The Virgin Game Plan

by Lauren Blakely

  “Good for her. Her last one was riveting.”

  He continues his walk. Shakes the hand of our closing pitcher. “Good to see you, John. How’s your mom doing with her knee?”

  “Surgery went well. She’s much better.”

  “Beautiful. So good to hear.”

  He makes his way to me. Offers a hand. Clasps mine. “Holden Kingsley. Nice to see you again.”

  Does he actually remember me from that thirty-second encounter in Seattle? “Good to see you again too, sir,” I say, admiration in my tone.

  He keeps holding my hand, his grip firm. “How’s your family? Your mom? Your dad? Your brothers? They’re twins, right?”

  And the answer is—he does. “Wonderful. They’re in college now.”

  “That’s great. And I saw you made some adjustments after we met.”

  “I did. They made a big difference.”

  “They took your game from good to great.”

  As he chats with the rest of the guys, a warmth spreads through my chest. Damn, that compliment felt good.

  When he’s done, he clears his throat, stopping at the front of the locker room. “Let’s treat this as a new day. We’re a brand-new organization with a clean slate. Forget the past. Start over, starting today,” he says, stabbing the air for emphasis.

  He talks a little more, and when he’s done, he returns to me. “You’re batting fourth.”

  Excitement tears through me. I’ve been batting fifth and sixth. Batting cleanup is huge.

  Batting cleanup and cleaning up my media image? Josh is right. This is what I need to take my career to the next level.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He leaves, and I vow not to think about his daughter.

  Well, until the end of the game, at least.

  And it works.

  We win the first game. The next two games as well.

  When I meet Reese on Saturday morning for coffee at the Ferry Building, I’m confident my baseball laser focus will serve me well.

  But as I enter the terminal, my heart stops and stutters the second I see her.

  Resistance is going to be so much harder than I’d thought.

  16

  Reese

  Jillian knocks on my cube. “Knock, knock,” she says, flashing that bright grin she’s known for.

  I swivel away from my laptop and the plan I’m developing for a shelter dog organization that works closely with football players.

  “Hey, Jillian. How’s everything?”

  “Fabulous. Especially since I just got a call from Nadia Harlowe.”

  I sit up straighter, ears pricking with curiosity. “She owns the Hawks football team. She’s amazing. One of my heroines in sports.”

  “She’s fantastic, a good friend of mine too. She said that her boyfriend asked if she could hook up a Dragons player with a press person. Then she mentioned that you were already meeting with Holden this weekend,” she says, like she’s fishing for more details, intrigued and curious.

  I tense. Shoot. Am I not allowed to still do interviews? Jillian said when she hired me that she liked my podcast. She even raved about an episode with Asher St. James, the recently retired American soccer star who tore it up in the Champions League in Europe before he launched his second career as a high-end photographer. The man is the ultimate charmer, and on my podcast, he told me a dishy story about a date he’d gone on. So I hope Jillian hasn’t changed her mind. And I definitely hope I didn’t overstep when I offered to help Holden with some tips.

  Tension swirls inside me, settling heavily in my gut. “Do you want me to cancel it? I saw him at the party last night, and I did an interview with him a few years ago, so I thought it’d be good to do a follow-up with where he’s at now. And then maybe give him some media tips.” I gulp, realizing my misstep. She probably doesn’t want me giving free advice. “But I can see that might be an issue, since he’s not a client. And I’m so sorry,” I say, contrition in my tone.

  I’m on week one of the job, and I already messed up. Worry slides down my spine.

  Jillian laughs, shaking her head, quickly dismissing my concerns. “Please. Don’t worry for a second. Both are fine. This is a tit-for-tat world. Have a cup of coffee, give some tips, yada yada. It’s great that you’re taking the initiative. Might lay the groundwork for a new client down the road, know what I mean?”

  Ohhhhhh.

  Perhaps I misread her excitement. “You want me to pitch Holden on becoming a client of the firm?” I ask, though the thought makes me queasy.

  Banging a client is a definite no-no.

  But you’re not banging him, silly. And you won’t be.

  Jillian shrugs happily. “Don’t pitch him. Just do your thing. But you never know who might be a great fit if one of our organizations needs a spokesperson, you know? It’s good to know athletes for that reason. We can pair clients with the right athletes and the best nonprofits.”

  I breathe a little easier. “Of course. That makes sense.”

  But I also don’t breathe more easily.

  Because on the flip side, isn’t she saying athletes are off-limits?

  Nothing is going to happen with him, woman. Settle down.

  She leaves, and an icky feeling descends on me, like I’m doing something wrong.

  But is having feelings for him wrong?

  No. Though doing something about those would be wrong.

  Or it might be.

  Might be wrong.

  I do my best to set all my feelings aside when my father calls that evening to say that he won’t be able to take me to a game, because he’s now the manager. “I got the offer after we spoke yesterday. It all came together so quickly. Aren’t you excited for me? I finally got a job managing a team.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Dad,” I say, like a trained marionette, a puppeteer moving my mouth.

  “Can we meet on Sunday morning before our game? I’d like to introduce you to Becky.”

