“I work for a PR firm in town,” Reese answers.
My mind spins like a Tilt-A-Whirl. She can’t have said that—in town. No way is that possible. “You work in San Francisco now?” I hold all the breath in the world. That would be too good to be true.
She probably has a boyfriend.
She can’t possibly be single.
Lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice.
“I do. I just returned a few days ago. I got this amazing job here, and I’m still doing my podcast.”
My eyes widen. “You’re really back,” I say with wonder. Yeah, can’t make long sentences, can’t hide that I’m awestruck. Nothing to do but forge ahead. “How was it?”
“Amazing. Life-changing. I learned so much. I feel like I can tackle anything, even things I don’t know how to do yet. But that’s the biggest skill I’ve learned.” She grins, then waves a dismissive hand. “I’m going on and on.”
“I want to hear all about it though. It sounds amazing.”
“It was. And you’ve been playing great.” She gestures to me, her hand nearly grazing my chest. Let it graze me, beautiful. “I check in on your stats from time to time.”
I square my shoulders, pride spreading through me. “It’s been a good two years when it comes to baseball.”
“Seems like it.”
I stare, mesmerized, drinking in those blonde waves, those crystal blue eyes, those lush red lips.
“You’re still wearing red,” I say, low and husky.
She tries to rein in a grin, but then she nods, her voice sensual, inviting. “I am.”
Lust trips through my veins.
“You look . . .”
But before I finish the thought with spectacular, gorgeous, like a dream come true, I stop because—what if she’s involved?
She reads my thoughts though. She must because she blurts, “Holden, I’m single,” like it’s a thing she’s been dying to tell me.
Well, it’s the thing I’ve been dying to know.
I inch closer. We’re maybe a foot away from each other here in this nook, away from the party. “Me too.”
“Yeah?” She licks her lips.
“Yes.”
Everything buzzes. Everything is electric. “I feel like I’ve gone back in time.”
“Like it’s that night again,” she says, her words sizzling over my skin.
“Maybe it can be,” I offer.
“What happens next?”
“Want me to tell you or show you?”
“Show me,” she says, so irresistible.
I close the distance, cup her cheek in my hand, then lock eyes with her.
I bring my face close to hers. The stutter of her breath makes me hot, turned all the way on. Dusting my lips across her forehead, I tease her, pressing a kiss there, inhaling her scent.
I move down to her eyelids.
Leaving gentle kisses there.
She whimpers.
I take my time, letting her know how I have missed this. She responds with body language, inching closer, shuddering, sighing. I drag my thumb down her cheek.
“So soft, so sexy,” I whisper.
“Kiss me, please,” she says as she trembles.
“I’m getting there,” I say as I kiss her jaw, inching along her gorgeous face. Then I pull back, taking in her expression.
It’s one of exquisite torture.
Her lips part. Her breath comes fast.
I need to have her.
I capture her mouth with mine, and I kiss those red lips.
Moaning and sighing, we consume each other like lovers reunited.
She tastes sweet and sultry, like the woman I couldn’t get enough of. I drag her against me, hauling her as close as can be, feeling the press of her body as I kiss her with the same ferocity I felt that night.
Is this lust?
Desire?
Two years of horniness, pent-up and unleashed?
Who knows? Who cares?
All I know is this kiss is going to my head.
We kiss hard and passionately, then slow and soft, and when we break apart, I laugh softly—a relieved, joyful laugh.
“Nice to see you again,” I whisper.
“It’s very good to see you,” she says, and that mix of sexy yet still innocent is such a delicious cocktail. A drink that makes me want more, makes me want to get closer to her.
I play with a strand of her hair. “Want to pick up where we left off?”
“I do.”
“Good. Because I want to see you, take you out, take you home with me. I want to start up again,” I tell her, determined to make this happen. When your What-If Woman walks back into your life, you don’t let her go. Especially since we’ve got the same click, the same connection as before. Or maybe, a connection that’s even stronger.
One we both want to nurture.
“I want all that too,” she says, seeming giddy over the prospect of an us. The us we wanted to have before—the chance to date, to be a thing, to be more than one night.
We were never going to be a hookup then, and we aren’t now either.
Funny how I was with my college girlfriend for a year and never felt this intensity. But with Reese, I feel so much damn certainty, so much possibility.
I won’t let her slip away this time.
No way.
Here in the alcove, we talk, catching up on life, as she tells me about her friends and her new job, then asks me more questions about baseball and what I’ve been up to.
I tell her the good news I got just before the party about the new manager. “I’ve been on edge, hoping for a great new manager. Someone to help revamp the team. And this guy is terrific. I even met him a year or so ago, randomly in Seattle. And he gave me a great piece of advice about my stance that changed my game.”
“That’s awesome,” she says, eyes alight with excitement. “Who is he?”
“Edward Thompson,” I say, still stoked that he’s coming to town. “He has a great reputation from what I know of him. Solid utility player over eight years. Terrific minor league manager. Amazing broadcaster.”
