The Virgin Game Plan

by Lauren Blakely

I tense at the reminder of limits.

  We have them.

  Soon, I’ll hit hers. I’ll bump up against the elasticity. Because I can’t give her what she deserves. I can’t give her what I want to give.

  Best to shift. “What are your goals?” I ask as I continue to mock-interview, hoping to jump to less dangerous terrain.

  “Simple. Change the world.”

  I laugh, loving her lightness even as she embarks on a big mission. “You know yourself so well at age twenty-five. How is that possible?”

  She pushes on my shoulder. “Hey, I’m twenty-four. Don’t age me up.”

  “So young. When’s your birthday?”

  She gives me the date. It’s in the fall. “And I suppose I know what I want because I’m surrounded by strong women and strong friends, and also because I learned when I was a teenager exactly what I don’t want,” she says, her tone darkening, right along with those crystal blue eyes. “I learned what I find unacceptable.”

  I’ve got a feeling she learned it through her dad leaving. She’s never said why he left, but it’s easy to read between the lines. He hurt her mom. He probably cheated on her. I wish I didn’t know that.

  I swallow roughly. “Know your limits,” I repeat, heavily too.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  I look at the clock. I’ll need to leave in a couple of hours for batting practice.

  Maybe I know my own limits. Maybe I’m reaching them.

  “Enough of this pretend microphone,” I say, then reach for her shirt, dragging her close to me.

  “Yeah, enough of all that,” she says, her eyes floating closed, her lips asking for a kiss.

  We move past the tension of the unspoken.

  We move to a zone that feels limitless.

  The physical.

  I kiss her tenderly, exploring her lips, kissing her jaw, teasing her the way she likes. The way that gets her all worked up. The way that drives me wild too. When she’s wiggling and squirming, panting and shuddering, I take her hand, lead her to the bedroom, and tug off her shirt. I shuck off my clothes, reach for a condom, and give her an order.

  “Get on me,” I tell her.

  “If you insist.”

  I open the condom wrapper, then slide on the protection. She straddles me, then rises, takes my shaft in her hand, and rubs the head against her wetness.

  “That’s so fucking good,” I groan.

  Her shoulders shudder. “It’s the best.”

  She keeps up the rhythm, rubbing, pressing, preparing.

  And then she brings the head of my cock inside her.

  I’m rewarded with a gasp.

  A sexy intake of breath.

  When she lowers herself onto my length, I want to freeze time.

  I want to live in the exquisite torture of this moment, of the mind-bending pleasure of this intimacy.

  She takes me in deeper. A lightning bolt of pleasure cracks inside me. Her heat envelops my shaft. Lust sparks across my skin as I indulge in the sight in front of me, like a series of snapshots of sensations.

  Her noises.

  Her trembles.

  Her sexy fucking body.

  Her tits bouncing.

  Her hands as she parks them on my chest.

  All of it is so intense, so electric.

  The world spirals away once more as she seeks her friction, hunts down her pleasure, uses my body to find her bliss.

  “That’s right. Keep doing that, beautiful. Ride me so hard.”

  “Mmm. This feels so good. I think I love this position more.”

  I growl, pleasure zapping through me, as I pump up into her. “Let me make you feel fantastic,” I say, gripping her hips, helping her along.

  I’ve learned a little help goes a long way with her, so I bring my thumb between her legs, gliding it over her hard clit. She moans, gripping my chest even harder, riding me faster, finding the pace that she wants as her body seeks release.

  And that—that I can give her unequivocally.

  No lines. Nothing held back. Everything she deserves.

  I take her there, rubbing and stroking and fucking up into her until she shatters, bursting into pleasure as she calls out my name.

  I follow her over the cliff, succumbing to the ecstasy of my own orgasm, then holding her close, wrapping my arms around her, and kissing her like this is the only time.

  And I’m pretty sure it is.