  I agree reluctantly. I’ll have to do it eventually. Might as well rip off that bikini wax strip sooner rather than later.

  When Saturday morning rolls around, I shower and shave my legs.

  Not because anyone is going to see them.

  Just because it’s time to shave.

  That’s all.

  Once I’m dried off, I put on an aqua-blue short-sleeve sweater, twinset-style.

  Because I like it.

  Not because it’s date attire.

  It’s just me attire.

  That’s all.

  I blow-dry my hair, put on some blush and mascara, then grab my purse and a jacket.

  I find Tia in her kitchen, making a pot of tea. Yawning, she arches a brow when she sees me. “You look good,” she says, dragging out the last word.

  Prickles of guilt nag at me. Best to dive into the deep end and discuss it. “Tia. I need to know. Am I crossing a line by seeing Holden?”

  “Are you going to bang him today?” she asks point-blank. “Is that what the cute top is about?”

  I sigh. “I just want to look good.”

  “Naturally, but to my point: Are you going to go horizontal with him today?”

  “Because everything’s about sex?” I ask with a light laugh, maybe to cover up the whirl of questions inside me.

  “It is indeed.” She casts her gaze to the teapot, perhaps willing it to steep faster. “Except sex. Sex is about power,” she adds, going full wise shrink-to-be.

  But how does that help me? “So, seeing Holden is about sex?”

  She lifts a brow in question. “Do you want to sleep with him?”

  I flash back to the other night when my bones melted just being near him, and my pulse soared past the stratosphere. “Yes. But I’m not seeing him to sleep with him. I’m seeing him because I want to help him.”

  “Because you want to sleep with him?”

  I groan. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, you’re too smart now that you have a master’s degree.”

  She laughs, l
eaning even more casually against the counter. “As long as you don’t bang at the Ferry Building, it’s fine.”

  “Seriously,” I press, wringing my hands.

  “Do you think it might lead to something more?”

  I shake my head, reminding myself of the score. “It can’t lead to anything more. It definitely won’t lead to anything more. It absolutely won’t.”

  “You’re speaking in threes. Like he did in that email,” she says with a sly little smile.

  I manage a small laugh at the memory. “Tell me if this is a bad idea.”

  “He’s not your boss. He’s not your client. He’s just this guy you’re tangled up with, but not in a terrible way. Take each moment as it comes and listen to your gut. Do you know that humans are the only animals who don’t trust their instincts?”

  I file that intel away. I have a feeling I’ll need it sooner or later.

  Like when I can’t hear what my instincts are saying.

  “Okay, I’ll try to listen to them.”

  “And if you need to talk about it, I’m here to listen and not to judge. I don’t think you’re crossing a line, for what it’s worth. But the therapist in me says if you feel that way, it’s worth acknowledging that. Then decide whether you should listen to it or not,” she says, more serious this time, then she gives me a hug.

  I need it.

  As I head across the city to meet him, my head is a swirl of podcast ideas, and naughty ideas, and Holden ideas, and work ideas.

  And ideas about lines.

  And whether to cross them.

  Once I enter the Ferry Building, I feel like I’m right back where I was on Tuesday night, feeling like he’s my guy.

  That is the most dangerous feeling in the world.

  Trouble is, it’s kind of a weirdly wonderful feeling too.

  17

  Reese

  Outside is safer.

  Outside, he won’t be as tempting.

  As I wander through the San Francisco Ferry Building on Saturday morning, I feel calm and centered.

  Meeting Holden here is perfect. I picked a brand-new coffee shop. I read about it on a coffee blog—it’s known for its cortados and its crowds. We’ll be surrounded by Saturday morning shoppers, and by young parents pushing their toddlers in jogging strollers, dangling mango slices in front of them, offering soy milk in sippy cups, and buying decaf half-skim mocha coffees at the café around the corner.

  This is so safe.

  If I were secretly, or even subconsciously, wanting to tango with him, I’d have picked a bar.

  Chosen to meet at eight.

  Worn something slinky that sloped off my shoulder.

  Or I’d have met him near the house so that we could ever-so-conveniently rush back to my studio if we needed to get horizontal.

  But nope. I’m miles away from my home, right on the edge of the bay, the cool breeze skipping across the water, and people wandering everywhere. Surely neither one of us will be tempted like we were at the Legion of Honor.

  Okay, fine. We were surrounded by people at the Legion of Honor too, and we still found an alcove to sneak into.

  But there aren’t any alcoves at the Ferry Building. It’s 100 percent nook-free. Plus, I don’t think he lives near here either.

  That raises a good question.

  Where does Holden live?

  That’s a good beginner question. Plus, if I ask him that, I won’t start our convo by saying how yummy he looks in that dark-blue Henley and how those jeans show off his muscular thighs so deliciously.

  He strolls down the corridor, heading toward me as I wait near a gelato stand. The Henley shows off his ripped arms.

  Good thing I’m not an arm woman.

  Except wait. I’m kind of salivating. Yep. Gawking now. Mouth is watering too. Oh, holy hell, I am such an arm woman.

  And that man is a purveyor of arm porn.

  He reaches me, stops, and flashes a grin. “Fancy meeting you here on a Saturday morning.”

