by Anne Black
Contents
Title
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
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The Game
Book One
By Anne Black
Sheffield Publishing Group
Copyright © 2014 by Anne Black
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of the copyright holder and the publisher.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Sheffield Publishing Group
First edition: Dec 2014
CHAPTER ONE
It doesn't matter how often it happens, but talking to a naked man in a crowded room is always weird. But then again, having a conversation with a naked man under any circumstance is weird. Well, unless the naked man in question is actually someone I'm dating, then it's only a little bit weird.
But when you're a sports reporter, it's just another job hazard. And I have little patience for the washed-up outfielder standing in front of me this evening. I've got two stories to file in the next hour and this guy nonchalantly dropping his towel and smirking at me is the last thing I need right now. I steel myself and lock my eyes on his, refusing to look down. He plants his hands on his hips, daring me. Buddy, I think to myself, this ain't my first rodeo and I've seen plenty of naked men in my time. Most of them younger and hotter than you.
"So, Mike, you struck out looking, what was it, oh yes, twice, and popped out to the shortstop another time," I begin. "And you dropped an easy flyball that set in motion a four-run inning. I just left a post-game interview with your manager where he indicated he's in the market for a new right-fielder. Can you talk a little about your performance tonight and how you feel about that?"
Mike Barton, a veteran outfielder who's seen better days, narrows his eyes. I hold my tape recorder casually, my fingers gripping the pen as I wait for the tirade to begin.
"He said that?" Mike asks incredulously. His shoulders slump slightly, an air of disappointment surrounds him.
"Let me read it back to you," I say, flipping through my notebook. "And I quote, 'We'll call somebody up from Triple-A tomorrow. Mikey's getting a few days off.' That about sums it up, don't you think?"
I smirk, which is probably not the best course of action. But I can't help it. This guy is a complete and total jerk and goes out of his way to make my life as difficult as possible. Seeing him taken down a notch makes me smile. Mike grabs his boxers and steps into them quickly, then pulls on a pair of jeans that probably cost more than my month's groceries.
"Bullshit," he says, little specks of spittle landing on my notebook page. "Everybody has a bad game now and then. I'm seeing the ball better, I just need to break the slump."
"You've struck out fifteen of your last eighteen at-bats," I say, looking at my notes. "You're hitting point-one-nine-five over the last month. If that's your definition of 'better,' I would like to see your dictionary." I'm pushing it, I know, but there's no way I'm going to let him make a fool out of me in front of everyone in this room. Last week he followed me out to the dugout after pregame interviews, cornered me and asked if I wanted to get a drink after the game. I asked if his wife and kids would join us for the drink and he just laughed and walked away. Sexual harassment is not a concept with which ballplayers, or other reporters for that matter, are familiar.
Our discussion has now drawn the attention of the other writers in the room and they inch slowly over to hone in on my interview. Vultures. They're happy to let me ask the tough questions and then swoop in for the good stuff. Postgame interviews are the worst.
"I'd like to see you take some pitches up there, little lady," Mike says with a sneer. He takes a half step towards me, which puts our faces inches apart. "And who do you think you are coming in here anyway? What does a woman know about baseball? You're probably just here looking for a hook-up. Maybe you'd like me to bend you over that table and ..."
"That's enough," booms a voice from several lockers down. The group swivels as one in an effort to find out who dares insert himself into this mess. I tuck my hair behind my ear to steady my hand and straighten my spine in preparation for the tongue-lashing I'm about to throw down on Mikey. I follow the gaze of everyone else and find myself looking at the newest member of the pitching staff, Ryan Finnegan.
"You say something, rookie?" Mike asks, his attention diverted from me and whatever vile comment he was about to make.
"Yeah, I did," Ryan says. I look down at my notes, trying to figure out a graceful exit from this mess. "You're way out of line. Leave the girl alone."
Ryan joined the team this week after a call-up from the minors. He's been heralded as the second coming of Christ and the next Nolan Ryan all rolled up in one. While I haven't had the chance to interview him yet, I expected the worst. A cocky young pitcher with the expectations of an entire city resting literally on his right shoulder? I'd heard rumors he was arrogant, but his fastball backed it all up. And all the TV interns were gossiping about how hot he was last week.
I look up and lock eyes with the most devastatingly good-looking man I have ever seen in person. And that's counting David Beckham and Alex Rodriguez. At six-foot-four-inches tall and two-hundred-twenty-pounds, Ryan is a head taller than Mike and he's using every inch of his imposing frame to make him back down.