  After a shower, she puts on her clothes, and I tug on mine, getting ready for the ballpark.

  She gathers her purse, slips on her jacket, and walks to the door.

  A heaviness descends, the sharp reality that this perfect day is drawing to a close.

  She flashes me a go get ’em, slugger grin. “Good luck tonight against the Miami Aces.” She raises a finger, her voice going intense. “And don’t forget, Diaz loves to hit screamers into the hole. You need to be on your guard when he’s at bat.”

  I smile, loving that she knows her baseball. Loving that she wants to make sure I can field my position. “I’ll have my head in the game. Any other tips?”

  She taps her chin, looking a little playful. “Their closer is one of the toughest in baseball. So if you’re up against him, just pray.”

  “Excellent advice. And should I wink or something when I’m digging into my first at bat to let you know that I’m thinking of you?”

  Her smile tap-dances across her face. “Yes. Do that,” she says, reaching for the knob.

  I’m keenly aware that she is leaving.

  Well, duh.

  Of course she’s leaving. That’s why she’s at the motherfucking door.

  But I’m keenly aware that I can’t do what I want to do, which is to ask her for more. Ask her to come to the game, to sit on the first baseline, to be there for me.

  The same damn thing I wanted at the Legion of Honor.

  An us.

  I’m not a hookup guy. I don’t want a one-time thing. I want her in my life.

  My stomach twists. “Reese?”

  She turns. “Yes?”

  “Can I call you again?” I ask stupidly.

  So fucking stupidly.

  I need to let her go, need to stop clutching at straws.

  Just as she’s embarking on the next phase of her career, the last thing she needs is undue attention because of her private life.

  I don’t want her to be subjected to social media bullshit, to the twisted way the press might spin us.

  Not to mention, I have no fucking clue what Thompson might think. None whatsoever. Would he bench me? Drop me to ninth? Lobby for a trade?

  No way of knowing.

  I barely know him.

  But I know this much—I don’t want to test his limits, not when my career is on a red-hot rise.

  “Of course I want you to call.” She sighs, a sad sound. “But is that a good idea?”

  My shoulders sag. “Does it push your limits?”

  Her expression is serious, her voice soft as she answers, “It might. I want to talk to you, Holden. But I don’t want us to become the thing that the media talks about. Not when you’re trying to make this big change with the press.”

  “And not when you’re trying to do all the things you’re doing. To change the world,” I say.

  “We’d be the focus of your season instead of how you play.”

  I sigh heavily. “Yep. I get it.” I reach for her arm, squeezing it. “Thanks for helping me today with the media tips. You’re a lifesaver.”

  She flashes me a grin that warms my heart. “It was my pleasure. You’ve got this,” she says. “One session at the Reese Fallon School of Media Training, and you’ll be a regular Crash Davis. I promise.”

  “One session. Too bad I don’t need more,” I say.

  “It’s a damn shame you’re such a quick study.”

  She gives me a quick, soft goodbye kiss on my lips, then leaves. I watch her head down the steps, down the block, then out of sight.

  My heart clutches. My chest ti
ghtens.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Get it together, man.

  A little later, I catch a Lyft to the park, calling my parents as I go.

  A chat will reset me. Especially when my mom says she needs to grade papers tomorrow.

  Soon, she won’t have to. I can help them retire, buy a nicer home, make their future completely secure. That’s what I want to do. Take care of them.

  I’m only in my fourth year playing ball, but for the first time, I’m making big money.

  Enough to make a difference.

  I’ve got to focus on the prize.

  Avoid trouble.

  Avoid gossip.

  “How’s that new skipper of yours?” my father asks.

  I close my eyes, gritting my teeth, as the Nissan Sentra eases through traffic on Lombard Street.

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “Great. He’s great.”

  Two hours later, I’m at the ballpark, and Edward Thompson calls me aside by the dugout before the game begins. He motions for the starting pitcher and the catcher to join us as well. We talk about the kind of small ball the Aces have been executing recently, what we need to do to beat them.

