And the sparks that flew like an electrical wire.
What is she up to in South America? What is she doing? Does she still wear a lot of red? Does she keep in touch with her friends? Does she dig teaching kids about media and podcasting?
A smile tips my lips as I remember my what-if woman.
I haven’t googled her in ages. I did at first, right after I met her. I found exactly what I thought I would—pics of her with her friends on her Instagram and her podcast website.
Last time I checked her feed, she’d posted a shot of a pair of teenage girls in Bogotá who’d started a podcast about art heists, with a caption that said, Proud of these two!
That was it.
I haven’t checked since then. There’s no point.
A few minutes later, Vince returns with my drink—espresso and a bit of warm milk—along with a soy latte for himself.
“Knew about the cortado from the college interview. The one with the podcaster. Good stuff there,” he says, and I try to give nothing away, to keep the smile spreading inside me from showing too much. “Helped me a lot with background info.”
“We had a good chat,” I say, keeping things friendly but kind of generic, like Carlotta said.
“Thanks for doing this interview. I always like talking to local personalities. Getting to know them. Seeing why they love the city.”
“Can’t beat the rain. Well, as long as there are retractable roofs for playing ball.” Not a bad platitude. This is going to be easier than I thought.
He smiles then dives into the meat of the interview, asking standard questions about the game, why I love it, what I want for next season.
Then he peppers me with questions about growing up here. I keep it vague but positive, giving him some nuggets about the Ballard Locks and my favorite coffee haunts for color, but keeping my life and family close to the vest. Because family is private.
Except when it’s not.
When the piece runs the next week, it’s a dissection of my parents—how they met, where they teach, where they live. It might as well include a picture of their house and the route my brothers take to school.
Oh, because that’s in there too. “When Kingsley was called up to the major leagues,” Vince writes, “the first thing he did was yank his younger brothers from public school, putting them in one of the city’s swank and high-priced private high schools. He believes those are better than the public schools he attended, citing woeful inadequacy in public education.”
I see red.
I call Carlotta. “I said none of this. He must have dug up all this info on my parents and then made up this shit about my brothers. I said nothing of the sort.”
“I’ll talk to Vince.”
But the damage is done.
This article makes me look like a bougie prick in my hometown. My brothers don’t say much, but Mom lets it slip that they got hassled at school for being little chess pieces in my life.
The press can fuck off.
I’m done with talking to the media.
From now on, it’s baseball and only baseball. That is all.
Over the next year, I keep my head down and avoid the media. I become good at barking “No comment” to nearly every request, because that’s the only thing I have to say.
My life is baseball—the game and my friendships with other players, guys on my team, like Shane, and guys on other teams, like Crosby Cash, who mans third base for the San Francisco Cougars.
Crosby and I trade a few hitting tips at the All-Star Game, and I pass on Edward Thompson’s advice.
I absorb it even deeper too, continuing to make a few more adjustments at the plate. Little ones, shifting by increments. It works—I pop my batting average up six more points, finishing the year with some of the best stats in the league.
Trouble is, it’s not enough for my team.
The LA Bandits are sagging, well out of playoff contention.
But other teams are noticing me.
That’s what Josh Summers, my shark of an agent, keeps telling me. I’m trade bait, apparently.
“You’re getting lots of interest, Holden,” he tells me at the end of October when we meet in New York.
“Keep me posted.” There’s not much else to say. Being traded isn’t up to me.
When my cell buzzes in late December while I’m vacationing with my family in Costa Rica, I’ve got a feeling I know why Josh is calling.
“What’s up, Summers?”
“You. As in your baseball stock. It’s been rising. How would you feel about going to the San Francisco Dragons?”
I wince. “The team that’s best known for cheating its way to two World Series in the last five years?”
“Yep,” he says.
“Then I feel like they’re pretty much the scourge of baseball.” But the question is rhetorical; I don’t actually have a choice in the matter. Still, I have to try—anywhere but the Dragons. “How about the New York Comets? That’d be awesome. Or Seattle.”
“We’ll work on that for the future. For now, keep this in mind—the Dragons were the scourge of baseball. The organization has completely cleaned house. They just brought in a new partial owner with some deep pockets. Plus, with the year you had and the money they have, we should be able to avoid arbitration and get you a fat raise.”
That piques my interest.
I pace along the beach, watching my little brothers tackle the waves. Horribly. They tackle the waves absolutely horribly. But they do it fearlessly, getting back on their surfboards again and again, going over and over.
Having a blast.
They’ll be going to college soon.
College isn’t cheap, and I don’t know if they’ll get scholarships like I did.
Players get traded all the time early in their careers. I don’t have enough service to have a no-trade clause, no matter how little I want to play for a team known for their roster-wide sign-stealing scandal. Blatant, shameless sign-stealing, with team staffers banging trash can lids in the stands to signal the pitches—pitches they knew were coming thanks to cameras surreptitiously installed in the ballpark.