"And you can apologize to her," he says to Mike, who glares at him.
"Sorry if I offended you, ma'am," Mike says with so much sarcasm even a non-English speaker would know he didn't really mean it. Mike turns to his locker while he buttons his shirt, fastens his silver Rolex around his left wrist and puts his wallet in his back pocket. He turns to the crowd that is still gathered and says, "Get outta here, all of you." He stomps toward the clubhouse exit and everyone disperses from the area.
I make my way to Ryan's locker to thank him, but I stop short when I see him leaning back in a folding chair. I'm pretty sure I've never seen this guy outside of a uniform before, but he looks familiar to me. Chalking it up to the fact I must have seen his face a time or two on television, I hold my hand out and introduce myself.
"Hi, I'm Katelyn Nelson with the Chronicle," I say. He takes my hand and I feel the callouses and rough skin on his palms and it sends a tingle up my arm. What the heck is wrong with me? This is wildly inappropriate. He doesn't need to introduce himself to anyone in a four-state radius, they all know who he is, but he shakes my hand and says, "Hi, I'm Ryan with the team."
I look him in the eye and my stomach does a flip-flop. There's something about those green eyes of his. It's like I've felt those green eyes sweeping over my bod
y before. I've shivered as those calloused hands languidly stroked my arm before. I glance at his mouth, those perfect cupid's bow lips smiling bemusedly at me. I've shuddered with those lips on my flesh before.
But how can this be? This is Ryan Finnegan. I don't know Ryan Finnegan and I've certainly never dated Ryan Finnegan and if I had hooked up with Ryan Finnegan, I would most definitely remember it. Except, I'm seeing flashes of his chiseled stomach in my mind.
He cocks his head and looks at me. "Katelyn ... Katelyn ... have we met, Katelyn? You seem very familiar."
Flustered, I manage to form a sentence. "I don't think so," I say falteringly. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, I think. Why am I having an out-of-body experience fantasizing about some guy I just met in a professional capacity?
He reaches into his locker to grab his wallet and keys before turning back to me. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Katelyn. I hope you don't make a regular habit of pissing off my teammates or this might become a common occurrence."
"I didn't ... well he was ... never mind," I say, sounding like an idiot. "Thanks for telling him to apologize, but I could have handled it myself."
"Oh really?" he asks, smirking.
"Really."
"I'm a big girl. It's all in a day's work."
"Last time I checked, nobody's day should involve a dude twice her size threatening to bend her over a table. Unless that is her job, in which case, it's totally appropriate." I can tell he's kidding, but I need to set a professional tone here.
"Listen, it's not easy to be one of the only women in here. But I have to deal with it. And you white-knighting all over the clubhouse isn't going to make them stop, it's just going to make people think I need you to defend me, which will undo all the hard work I've done to make them finally see me as a reporter and not some gold-digger with a tape recorder."
He stops and holds up his hands. "Whoa, sorry. I just thought I was being helpful. Guess you've got it all covered. Next time, I won't say a word."
He grabs an extremely tattered Oregon State hat from the top shelf of his locker and pulls it down tightly, covering the top half of his face. My heart skips a beat as I do a double-take.
"Finn, let's go," someone yells from across the clubhouse. "We've got a table with bottle-service at Vicious tonight and the ladies don't like to wait."
Finn? Oh my God. It can't be.
CHAPTER TWO
I watch Ryan, or should I call him Finn, walk out with a few other guys. My heart feels like it's beating out of my chest and I compose myself before I walk to the elevator back to the press box. My deadline for tonight's game story is tight and I need to focus, but I can't stop to think about the last time I saw Finn.
My legs carry me on autopilot to my seat as the hazy memories become clearer in my mind. Could it really be him? Don't be an idiot, Katey, I think to myself. Of course it's him.
I take a deep breath and lift the cover of my Macbook and the screen blinks to life. Get it together, girl. But I can't. I can't stop thinking about Finn. My mind wanders to that night in my college apartment, four years ago. I try to push it out of my mind, but it's pointless.
My roommate, Stephanie, and I were celebrating -- our final finals were behind us and together we were moving to Chicago the next day to start our internships. Our apartment was completely packed up and everything but our beds and a television was sitting in a U-Haul when we discovered we had packed our wineglasses. Horrified at this turn of events, we decided to hit the Mill Cue Club. We figured it was a Sunday night and it wouldn't be the regular scene of frat boys getting shit-faced and girls shaking their barely covered butts as they lined up pool shots they have zero chance of actually sinking.