All the color drains from her face. She gulps. Winces. Clears her throat.
“What’s wrong, beautiful?”
A deep line creases her forehead. “He’s my father.”
14
Reese
That’s my father for you.
He can ruin a night faster than a speeding bullet, crush new romance more powerfully than a locomotive, and destroy hope in a single headline.
He’s Super Dream Destroyer.
So typical of the man to find a way to steal my joy yet again. I bet this is the real reason he returned to California, not for Becky’s job. I bet he’s been squirreling away this little nugget of news to spring whenever it suited him, never thinking how it would affect anyone else.
Clenching my jaw, I start to grind my teeth, something I haven’t done since I was younger.
Something I did when I was thirteen, when I discovered he was cheating. I’d gone one evening to a minor league game he was coaching—at his invitation. Attending was no hardship because I loved baseball—loved it to the marrow of my bones.
My mom was working late at the hospital, so I went alone. My volleyball game was canceled, so I left San Francisco early, catching a bus to Sacramento. When I arrived at the ballpark, I found him locked in an embrace with a woman who was not my mother, his wife.
Tears stinging my eyes, hurt squeezing my chest, I turned around, caught another bus home, and told him later I’d never made it to the ballpark.
I could barely sleep that night.
And the next, and the next.
In bed, nothing drowned out the siege of questions. Do I tell Mom? Do I tell Dad I know? Do I tell my sister?
After a few weeks of teeth-grinding, tossing, and turning, I finally decided to tell my mom. But when I sat down to say the hardest words I’d ever have to say, she looked at me with sympathy and kindness in her
bright blue eyes. “I know, sweetie. I’ve known for a few months.”
At age thirteen, already taller than she and all kinds of gawky, I crawled into her lap and sobbed.
We both did, comforting each other over his infidelity.
A few days later, he moved out.
A few weeks later, he moved in with that woman.
I didn’t go to another one of his games for a long time. For months, I turned my back on baseball too. Part of me wanted to hate the sport. To vilify the game.
But Grant was playing in his first high school championship, and when I begrudgingly went to the series to root for my friend, I realized that baseball was so much more than my father. It was my friends. It was my own love of sports.
I refused to let my father destroy the game I’d loved since I was a little girl. I wouldn’t let him take that from me too.
I made baseball my own, separate from him, starting with my name, jettisoning his for my mother’s.
For more than a decade, he drifted in and out of my life like the wind.
Now he’s grafted himself back on to me.
Holden’s eyes are lined with misery. He swallows, parts his lips, and finally manages to speak. “He’s your father? For real?” he croaks, like each word tastes bitter and acrid, like burned food, or the taste of metal.
“Yes,” I say coolly. “I am Edward Thompson’s daughter. And I don’t use his last name. I haven’t used it ever since he—”
I cut myself off. I could so easily launch into a litany of all the reasons I don’t like my father. But the look in Holden’s eyes mere seconds ago when he told me about his new manager says I’d be hurting Holden. If I finished my sentence the way I want—haven’t used it ever since he cheated on my mom repeatedly—I’d be serving up a detail that isn’t going to help Holden do his job.
I can’t hurt him that way.
I have to protect him from the truth of my father.
My dad is an amazing manager. He’s revered by players. He’s an incredible broadcaster.
He’s a baseball wizard.
That’s all Holden needs to know. He doesn’t need to know how my father treats women.
“I don’t use his last name. Obviously,” I say, forcing out a laugh even though it’s not really funny.
He scratches his jaw. “Yeah, I kind of figured that out pretty quickly. And I had no idea you were related.”
“But how would you know?” I ask gently. He sounds like he’s beating himself up. “You said you only heard today that he became manager, so why would you have been looking him up? You’d have to dig pretty deep in his bio to find any connection to his daughters.”
The man who kissed me minutes ago shakes his head several times, still stuck in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re the . . .”
“The coach’s daughter,” I supply. It’s best to deal with facts. And rules. If you mess with the coach’s daughter and it doesn’t work out, then the coach might bench you, drop you in the lineup, or worse, recommend you to the general manager for a trade. To top it off, there’s the perception issue—how the press might view us, how the press might spin it to fans, how my boss might see things. “Which means I’m off-limits, according to the athlete code. I’m forbidden fruit. We’d be gossip blog fodder.”
“Fuck. We would, and they might,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “And my agent wants me to work on my rep with the press.” Another anguished groan comes from his lips, and I make a mental note to ask him later about his agent’s wishes. Now’s not the time. Especially when he clenches his jaw and grits out a long, frustrated sigh. “I can’t believe this, Reese. I want to see you. I want to take you out. I want to be with you, but . . .”
I love his words madly, but they slice me to the core too.
Because of the but.
Because of the inevitable pressure of public opinion.
Doesn’t matter that I’m not close to my dad.
Doesn’t matter if my father cares or not if I date one of his players.
For the record, I have no idea if he’d care. But I doubt it because he only cares about his own relationships.
The ones he can get away with.
None of that matters, though, when the perception is so fraught with whispers, with secrets, with the possibility of the forbidden.
