as well as anyone that the media doesn’t always frame it the way you intend. That’s all.”

  I stab my finger against the counter. “So we control the story. We give them a part of us. A true part of us. We don’t have to give them every detail. But we give them a truth, because there is nothing wrong with the truth of me falling in love with her.”

  I sound like I’m giving a speech.

  And holy hell.

  I fucking am.

  Reese’s advice hasn’t just sunk in. It’s become a part of me. I don’t want to be the king of “no comment.” I don’t want to hide. And I don’t want to worry about optics.

  I want to be honest.

  I want the public to know who I am. Maybe not all of me. Maybe not every part.

  But Reese was right—I can share a true part of me, and that’s what I want to share.

  This true part.

  “Fuck optics,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with falling for the coach’s daughter if you love her and treat her right.”

  Josh stares at me, barely blinking. Then he shakes his head and slow claps. “You have my vote.”

  I furrow my brow. “So that means . . .?”

  “It means you make excellent points. But,” he says, turning that one-syllable word into ten, “would you just do me the solid of giving me a couple of days to figure out how to pull this off? I’ve got a ton of meetings in Los Angeles and an event to go to, but then we’ll put our heads together and do this right, okay?”

  I sigh but nod. “So I’ve sold you on this?”

  He stares at me. “If it were up to me, you’d date a figure skater who has zero connection to baseball. Or a professor of, I don’t know, French literature. But love doesn’t work that way. You like who you like, and you love who you love. My job, man, is to make sure you come across smelling like a million dollars. So give me some time to line up cologne that smells like money and good deals.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And then you can post a ton of shots of you and Thompson’s daughter making googly eyes at each other as you drink coffees by the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “Are you mocking my Instagram feed?”

  “I am indeed.”

  That I can handle. “A few more days is fine,” I say.

  Tonight, I’ll tell Reese that I’m getting closer.

  Before batting practice, Thompson strides into the locker room. Everyone goes quiet. We know why this series with the Storm Chasers is so important. They’re the last team the Dragons beat in the World Series a couple of years ago.

  The series where the Dragons cheated. When they stole signs.

  The series that would later reveal them to be the frauds they were.

  “Storm Chasers are here. They want blood.” Thompson paces the room. “But we’re going to show them we’re not the same team. We didn’t cheat. We’re not the ones who defiled the glorious game of baseball.”

  The guys nod and murmur their agreement.

  Gunnar crosses his arms over his chest. I bet he’s thinking how he’s one step removed from the Dragons on account of his half brother, their former right fielder, who’s no longer playing pro ball.

  “So, when they trash talk you when they’re on first base, when they mutter and swear when they’re at the plate, what are you going to do?”

  “Keep ou
r chins up,” I say. That’s true for the game and true for when I have my man-to-man with Thompson. But those sorts of convos don’t occur before games. The unwritten code is that game time, and the moments before it, is sacred.

  You don’t air your dirty laundry.

  You don’t ask for forgiveness.

  You put your goddamn game face on.

  He points at me. “That’s exactly right. Be better than that. They’re angry. They want revenge. But it’s not against you men. It’s against the organization—the idea of cheating. We’re moving past that. Hold your heads up high and don’t give in.”

  But the Storm Chasers are surprisingly chill.

  For the most part.

  The first baseman lays a hard tag on Gunnar in his first at bat, but that’s all.

  Beyond that, they don’t play dirty. They play clean, winning the first game.

  That sucks, but my post-game plans don’t.

  I see Reese that night at my place and give her the download on the Josh meeting in the afternoon, including what I realized.

  “And it hit me—the training you gave me was what I needed. Everything you said made sense. This only looks bad if we let it look bad. But saying it, making it public, telling the true story matters,” I say, clasping her hand tightly for emphasis.

  She beams. “I love that you feel that way. And that you have your agent’s support.”

  “He wants me to wait a few more days. Just so he can mull over what it’ll mean for the deals he’s working.”

  “Sounds smart.” She draws a deep breath. “So, does this mean you’re going to say something to my father?” Her voice is thin, threaded with nerves.