“All the players who were part of the cheating scandal are gone,” Josh continues. “The coaches are all gone. The organization did a complete overhaul from stem to stern. And they want a clean-up hitter, and your name is among the possibilities.”
My shoulders straighten. I’ve been batting sixth. There is no more prestigious spot in the lineup than fourth. “For real?”
“That’s how they’re looking at you. They want someone who could anchor their lineup for several years. They’re bringing in all-new players. Guys with good reps. Solid backgrounds. No cheating. They’re conducting a nationwide search for a new manager too.”
Scrubbing a hand across the back of my neck, I nod a few times, liking the sound of this more and more. “That seems promising.”
“So, what do you want me to tell them?”
I give a dry laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t really have much of a say.”
Josh clears his throat. “No. They’re trading you, Holden.”
That doesn’t make sense. “But I’m still cheap. I’m not a salary drag.”
“True, but the Bandits want prospects, and more than that, the Dragons want a star player. So it works for both teams. And I think it’s a good move.”
I stare out at the waves crashing against the shore as my parents read under their umbrellas, enjoying their life, enjoying this trip that I made possible.
What difference does it make if I play for the losing LA Bandits or a pockmarked team in San Francisco? I’ll go because that’s the job, and the job is what I’m devoted to. Besides, I’ve got friends in San Francisco on the other team, and it’ll be good to see them.
I fasten on a smile. This is what I signed up for. “I guess I better pack my bags for San Francisco.”
There’s one more thing about San Francisco. It surfaces from my subconscious and demands attention, no ma
tter how hard I try not to consider the fact that San Francisco is Reese Fallon’s hometown.
It doesn’t matter. It’s a big world, and has been almost two years since the day we met and parted ways. If she’s not still in South America, she could be anywhere, and as long as she’s happy, that’s fine with me.
And if she is back in California, what are the odds a woman like her is still single?
9
Reese
As I roll up my retro blouses, tucking them neatly into my suitcase, I FaceTime with my mom back in San Francisco.
“I hope I can still recognize you when I pick you up at the airport,” she teases. “You’ve been gone so long, who knows?”
“Well, you are looking at me right now, so that might help,” I point out.
She taps her chin, studying me as she stirs a pot on the stove. Dan dan noodles—she’s currently addicted, thanks to her favorite food blogs. She promised she’d make them for me when I return. “I suppose that’s true. I’ll look for someone who looks like you.”
“Excellent plan, Mom.” I roll up a pair of jeans next. “Did anything change while I was gone? Golden Gate Bridge is still there for tourists to photograph when they’re not on the trolley?”
“Sounds about right. But what I want to know is this—will you miss Peru and Colombia when you’re back here?”
That’s an excellent question. I’ve loved my time here in these countries and Chile as well. My adventurous heart adored exploring the city of Lima and walking along a paved path overlooking the Pacific Ocean from the edge of a cliff. On weekends I visited the botanic gardens in Bogotá and went snowboarding in the Andes near Santiago. Every day, I checked out markets, food trucks, and street vendors as part of my life’s mission to sample new flavors and cuisines.
But more than that, I learned tons from the work.
I’d like to think the girls I taught learned a lot as well, not just about broadcast and new media. Discovery goes both ways—that’s what my counterparts who’ve traveled to the US have said as well.
I’ll miss the eager eyes and the ravenous hearts of so many of the teenagers, like the girls in Bogotá who started an art heist podcast that’s becoming trendy.
But I’ve scored a great job back home, and a place to live, which is no small thing in San Francisco. It’s an attached studio off a home that Tia’s family owns in the city, and I’ll get to see my mom again and my sister in San Diego from time to time. Plus, it’ll be a touch easier to do my podcast when I’m stateside, though keeping it up abroad wasn’t difficult.
“I’ll miss it here,” I tell Mom, “but it’ll be good to be home. I can’t wait to see you, and Layla and Tia, and Grant. I’ve missed everyone. I’m ready to start the next phase of my life,” I say, with a deep but resolute inhalation. I’m twenty-four, with a birthday in the fall. “I’ll be glad to be in San Francisco when I turn a quarter century.”
“Good,” she says with a motherly smile. Then her expression turns serious. “I wanted to let you know something though.”
My heart stops, then starts up again, rabbit-fast. “That’s not a good way to start a conversation. What’s going on?”
“It’s not bad. Just that your father is moving back to town.”
My brow furrows. “He is? Last time we talked, he was in Atlanta.”
“True, but he and . . .” She frowns, trying to remember the name of wife number three. “He and Becky are moving back here. She’s having a baby.”
I groan and slump down on the bed in my tiny apartment in Lima. “For real?”
My heart squeezes, making a painful knot in my chest, and I’m not even sure why. Maybe because my relationship with my father isn’t simply strained—it’s painful at times.
“Yes. For real. I thought you’d want to know.”
I nod, my head aching. “Does that mean I have to, I dunno, go to a baby shower?”
