The Virgin Game Plan Read online

  “You really don’t know who I’m talking about?”

  “No idea.”

  “The guy I interviewed,” I prompt. “The last interview I did at the end of our senior year, just before graduation.”

  Still nothing.

  I make a rolling gesture with my hand. “The red blouse with the black pearl buttons.”

  Her face lights up with recognition. “Oh! The professional one that also happened to make you look like you were on a date.”

  “You’re evil,” I say, laughing.

  The doorbell rings, and I follow her because it can only be Layla. Yanking the door open, Tia adds, “The interview was with the guy who gave you the tongue lashing of a lifetime the week before you left for South America.”

  Layla stands in the doorway, tall and goddess-like. Her brown eyes twinkle with questions. “I walked in at the right time, clearly.”

  She’s in town because it’s volleyball off-season, but she’ll be returning to Turkey soon. It’s her other home, since she fell in love with a Turkish woman on another team there.

  “Yes,” Tia tells her. “We were talking about a guy who made her knees shake. Her belly flip.”

  “The only guy who did that to her?” Layla asks.

  My cheeks flame red. “Yes. Holden. The baseball player. And neither one of you told me he was traded to the San Francisco Dragons at the end of last year.”

  Layla stares sharply at me. “One, good to see you too. Two, how the hell would I have known?”

  I wave it off. I’m only messing with them anyway. I wrap Layla in a hug that lasts a whole minute. “It’s so good to see you both,” I say with a happy sigh.

  “Same,” Layla says.

  “Double same,” Tia echoes.

  When I pull away, Tia arches a brow. “Now, back to your unfair accusation. Why would you think I would know that he’d been traded? I’ve been in my master’s program, not tracking Major League Baseball trades. And Layla was in Turkey, falling in love and playing her heart out. Plus, you went on one date with him.”

  Layla clears her throat. “Exactly. I haven’t been reading up on the off-season baseball trades.”

  I heave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. So you guys aren’t doing the stalking work that best friends should do. I guess I can forgive you.” I fling myself onto the couch in the living room as Tia grabs a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Layla snags three glasses from the kitchen and sits next to me.

  Once Tia joins us and we all have full glasses, she asks, “So, did you look him up? Is that how you know he’s in town?”

  Layla nudges me. “You checked out his social media, I bet.”

  I dip my head in shame. “Yes. I did.”

  “And is there a girlfriend in the picture?” Tia asks.

  “I have no idea. His Instagram feed is the occasional baseball pic amid coffee shots and images of the Golden Gate Bridge covered in fog.”

  Layla tries to stifle a laugh. “Is he an amateur photographer?”

  I laugh. “Apparently, he likes moody pictures of the city.”

  “Ooh la la. Isn’t he just an onion of a man?” Tia says, shimmying her shoulders.

  “Speaking of men, did you meet anyone in South America?” Layla asks, batting her dark eyes like a cartoon character floating on hearts and flowers.

  I fire her a look like she’s crazy. “You think I met someone and didn’t tell you? Hello! We texted. We FaceTimed. I would have told you if I’d gotten so much as tongue.”

  Layla shrugs saucily. “I didn’t want to presume, in case you were keeping secrets.”

  “I didn’t meet anyone.” I wasn’t looking. And I wasn’t tempted when I went out with the others in my media program. “Dating was just complicated with the job and moving to three different countries and working all the time. But I didn’t miss it.” It’s the truth—I didn’t date once, and I was mostly good with that. “Is that crazy?”

  Layla laughs. “I didn’t date either.”

  I shove her shoulder. “No, you just went and fell in love with the first woman you met.”

  “It happens. Love at first sight.”

  Tia rolls her eyes. “You and your perfect international romance.”

  “What can I say? Some women have got it going on,” Layla says, blowing on her nails, too hot to handle. Then she swings her gaze to me, her lips going ruler-straight, her eyes thoughtful. “But you know, it makes sense that you didn’t meet anyone. You didn’t go there for a man. You went there for you,” she says, tapping my sternum. “And you didn’t let Holden ‘Arms of Steel’ Kingsley hold you back from going either.”

  Tia lifts her chin to the ceiling and imitates a lioness. “You are woman. Hear you roar.”

  I join in, roaring too.

  Layla gets in on the big catcall as well.

  We crack up, and I loop an arm around one, then the other. “You’re the best. I missed you two. And you’re right. I didn’t let some hot-ass man stop me from making my big-girl career choices, and look where I am now. I have an awesome new job as a manager at a publicity firm—all because I have unique experience and my own damn podcast. Yay, me.”

  “You know it, friend.”

  “And besides, I moved on in my own way, focusing on work and myself. I’m sure Holden did too. He probably has a girlfriend. I’m not going to reach out.” I wave a hand airily. “Who cares, right?”

  “I will drink to that,” Tia says.

  We lift our glasses and toast, then Tia shoots me a knowing look. “And if anyone deserves time-out for not telling you, it should be Grant. He’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  After the requisite hug, I shove my BFF on the chest.

  News flash—Grant doesn’t move. He’s made of brick.

  “What the hell?”