  “And that’s the game plan,” he says when he finishes.

  We high-five, knock fists, and I make my way to the dugout to get ready for the game. Thompson sets a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, tension whipping through me as he says, “A word, Kingsley.”

  Does he know? Did someone tip him off that I slept with his daughter? My gut twists, knotting around itself. My throat is sand.

  “Yes?” I ask in my best poker voice, hoping he can’t read the motherfucking guilt in my tone.

  But his dark eyes are warm, with no signs of looming revenge. “Watch out for Diaz. His bat’s on fire, and he loves to hit them up the middle,” he says in a teacherly tone, imparting wisdom.

  I smile, recalling Reese’s words too. “Yes, he does.”

  Then he slides into family talk. “How are your parents doing?”

  “Good, good,” I say, relieved as I breathe again.

  “And how’s everything with you? Is there a woman on the horizon?” he asks purely with curiosity, like a friendly relative would at the holidays.

  I hope.

  My lungs stop again. I can’t breathe once more. But then somehow my organs start up again. “Nope,” I bite out.

  “Someday there will be,” he says, then walks off.

  I try to shake off the encounter, to focus on the game. I lob a single, I field Diaz perfectly, but we lose the game by a score of 2 to 1.

  When I go home that night, I feel like it was both the best day ever and a bit shitty too.

  Then I remember I forgot to wink at Reese during my first at bat.

  This is why I can’t have nice things.

  Because balancing them is fucking impossible.

  23

  Reese

  This isn’t awkward at all, walking up the steps of my father’s new home overlooking Richardson Bay, across the city in the heart of Sausalito.

  It’s one of those picturesque seaside towns with curving streets and gentle waves lolling against the rocks on the shore.

  The view of the Golden Gate Bridge is priceless.

  I love this pretty little town, but I wish I were simply wandering through Sausalito about to pop into an ice cream shop or stop in a boutique to pick up a gift, an apron with a funny saying on it maybe, or a Christmas ornament with cutout cats.

  Instead, I’m walking into my father’s house, about to have breakfast with him and his newest wife.

  I haven’t seen the man who gave me half my genes since I spent the summer interning in the city after my junior year of college. He took me out to sushi one night.

  That was all.

  When I reach the top step, I push the buzzer, my stomach dipping and rising like a roller coaster. I offer up a faint prayer to the universe that perhaps he isn’t here. Perhaps he was called away to a baseball emergency.

  Someone corked a bat.

  Or a glove is missing.

  Maybe the starting pitcher has a case of butterflies.

  Wouldn’t that be great? As my nerves roil and sway, I hope for the most once-in-a-blue-moon of all options—the last-minute cancellation of our breakfast.

  That would solve a ton of problems right now.

  Mainly my blankness.

  I don’t know how to feel.

  How to think.

  And yet I also think a million things all at once.

  I think it’s been several years.

  I think I saw him on TV last night.

  I think I’m falling for his cleanup hitter.

  But I don’t know how to look at my father without thinking about that day I caught a bus to Sacramento and discovered who he really was.

  Who he probably still is.

  A cheater.

  I think another thing—this isn’t how a relationship should go between a father and a daughter.

  This isn’t what I wanted with him. To be unsure of how to respect him or how to love him.

  He opens the door, his face wrinkled, but his eyes and his smile as magnetic as they were when I was growing up. They’re as welcoming as when he lived at home and read bedtime stories to me and taught me how to serve a ball over the net and tended to bruised knees and scraped elbows.

  The memories rattle past me.

  Another dip. Another roll.

  “Sweetie bear,” he says.

  Before I have a chance to respond, his arms rope around me, and he’s hugging me like no time has passed. Like the last time we had father-daughter sushi—unagi and mackerel rolls, seaweed salad and yellowtail—was only yesterday.

  Like we didn’t have painful, awkward words at my high school graduation.