My mom’s quiet for a second, then she adopts a big toothy smile. A big, uncomfortable toothy smile. “You don’t have to do anything.”
I scoff, chasing it with a light laugh. “One of your many adages. You can always say no.”
“Exactly. So say no if you want,” Mom says breezily. “But an invitation is probably forthcoming. He’s spoken to your sister, though Kelsey doesn’t know if she’ll make it up from San Diego. But I imagine you’ll get an invite too.”
My stomach twists.
I haven’t seen my dad since high school, when he brought the woman he’d been cheating on wife number two with to my graduation ceremony and then to my graduation dinner.
“Did you really need to bring Vanya here?” I’d hissed at him, tossing an acrid stare her way as we moved to the corner of the auditorium, the tassel from my cap falling in my eyes.
“Sweetheart, that isn’t a nice way to talk to the woman I’m going to ask to marry me.”
Vanya clutched his arm and shot me a simpering smile.
I hated her on sight. Hated her white-blonde hair, her stick-thin body, her Barbie-pink lipstick.
“We’ll become friends, Reese,” she cooed.
I rolled my eyes all the way to France. “We will never be friends.”
“Reese, give her a chance, please,” he pleaded as he pulled me aside after telling her he’d be back in a minute. “I think she’s the love of my life.”
“Dad, you say that about every woman. Every woman you cheated on Mom with,” I pointed out.
He blanched like I was crazy, like I was a revisionist historian. “That’s not true,” he said. “I didn’t cheat on your mother. I fell in love with someone else.”
“That’s literally cheating,” I hissed.
“It’s not the same.” That’s my dad—he could massage anything to fit his point of view. “So, please, try to be nice to Vanya tonight.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I did not, in fact, do my best. I ignored her at dinner.
My father and I barely spoke when I went to college, with me sending occasional emails as he moved to Atlanta with Butterscotch, or Capricorn, or whoever his next woman was. Not Vanya though. He split from the supposed love of his life a few weeks after I met her.
Then, sometime in the last few years, he met Becky, and now they’re coming home.
“So, what brings him back to San Francisco?” I ask Mom.
“I think Becky has a job in the city. She works for some biotech company.”
My jaw tightens, and my shoulders tense. This is how I always react to my dad.
But I try to put him out of my mind.
My dad is who he is. I am who I am.
He’s barely in my life at all.
I plaster on a smile. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Now, when I get back, I want diner food first. A salad and fries.”
She laughs. “That’s not diner food.”
“In my book, it is.”
On the flight home the next day, my mind returns to my dad, to Becky, and to the invitation I suspect is winging my way.
Odd that after all the affairs and girlfriends, he never fathered more children. Now, I’m nearly a quarter century, and I’m going to have a half-sibling.
My gut churns with the weirdness of it all.
With music blasting from my phone, I turn to the window, resting my cheek against it, staring at the sea far below.
I’ll have a half brother or half sister.
It’s a strange notion, and I’d rather not think about my dad.
My brain helpfully, or not so helpfully, replaces those thoughts with images of Holden.
From time to time over most of the last two years, I’ve meandered to the man who captivated me. I’ve checked in on his career every few months. He’s taken baseball by storm, jacking in runs, fielding like he has a golden glove, and staying out of the public eye.
I’ve found little on him, but that’s okay. I never dig for long, since I don’t want to be a stalker.
A virgin stalker, at that.
> I didn’t meet anyone abroad. No surprise—I didn’t go to South America to find a boyfriend.
But a rising baseball star? Even for a guy who’s not into hookups, I bet he’s had women by the truckload since our night together.
Hell, he’s probably even paired up. I bet he’s found a girlfriend.
Maybe even a wife.
I close my eyes, willing the thoughts of him to quietly slink off.
But they don’t.
They set up camp.
When I land and my cell service returns, I do something I haven’t done in months.
I google Holden Kingsley.
Present Day
End of March
10
Reese
I launch myself at Tia, hugging the hell out of her, octopus-style, in her doorway.
And I squeal. Shamelessly.
She squeals too, and we become a cacophony of oh my God, I missed you so much, it’s so good to see you again.
When we eventually tear ourselves apart, I park my hands on my hips. “You’re in so much trouble.”
She jerks her head back. “How did I get in hot water while you were out of the country?”
“You’re in trouble for not telling me vital facts.”
She holds up a stop-sign hand. “You’re renting the studio next to my boyfriend and me, and the first thing out of your mouth is that I’m in trouble?”
“Yes. Also, say hi to Wayne, wherever he is.”
“I’ll pass on your regards to my man.” She rolls her eyes. “Now, please let me know what I allegedly did.”
As she shuts the door, I set down my bag and walk into the tiny living room of her home in Hayes Valley, which is owned by her aunt, a wildly successful art dealer in the city.
“You didn’t tell me that Holden was in town.”
She scrunches up her face. “Holden?”
“Hello?” I give her a look. A how on earth can you not remember Holden look.
Still, she draws a blank.
The Virgin Game Plan Page 8