  Tia waves a hand in my direction. “Good luck dealing with her ire. She’s already put us through the wringer.” She grabs Layla by the arm. “Let’s go get some food going while Reese tortures Grant.”

  “May the force be with you, Grant,” Layla calls out as she sails into the kitchen.

  The four of us were all friends in college, even though Grant is two years older. But the running joke was that he and I were a package deal.

  Grant and I have known each other pretty much our whole lives. We played sports together, grew up together. Escaped our homes together when the fighting between my parents or his parents became too much. We’d take refuge in my grandparents’ house or his. It didn’t matter, since our grandmothers were besties.

  Grant and I discovered boys together too.

  He took a little longer to decide he only liked boys. He dated a few girls in high school, but the reports when he returned home from the movies, or coffee, or pizza were all, It was so-so, or It was whatever, or I’m just not that into her.

  When he came out to me as gay at the end of high school, I was so happy for him to be living his authentic life, though that was an intense time for him.

  As we flop onto the couch, he drags a hand through his messy dark-blond hair. “So, what did I do wrong?”

  I peer at him, playing at being over-the-top annoyed. “Holden Kingsley.” I pause like a cross-examiner waiting for a response, even though I’m the one who has a confession to make. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  He raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t do him. He’s straight as an arrow.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know that! The issue is you didn’t tell me that he was traded to the San Francisco Dragons.”

  He raises a curious brow. “Should I have? There were about a hundred other trades in the off-season that I didn’t tell you about either. But if you want me to keep you apprised, we can discuss a revision to our friendship pact along those lines. Grant Blackwood is hereby responsible for keeping Reese Fallon informed of all Major League Baseball trades. This may be exhausting, ridiculous, and downright silly, but if she deems it important, Grant will do it.”

  “Thank you. That’s how
our friendship works.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. Then he stops, quirks up his lips, and studies me. “Hold on a minute, girl. Did you fail to mention something about that day with Holden? Did you get more than an interview with him and not dish the dirt?”

  And that’s my confession. I never told him about that night. I wince, a tiny smidge of guilt for keeping that to myself.

  My gut twists as I serve up the truth. “Holden and I had a thing the night of the interview. It was amazing, but I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want anything to affect how you saw him as a player, an opponent, or a teammate if he ever became one.”

  His eyes narrow, and he growls. “You’re in trouble.”

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you everything, but I truly didn’t want you to go all overprotective big brother if you decided you didn’t like him or if it didn’t work out with him and me.” I sigh. “But then it didn’t work out anyway because I went to South America.”

  His expression shifts from mildly annoyed to six ways of delighted. “You banged him. You lost your V-card to Holden Kingsley, and you never told me. Who’s in trouble now?”

  I nip that falsehood in the bud. “We didn’t bang. I swear. We, um . . .”

  Do I tell him? Does he want those details?

  He gives me big blue I’m waiting eyes. “I can handle it. I’m not afraid of anything about the female anatomy. I’m not gonna make an eww face.”

  “I know you’re not. I can still recall the night you let me take a bath in your hotel room before your first Major League opening day.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t watch you take a bath.”

  “Well, obviously. Also, I still miss that tub.”

  He makes a rolling gesture with his hand. “Spill.”

  I huff, then relent. “We kissed and . . .”

  “You can say it.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “Was it second base or”—he gasps—“third base?”

  I swat his shoulder, then whisper, “Third base.”

  That earns me a high-five. “And how was it? Did you fake it? Fall asleep during it? Or did he send you to Orgasm Falls?”

  I laugh. “Is that a new location in Candy Land?”

  “It is. You’ll find it a little east of Blow Job Commons. Just south of Lollipop Woods.”

  “Are those two of your favorite locations in the board game?”

  He licks his lips salaciously. “Among them. But I also like Hand Job House, which is a hop, skip, and a lick away from Rim Job Lagoon, another great place to visit.”

  I smack my hand again on his made-of-steel shoulder. “I almost forgot how naughty you are.”

  “Should I have sanitized my mouth for you? Eased you in gently? Maybe left the rimming mention till dessert or coffee?”

  “No way. I’ve missed your pure, unfiltered mouth.” I dip my voice to a whisper. “Even though I know you talk a good game. Need I remind you of what you told me the last time we all went dancing?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I gave you my confession that I’m hardly the player everyone thinks I am.” He brings his finger to his lips. “I have secrets to keep.”

  For a few seconds, his eyes darken, and his tone goes more intense than I’d expect. Like his secrets are deeper than the ones he’s shared already. Ones about his first time. About how he still sometimes misses that guy.

  But maybe now about something else?

  I might be reading into his expression, but I swear there’s something new in his eyes. A new secret.

  “Speaking of unfiltered mouths,” he says, interrupting my meandering thoughts as he makes a rolling gesture with his hand. “You went there with Kingsley?”

  “That night nearly two years ago, we went there. Tongue Palace, I believe it’s called. And it was earth-shatteringly, toe-curlingly, knee-weakeningly good.” I draw a deep breath. “We also made plans that night to get together a second time. To see each other again.”

  “Even though it was long-distance?”

  “Yes. And we texted for a week until I left the country.”