I suppose I’ve always been forbidden fruit to players; it’s just never been an issue till now.
I was the teammate’s daughter when my father eked out an unremarkable career as a pinch hitter and bench warmer for eight teams over eight years. As a manager, he worked his way up through the minors before segueing briefly to the sportscaster job and then landing this, his first major league manager gig.
“I’m the player’s daughter. I’m the broadcaster’s daughter. And yes, I’m the coach’s daughter,” I state plainly. I don’t need to give him power by not saying his name, by dancing around the problem. Best to know what we’re up against—the way this would look, especially for him. “Edward Thompson is my father. We aren’t close, but still.”
Holden pinches the bridge of his nose.
Heaviness descends on us.
“Reese,” he says, his voice like doom.
But I’ve already known the hatchet was coming down on us.
“I know,” I say, setting a hand on his arm. “I know, Holden. There is no picking up where we left off.”
“I want to. You have to know I want to,” he says, his eyes tormented, his tone imploring, like he desperately wants me to know.
I desperately like knowing. “I want that too. I wanted it,” I correct. “But I get it.”
“Worst news ever,” he mutters, swaying closer to me, dusting one last kiss on my forehead.
A kiss that makes me shiver from head to toe.
Then he pulls back.
I want to say that we can be friends. But Holden and I were never friends. We were a match set to kindling. We were instant attraction. We were passion and respect, igniting all at once. We were destined for one path and one path only.
He was always supposed to be my first. He always felt like more than just a guy I wanted. He was on the boyfriend track.
A heavy sigh comes from him as he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I can’t believe this. These last few hours—learning he was the manager before the party, running into you—made me feel like I was the luckiest guy in the world. And the kiss. My God. That kiss, and us, and everything.” He sounds lost in the possibilities that were unfurling mere moments ago. “And listen, I’ve been pretty lucky the last few years. The only thing I’ve had to complain about is the media.”
I tilt my head, going all RCA dog. That piques my interest. “The media? What do you mean? You mentioned working on your rep. Is that the issue?” I ask, since he can’t simply be talking about gossip. Or the potential media fodder that dating me would be. He must be talking about something else.
“Ah. The black mark of me,” he says, faux darkly. “I’m terrible with the press. And the upshot is I don’t have any sponsorship deals. Those would go a long way to gain future security for my family and me.”
My right eyebrow raises in question. “You were so great with me though. I refuse to believe that.”
“Believe it. Definitely believe it.”
“What happened?”
He swallows roughly, then tells me about a reporter who invented facts about his family.
The story makes my gut churn and my head hurt. “That’s terrible to twist things around. On behalf of all reporters and podcasters, I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“Me too.”
But before we can commiserate further, a voice booms over the loudspeaker.
“Thank you so much for attending. The Legion of Honor will be closing in a few minutes. Please make your way to the exit.”
That’s the end of the night. My reunion with the guy who got away is now on ice once again.
“You came here with friends? I think I saw
you with Crosby Cash and Chance Ashford,” I say, trying to shift gears.
He grins, seeming delighted that I know who they are. “Those are my buds. Met them recently, but they’re good guys.”
“And Grant Blackwood as well,” I add.
He quirks a brow. “I don’t know him well yet, but we’ve hung out a few times at the gym. How did you know that?”
“He’s only my best friend, and has been forever,” I say in a conspiratorial whisper.
Holden groans, an amused sound. “Woman, how do you have so many baseball connections?”
I shrug. “I love the game. And Grant didn’t know a thing about what happened between us until a few nights ago. But he’s been my friend since we were kids. Our grandmas are BFFs and have a weekly poker club together. It’s adorable.”
“That sounds adorable. And he’s a cool guy. We kidnapped Crosby together at his best friend’s wedding a couple of months ago.”
I laugh, loving the anecdote, loving how quickly Holden became buds with those two. “That sounds . . . fun for you, rather than Crosby.”
“We had no choice. He enlisted us in a pact to keep him in check. He was trying to avoid women, but then he went and fell in love with his best friend’s sister, Nadia Harlowe.”
“Aww, that’s sweet. My romantic heart loves that,” I say.
He shoots me the swooniest smile, one that suggests he’s a romantic too. “I’m happy for him. I know Grant is too.”
“And speaking of Grant, I hope you don’t mind that I said something to him. I swear I only told him good things. Because there are only good things to say.”
He groans. “You’re making this hard. So damn hard. I want to take you home, and kiss you all night, and take you out. Over and over.” With a deep sigh, he seems to reroute his thoughts. “And of course I don’t mind that you told Grant. He’s a good one, from the little I know. And if you trust him, I do too.”
I nudge his elbow as we shuffle toward the lobby, taking our time. “So you’re consorting with the enemy. Hanging out with all the Cougars. Your bitter rivals.”
He puts his finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone I’m the Dragon who hangs out with the Cougars. The golden team of the city, when we’re sworn enemies on the field.”
The Virgin Game Plan Page 11