  Like he was a regular part of the people I contacted when I was in South America.

  Instead, the truth is I haven’t said much to my father since he left home more than a decade ago.

  We drifted an ocean apart.

  “Come inside. Let’s catch up. I want to hear all about South America, and your new job, and how Tia and Layla are doing.” That’s my dad. He remembers everything.

  Those right-hand men who walk behind presidents and politicians and whisper details about every dignitary they meet? Ambassador Williams’s oldest daughter just graduated from Smith with a degree in French languages. Congressman Johnson’s wife just beat breast cancer.

  My dad would never need that person.

  “I’m great,” I say, my voice pitching up. “Tia is great. Layla is great. My new job is great. San Francisco is great. Everything is wonderful.”

  I won’t reward him with the truth. He has only earned platitudes.

  A redhead turns the corner and walks into the living room. “Oh, hello there!”

  Becky.

  She’s attractive in a put-together, well-dressed, blow-dried way. She looks exactly like my father’s type—a little bit younger than him and a lot pretty.

  Beyond that, I don’t know what to make of her except that she’s poised and wildly pregnant. Stopping in front of me, she extends a hand and says in a warm, intelligent voice, “It’s so good to meet you, Reese.”

  I part my lips, hunting for words, peering under the couch for them, searching under pillows, scouring drawers. “It’s great to meet you too,” I say, and I do sound like Minnie Mouse.

  I don’t know why my voice is so high.

  I don’t know why I can’t jerk it back to my normal range.

  I also can’t stop staring at her stomach. It’s gigantic. And it’s filled with—

  I pump the brakes on that thought, on the bizarre reality that she’s carrying my half brother or half sister in her belly.

  My father’s DNA twined with hers, and now there’s a person growing inside her who is closely related to me.

  If I need a kidney, I’d have to ask my sister or this person.

  Dip, sway, plummet.

  “We’re s
o thrilled to have you here, Reese,” Becky says.

  “Same,” I say, though that’s not true.

  My dad says, “Come on. Come in.” He gestures to the couch in the living room. It seems comfy and cushy, and it overlooks a window with a perfect view of the water.

  I head in there and sit down, cycling through topics. I’m not sure if I should ask how her pregnancy is going, or comment on them moving back to San Francisco, or remark on my new job.

  Or my friends, or the view, or this home.

  I go to the one thing that my father and I can always talk about.

  Baseball.

  The universal lubricant of our father-daughter conversations.

  “Bummer of a game last night. It was so close,” I say, sitting on the edge of the couch. Settling comfortably into these soft cushions would be too weird.

  His face falls, but in an aw-shucks, we almost had it way. “So close, wasn’t it?” Becky sits next to him, and he takes her hand, threading their fingers together. “It’s always hard to lose by one run. But we’re three-for-one so far this year, and the guys are playing great.”

  The guys. I know one of those guys carnally.

  “They are.” I paste on a smile. “What do you think of the team, Becky?”

  My mom taught me to be polite. It’s polite to ask Becky what she thinks.

  She flashes a grin. “I’m more of a hockey fan myself, but I’m delighted the Dragons have a winning record. Would you like some tea? Green, mint, black?”

  “Black tea, please,” I say, relief washing over me. We’ll have something to center the awkward around—tea, and then soon, food.

  Becky pushes up with an oomph, but my dad shakes his head, pats her thigh, and says, “I’ve got it.”

  She sinks into the couch. “Thanks, hon.”

  Hon. They have nicknames for each other.

  As he heads to the open kitchen, he tosses out to me, “You always loved your caffeine, sweetie bear.”

  My brow knits. “I didn’t drink tea or coffee when . . .”

  When you lived with us.

  “Diet Coke, sweetie bear,” he adds quickly. “You loved it.”

  Yeah, when he used to take me out for Diet Coke and veggie burgers after my volleyball games.

  I can’t even go there.