The Virgin Game Plan Page 23

  “That’s the only way to do it, right?”

  She sighs, then nods. “It is. But you’re telling him, right? We don’t need to do it together?”

  “Of course. I need to be the one to do it. It’s my issue, and he’s my manager. That’s what you want?”

  She squeezes my hand harder. “I do.”

  “Good.” I pull her close. “Want to know what else I told Josh?”

  “Sure,” she says, a smile still on her beautiful face.

  I slide a hand through her hair and say the easiest words ever. “That I’m in love with you.”

  Her eyes brighten to the most gorgeous shade of blue. “Oh, Holden, I’m so in love with you.”

  We kiss, and I don’t care that we lost the game. I don’t care at all.

  Not with her here in my arms.

  Not as we head to the bedroom, strip down to nothing, and tangle our bodies together. She pulls me close, asking me to be on top. “I want to be underneath you. I love feeling the weight of you,” she whispers, reminding me of the night she let me be her first, the words she shared.

  “What do you know? I love that too. And you, beautiful.”

  Like that, I make love to her, and it feels like another first time.

  And I suppose it is.

  The second game is rougher. The Storm Chasers leadoff hitter gets on base, then dives into third, his right hand going straight for Gunnar’s ankle like he’s trying to knock him flat.

  Motherfucker.

  “What the hell?” Gunnar shouts.

  The umpire takes a step closer to Gunnar, and from my spot, I can tell the ump is repeating “Safe.”

  “No way,” Gunnar says, and I trot over to third, setting a hand on his arm.

  “Let it go, bud. If it’s an issue, let it go to instant replay.”

  Gunnar huffs through his nostrils.

  The guy is chill and cool most of the time, a jokester with his teammates and even when the opposing players end up on his base. But wind him up? Cross him? There is indeed a dragon underneath.

  Tonight’s not the night, though, to unleash the fury.

  Gunnar breathes out heavily. “Fine. It’s gone,” he says, and we go on to win the game.

  In my second at bat in the last game, the pitcher fires off some chin music.

  In a split second, I jump away from the plate, getting as far out of the way of the ninety-five-mile-an-hour bowling ball as I can.

  Gritting my teeth, I step out of the box, adjust my glove, adjust my bat, take a few practice swings, and return, digging in.

  In baseball, you can’t be afraid of the ball. The difference between major leaguers and everyone else is that we aren’t afraid of a six-ounce ball whipping by us in less than 0.4 seconds.

  That also means you’ve got the blink of an eye to get out of the way of a pitch coming at you.

  When the pitcher lets loose a slider, I pivot, turning away from the ball coming at me.

  I curse as the ball slams into my ass, sending shockwaves of pain up and down my body. Hell, my teeth rattle.

  But it hits a soft spot rather than bone, and that’s all that matters.

  I drop the bat and trot down to first base. Getting hit by a pitch is literally my least favorite way of getting on base, but here I am, though my body is shouting, You fucking son of a bitch.

  I shake off the pain—the last thing I’ll let a pitcher think is that his stuff hurts. I want the Storm Chasers to think the opposite.

  That it didn’t hurt.

  That I’m unfazed.

  When I spot an opening, I steal second, then move to third when I tag up on a deep fly to right field. Home plate comes my way on a clean single to left.

  When I head into the dugout, I don’t let on that my ass is screaming. I just high-five the guys then lean against the dugout fence as the pain radiates.

  In the seventh inning, the game turns messier. As Gunnar slides into second to break up a double play, the Storm Chasers shortstop loses his shit, accusing Gunnar of a dirty slide.

  In seconds, the two men are shouting, then fists fly.

  I run straight for Gunnar, pulling him off the shortstop, breaking up the fight.

  “It’s not about you, man. It’s not about you,” I say.

  “Seems like it is,” he growls, and there’s the dragon. There is the chip on his shoulder.

  “Buddy, just let it go.”

  “Don’t want to . . .” he grunts, but his anger cools a few degrees.

  “You got it now?”

  “Fine,” he grits out.

  He breathes hard and heavy, and I walk him off the field, where he’s promptly ejected for the rest of the game, along with the shortstop.

  It’s a tense few innings, but we eke out a win.

  When I find him in the locker room after the game, his face is etched with contrition. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. That just stirred up everything,” he says.

  I give him a one-armed hug. “I hear ya. Just remember, I’ve got your back.”

  “Means the world to me,” he says, in a rare show of vulnerability. All his usual clowning around is gone.

  “Anytime. Just try to keep it off the field.”

  “I will. Thanks again.”

  Thompson nods at me as I head to my locker. He doesn’t acknowledge the hit pitch—unwritten code and all. Besides, the fight overshadowed it. “You’re doing great, Kingsley. Glad you’re here to lead this team.”

  Am I leading these guys?

  I’m just keeping my head down and playing the game.

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Appreciate what you did there in the seventh. It’s easy to start a fight. Harder to break it up. That’s important.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling weird taking compliments from him, knowing what I’ll be sharing with him soon.

  Part of me wishes I could tell him now.