  “Damn. You guys really liked each other,” he says, his tone serious now.

  A smile forms, unbidden, at the memory. “Yes. Are you surprised?”

  “Not that he liked you. You’re awesome and fantastic, and any man who goes out with you should want to marry you. I just haven’t been able to get a read on him when it comes to dating and women.”

  Something doesn’t compute. “How would you get a read on him?”

  “He’s buds with Crosby, my third baseman. I’ve hung out with him and Crosby a few times since he moved to town.”

  Ohhhhhhh.

  This could be useful. Way more revealing than social media.

  “So, is he seeing anyone?” My voice pitches upward with hope.

  But Grant dashes that quickly with a scoff. “No clue. We’re not super tight. More like workout buds who debate random shit, like whether Harrison Ford was better as Indy or Han Solo.”

  I stare sharply at him. “Indy. Always Indy. Brilliant archaeologist by day, Nazi-fighter by night.”

  “Han. Had a better love story,” he answers decisively. Opinions, we have ’em.

  Grant leans back into the couch cushion, looking all casual and cool in his jeans and tight gray T-shirt. “Anyway, why are you asking if he’s seeing anyone? What’s going on for real, Reese? Are you still hung up on him because of what happened a couple of years ago?”

  When he phrases it like that, I shake my head, thinking I should pry the man loose from my mind. “No, but I have fond memories because I was going to have sex with him. I was going to sleep with someone for the first time, but then the night ended too soon. His flight was canceled, and he had to catch an earlier plane. I probably think about him more because of that. Do you know what I mean?”

  His blue eyes twinkle with understanding. “I absolutely understand the fond memories of your first time,” he says, the slightest bit wistful. Is he still hung up on the shortstop for the New York Comets like he was for a while? A long, long while.

  Understandably.

  I study his expression, then ask softly, “Have you heard from him lately? Declan?”

  Grant nibbles on the corner of his lips. “Yes.”

  My eyes pop. “Tell me.”

  He sighs heavily. “I’m not sure it’s my story to tell right now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just that. Bear with me, okay?”

  I huff. “Seriously?”

  He nods, his eyes intense. “Yeah, I promise.”

  I’m dying to know what’s up, but I also respect that he may not be ready to tell me.

  The last time we talked about Declan was before I left the country, when Grant went dancing with Layla, Tia and me. At the club, he admitted just to me that he still missed Declan. I was surprised since he’d seemed so low-key about his ex at that point. But then, he definitely wasn’t low-key after his first spring training.

  “But how about you tell me more. Why did it feel right with Holden?”

  “Feeling right” was a topic the two of us discussed over late nights in my dorm or his dorm, or the commons. How would I know when it was right? We could debate it endlessly as we considered the guys at college. Considered then often dismissed them. No one floated my boat. Or his. We were such peas in a pod.

  As for Grant, he waited until he was twenty-two.

  I was twenty-two when I met Holden.

  Maybe that was the magic age for both of us.

  “It felt right at the time, even though we hardly knew each other,” I explain. “I liked Holden a lot, even in such a short time. He was respectful. He was interested in me as a person. And we just . . . connected. This might sound crazy, but I felt like I knew him. Do you know what I mean?”

  Grant squeezes my thigh, a reassuring touch. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  I scoot closer. “Is that how it was with Declan that first time?”

 
He takes a few seconds, maybe falling back in time, into memories. “It felt right,” he says softly. “It always felt right.”

  Right.

  That’s how my one night with Holden felt.

  “That makes sense. I felt that too—like I’d have no regrets with Holden,” I say. “Even if I didn’t see him again. But then when we talked about seeing each other again, it felt even more right. Almost . . . fated. But fate had other plans.” Time to let go of thoughts of my almost first time once and for all. I fasten on a bright smile. “So, when I meet the next guy that feels right, I’ll know what to look for—someone I’ll have no regrets with.”

  “That sounds like a game plan.”

  We shift gears and talk about work, with his season kicking off in a few days. This week, I’m starting my new gig with a sports marketing firm in the city that does some great work with nonprofits.

  We chat about that, then join Layla and Tia for dinner.

  Here I am, together again with my closest friends.

  In the same city as my mom.

  Sharing food, laughs, and hugs, chatting about all the little things we didn’t talk about over FaceTime or text during the last couple of years.

  Tia tells us about a new podcast she is in mad love with called Badass Babe. It’s for women and by women, and it’s all about being productive, successful, and taking no shit, she says.

  I download it immediately to my phone.

  Layla confesses that though she loves Istanbul, she feels a little lost not knowing the language well enough, and she misses home. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability for her.

  “Well, I personally wouldn’t complain if you were in San Francisco,” I add, then turn to Grant. “And give me all the details you didn’t share when I was gone. What have you been up to?”

  Narrowing his blue eyes, he hums as if deep in thought. “Not much, to be honest. Just busy with work, you know.” He takes a beat, raises his left hand, and strokes his chin.

  Oh, so blatant.

  “Oh! I remember. I did win a World Series,” he adds.

  Like I didn’t know. Still, I grab his hand and gawk appropriately at the gaudy thing.

  It’s so good to be back.

  To have this time with these people.