  “Where do you live?” I blurt out. “I never asked you the other night.”

  “I live in Pacific Heights,” he answers. “It’s kind of, like, baseball player central over there.”

  “True.” I gesture toward the nearby coffee shop, and we head to it. “Grant is there.”

  “Crosby too. I guess we all like it in that area. And I suppose that’s no surprise to you. I didn’t talk about where I lived because we were discussing so very many other interesting things.” His eyes glimmer as he lets that sentence fall from his naughty tongue.

  “Yes, if memory serves, we had a . . . great conversation,” I say, matching him flirt for flirt as we reach the shop and get in line.

  He licks his lips, then lowers his voice. “There was definitely some discussing going on . . . and there was also some . . . not discussing going on,” he says, making the not sound so delicious, so tantalizing on his lips, as that word becomes a synonym for everything else we did with our mouths. All that kissing.

  “But there were some discussions in my brain,” I add coyly, tapping my skull.

  We shuffle toward the front of the line. “What was going through your head, Reese?”

  Less than a minute, and we’re back to the way we were.

  Maybe we need to get the flirting out of our system by doing it. “I was wondering whether you kissed as well as you did the first time,” I say, a rush of tingles spreading through me as we dive into the topic we both seem to like the most—each other.

  This is what happens to me near him. I transform into Reese amped-up. Flirty Reese. Vixen Reese. Reese who feels wildly sexy.

  I love this side of me.

  It’s such a different side than Work Reese or Daughter Reese or Friend Reese.

  He arches a brow. “And what was the verdict? Did I live up to, well, me?”

  I let a small smile play on my lips. I don’t want to give away entirely how much he lived up to the memories. “Yes, you definitely did. And then some.”

  I guess I did give it away. It’s hard for me not to be honest with him.

  We’ve always been wonderfully honest with each other since the day we met. One of the things I liked the most about Holden was I felt like I could be myself with him. Like I could speak from my heart. That was another reason why I wanted him to be my first.

  I felt like me with him.

  I felt understood.

  No secrets, no hiding, no lies.

  Perhaps that’s why it seems like I know him well, even though this is only the third time I’ve seen him. Every time we’re together, we connect like we’ve known each other forever.

  We play zero games.

  Except flirting, and even that game is all truth with him. It’s our truth.

  So, I suppose I do know him well.

  “And what about me? Did I live up to the memory?” I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing at my own boldness. Was that too much? Too needy? I open my eyes, nervous. “Silly question. That assumes you were even thinking about that time.”

  There. That time makes our night together seem like any other night.

  He leans a little closer. “I thought about you so much.”

  “You did?” My chest flips.

  “I told you, Reese. I haven’t been with anyone since you. I haven’t kissed anyone since you. I didn’t want to.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. Our night together wasn’t like any other night. For either one of us, it seems.

  “And to answer your question, you kissed like a dream.”

  I want to grab the neck of his shirt, yank him in close, and kiss him once more. But I’ve got to let go of that desire. I’ve got to treat this morning for what it is—a simple business meeting on a Saturday at the Ferry Building.

  A bright voice chirps. “What can I get you?”

  Saved by the barista.

  “Cortado?” I ask Holden.

  His lips curve up in a lopsided grin. “And a macchiato for you?”

  “Indeed.” />
  We order, and as we wait, his gaze swings down to my sweater. “You still have a thing for vintage style, I see,” he says.

  I pluck at my buttons as if I just noticed the top. “I suppose I do.”

  He tips his forehead to the coffee shop. “And researching cafés and hip little spots to eat and drink,” he adds, and I can’t even try to hide a grin.

  “I still do,” I say, too charmed by him.

  He smiles, and it’s the kind that disarms and undresses me at the same damn time.

  “I like,” he says, the words rolling around on his tongue like a cherry that tastes so good.

  And I want to whisper back I like too, but it might come out as Gah, I like you, and I’d like you to take me right now.

  I don’t say anything, and soon the barista hands us our drinks. “Do you want to walk and talk?” I ask.

  “I do.”

  We wander through the Ferry Building, and he takes a drink of his cortado then makes a satisfied sound.

  “Look at you, loving your cortado still,” I say with a laugh.

  “Look at you, remembering my drink after nearly two years. Should I make something of the fact that you remember it?”

  My mind catches on his comment, cycling back to Tia’s recent report on a book that kept her up well past bedtime. And the hero remembered every little thing about the heroine when they reunited, from how she takes her lattes, to her most played Spotify tune, to her favorite poem, and it was almost creepery, but mostly swoony.

  “The funny thing is, in some books that’s the sign that a man hasn’t forgotten a woman—remembering her coffee order,” I tell Holden.

  A light scoff comes from him. “Beautiful, I remember so much more than your coffee order,” he rumbles.

  “Hopefully not in a creepery way,” I say, laughing at the private memory.

  “Creepery? That’s creepery? Maybe you’re the creeper, since you remembered mine,” he says, teasing me right back.

  “It reminded me of something Tia said,” I tell him, then explain the story.

  “Ah, so maybe I won’t tell you the other things I remember,” he says, like he’s tucking those little details in his pocket for safekeeping.