  But now sure as shit isn’t the time.

  Tempers are high, and nerves are raw.

  Soon, I’ll tell him.

  Tonight, I just want to go home and see my woman.

  In the Lyft, I FaceTime with my parents.

  “Does your butt still hurt?” my father asks.

  I shoot him a look. “Dad. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t play those games with me. No need to be macho, Holden.”

  I heave a sigh. “Fine. A little bit. But I’ve had worse.”

  “That was some kind of retaliation pitch. A little misdirected,” my mother says.

  “Yeah, you think?”

  “But you showed them. Messy series, but you played a good game,” she says. “I saw your post-game interview too. You were diplomatic about the Storm Chasers. How they play hard and tough, but that’s just the game.”

  “Josh wants me to be chattier with the press,” I say. “He might be sewing up a new sponsorship deal for me. Guess the company likes the press-friendly image.”

  My dad flashes a cheesy grin. “As do I. You’ll get me the Bugatti I’ve always wanted then?”

  My mom cracks up, slugging his arm. “As if you even know what a Bugatti is.”

  “It’s a fast car.”

  “You love your Honda.”

  He shrugs. “Fine, fine, I love my little Honda. I wouldn’t even know what to do with a Bugatti.” He turns back to me. “How’s everything going out there? Are you settling in?”

  “I am. Life is good, and I—” I say, but then stop myself from setting free the words on the tip of my tongue. I met someone, there’s this woman, I want to tell you about her.

  I desperately want to tell them. I don’t just talk to my parents about baseball. We talk about life. We talk about hopes and dreams. Reese feels like one of those.

  But to sort this out properly, I need to be patient.

  “Does it hurt?” Those are the first words out of Reese’s beautiful red lips.

  Truth is, my ass hurts like a Bugatti rammed into it on the autobahn. “It hurt the whole game, but I don’t
give a fuck,” I say, reaching for her hand, pulling her close once I shut the door.

  I try to kiss her, but she’ll have none of that. “Did you put ice on it?”

  “On my ass? I won’t even answer that.”

  “Holden. Did you?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ve been hit with a pitch many times. I’m not icing my ass.”

  She rolls her eyes as we head to the kitchen. “Stop being so tough. You’re going to have some serious bruising tomorrow.”

  “It’s already bruised. It’s just my glute. He didn’t hit me with his chin music,” I say.

  She shoots me a sharp stare. “Don’t joke about that. This is serious, Holden.”

  I soften, my heart thump-thumping harder at her concern. “Nobody likes getting hit by a pitch. But it’s part of the game. It’s been part of the game since Little League. Everyone gets hit.”

  “And everyone acts like it’s fine on the field and in front of the guys. You’re not on the field now, and you’re not with the guys. And there’s no fight now at second where the dugouts empty because everyone’s pissed about the past,” she says.

  I huff. “Fine. It still hurts,” I mutter.

  “Then let’s ice it because you’re going to have some kind of goose egg tomorrow.”

  She leads me to the living room, sets down her purse, and tells me to sit on my right cheek. I do, giving her the evil eye the whole time. “I’d rather be fucking you.”

  “Ice first, sex second.”

  “Sex first,” I call out as she heads to the kitchen to grab an ice pack.

  When she returns, she asks where it hurts. I pull an Indiana Jones and tap my lip.

  “Your ass, silly,” she says with an eye roll.

  “You can kiss that too.”

  She laughs. “Where on your ass?”

  I point to the spot.

  She sets the pack on it, and I scowl at her. “It’s cold.”

  “Cold is good.”

  “Hot would be better. I bet your mouth is hot,” I say, wiggling my brows.

  “You’re incorrigible.” She holds the ice pack in place as it freezes my ass to igloo temps.

  “C’mon, beautiful. Kiss me while you ice me,” I say, offering my lips.

  “You’re relentless.”

  “I know what I want, and it’s not ice. And I know what I need, and it’s not ice either.”

  “Yeah? What is that?”

  I lean closer, sweeping my mouth over hers. “You.”

  She trembles slightly, her lips parting.

  Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. “I feel better now.” I lift a hand and cup her cheek.

  “Holden,” she says, but when I capture her lips in a kiss, her protests turn into sighs.

  Moans.

  Gasping breaths.

  Then I shove the pack off my ass, lie down on the couch, and bring her on top of me.

  I don’t give a flying fuck about the bruise.

  Her eyes swing to my butt, worry in her gaze.

  “Nothing hurts when your lips are on me. Trust me,” I say, answering her unspoken question.

  “You are such a cheeseball,” she says.

  “I’m a hornball. Now, you know the rules,” I say, all flirty now.

  “What rules?”

  “When a man gets hit by a pitch, his woman rides him till she comes hard and he comes hard.”

  She laughs while rocking against my thickening cock. “Am I your woman?”

  I nod, tugging her close. “I love you, Reese. What else would you be?”

  She just shrugs, her expression suddenly distant, her mouth falling into a straight line. She swallows, looking away briefly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

  “Something is wrong.”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . .”

  “You don’t think you’re my woman?”

  She shrugs. “Well. Sometimes we just feel like a secret.”

  My heart squeezes, and it’s double the pain of the pitch. I bring her close. “Not for long. I need you. I love you. I’ll call Josh tomorrow and tell him it’s time.”

  She shakes her head. “Forget I said anything. We’ll sort it out later.”

  She shifts me to my side so I’m not parked on my bruised ass, then she kisses me, soft and gentle.

  Her lips are a tender caress.

  I’ve got to do something soon.

  I have to keep her.

  That thundering in my heart? It’s rain and a hurricane. It’s a Category 5 barreling down on me.

  This is what I want. This tenderness. This concern. This care.

  Tomorrow, when my head clears, I’ll get on this stat.

  Call Josh. Move the timetable up.

  Tonight, I do what we’ve become particularly adept at. I strip her down to nothing and pull her close. We’re side by side, her naked body rubbing against mine, my cock sliding between her legs.

  Soon, the realization strikes me. That’s her bare flesh against mine.

  I break the kiss, panting hard. “We need a condom.”

  Do we? My eyes twinkle. “But then again, I haven’t been with anyone but you in two years. And if you’re on protection—I don’t know if you are, and I don’t want to assume anything, but if you are . . .”

  She stops me, pressing a finger to my lips. “I’m not, but I could start it. I could get on it.”

  “That would be amazing,” I say, groaning in anticipation of fucking her bare.

  That seems to seal the deal. Seems to say we’re doing this. We’re in this.

  Grabbing a condom from her purse, she rolls the protection down on me, then slides under me, tugging me on top. She guides me between her thighs, and I sink into heaven.

  As we make love, my certainty only intensifies.

  She’s the one for me.

  I know that as we come together, as we move to the bedroom, as we get under the covers.

  I know, too, that I’m ready to move this relationship into the spotlight, no matter what.

  There’s Josh and the sponsorship deal, and there’s my career and the coach. And there’s my chance with this new team.

  But here is this woman in my arms, curling up with me in my bed.

  She falls asleep, but I don’t.

  I grab my phone and find a message from my agent.

  He’s back in town tomorrow, and we’ll talk after the game.

  Good.

  I’m ready to move beyond these four walls, to stop worrying about what the media will say if they find out I’m the guy dating the coach’s daughter.

  I just want to be the guy who’s in love with Reese Fallon.

  I kiss her cheek and close my eyes. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Josh and figure out how to tell Thompson.

  I’ll devise a game plan.

  For now, what Declan said in New York rings true.

  There is no sort of with this kind of second chance.

  29

  Reese

  I wake in Holden’s arms, but he’s still sound asleep. My phone buzzes in my purse on the nightstand, and I reach over to grab it from the outside pocket, stretching past the gift bag with the sweater Holden gave me. I wore it yesterday to a meeting and love it as much as when I first saw it.

  Grabbing my phone, I slide open a text from my mother.

  * * *

  Mom: What do I wear to this baseball game? It’s been ages. Cougars gear, right?

  * * *

  Reese: Of course! We’re sitting in Cougar seats! Grant got me the tix. Tia and Layla are coming too.

  * * *

  Mom: I don’t want to crash your girl time at the game. You sure you want your mom there?

  * * *

  Reese: Yes. Obvs. We just won’t talk about sex.

  * * *

  Mom: Good plan. By the way, is that your way of telling me you have a boyfriend?

  * * *

  My face flushes.

  Is it?

>   I glance at Holden, sound asleep.

  I want to tell her everything.

  I want her to know who he is to me.

  I want to be his woman, and I want him to be my man.

  Right now, he’s my . . .

  I shudder, unable to say the word.

  Sidepiece.

  * * *

  I write back.

  * * *

  Reese: Ha. No. See you later.

  * * *

  Guilt spreads deep into my cells and fills me with dread, with shame.

  It’s all too familiar. It reminds me of who I was that day in Sacramento—wordless, voiceless, powerless.

  That’s the opposite of what I want to be.

  I haven’t said a word to my mother about Holden, about how I spent the last week with him. Granted, I’m an adult. I’m not required to tell her. But I’m holding back because Holden and I don’t exist beyond nighttime yet. I’m not going to the ballpark for the Cougars-Dragons game as his girlfriend. I’m going as Grant’s friend.

  Even if things will be different soon, they aren’t different now.

  That leaves a sour taste in my mouth, and it twists my stomach.

  I close the text thread, sit up in bed, and I know.

  With a bone-deep certainty, I know.

  I skipped a step.

  An absolutely critical one.

  A step I’ve been skipping since I was thirteen.

  There’s something I need to take care of. Something that has nothing to do with Holden.

  He flips to his back, still breathing deeply.

  Sound asleep.

  I swing my legs over the bed, pad to the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the shower. Twisting my hair into a bun, I step under the steam, wash up, and dress quickly, pulling on fresh clothes from my overnight bag.

  When I return to the bedroom, Holden stirs, rubs his eyes, and yawns. I sit on the edge of the bed, and he props himself up on his elbow, squinting at me. “You okay?”