I remember we thought it would be a great idea to order a couple Long Island iced teas. I remember it seeming like an even better idea to order a second round. Both of us were single, having jettisoned our recent non-serious boyfriends in prep for our move to the big city. Mooning over a long-distance boyfriend, spending late nights Skyping and having uncomfortable phone sex was not in the plan. We were going to take Chicago by storm, not sit around pining for our lame boyfriends who were living with mommy and daddy until they got jobs.
Steph returned from the bathroom a little unsteady on her feet, giggling about some cute guys at a pool table in the back. "They asked if we wanted to play, so I said sure," she said, taking a big gulp of her drink. I remember this seeming like a fantastic idea. We nonchalantly walked over to a table where two guys in baseball hats, T-shirts and cargo shorts were shooting pool.
"Ladies, how are you this fine evening?" asked the one with a Mariners hat on backwards. He flashed a brilliantly white smile at us and leaned on his pool cue. "I'm John and this is my buddy, Finn," John gestured at his friend, who had an Oregon State hat on the right way, with a brim so worn and bent you could barely see the top half of his face. But the bottom half? Oh my word, the bottom half. Three days' worth of blonde stubble graced a jawline cut with what would surely had to be God's own hand. Taking a swig of a Miller Lite, Finn gave us a little salute and returned to lining up his shot. I watched as he folded his substantial frame over the table and concentrated on the ball, taking note that his biceps muscles stretched the arms of his red T-shirt ever so slightly. He sank the six-ball in the side pocket and stepped back to assess his next shot.
"I'm Steph and this is Katey," she said, completing the introductions.
Steph was making small-talk with John, twirling her curls around her right index finger and laughing at whatever he was saying. I'd been on enough of these missions with her to know my job as wingman was to chat up the hottie with the cue in his hand. This was no hardship, however.
"So, you guys hang out here a lot?" I asked casually.
He lined up the three-ball with the corner pocket and ignored me while he contemplated the angle. After sinking it with authority, he finally deemed me worthy of a response.
"Nope," he said. Wow, so talkative this one.
"Well, where do you usually go out?" I asked. Because trust me, I'd remember seeing this model-quality specimen at the bars we normally frequent.
"We're from out of town," Finn said, between slugs of beer. He sank the eight-ball in the back corner without much effort and called out to John that it was his round.
"Would you ladies care for a beverage?" John asked. "Apparently, my pool skills are lacking and I now owe my good friend, Finn, a round of beers."
Steph eagerly nodded her head, but I politely declined, telling him I had to get up early the next day and hit the road.
"Where you off to?" John asked me, all the while looking at Steph. Well, that didn't take long. Although it never takes long with Steph. Not that she's a slutbag or anything, but Steph majored in journalism and minored in flirting here at Arizona State.
"We're moving to Chicago tomorrow," I said.
"Well that calls for a celebratory round of shots," John said excitedly. Steph giggled and begged for a girly shot. As John walked off to the bar, I grabbed her by the arm and whispered in her ear, "Easy, cowgirl. We're leaving in the morning and I am not cleaning puke out of the U-Haul while your hungover ass is passed out against the window."
"I'm fine," she said, her eyes slightly glazed.
John returned with the shots and after we toasted, I threw mine over my shoulder and no one noticed. Finn didn't even pretend to drink his and left it on the bar. John saw the leftover drink and decided he couldn't let it go to waste, so he downed that one, too.
John and Steph decided to go pick some songs for the jukebox and left me alone with Finn the Conversationalist. I picked up a cue and asked if he minded if I played. Finn smirked and graciously urged me to rack 'em up.
"Ladies first," he said, taking a swallow from his bottle. "Please, you do the honors."
I lined up my first shot and took a deep breath. The cue slid over my steady fingers and I sank a solid on the break, neatly scattering the rest of the balls around the table. I could feel Finn studying me fro
m under the brim of his hat. I was determined to have a little fun with this. "So I can knock in any ball I want?" I asked innocently.
Finn snorted. "No, you can only aim for the solid balls," he said.
"Oh, OK," I said, walking around the table setting up my shot two balls from now.
I then started sinking balls left and right, calling combos and even closing my eyes on one. After sinking the eight-ball in the back corner, I triumphantly smiled at the now astonished Finn. "Did I win?" I asked.
"Where'd you learn that?" he asked with a smile.
"We had a pool table in my basement growing up," I said, putting my cue back on the rack. "I played a lot."
"You don't say," Finn responded.
"Double or nothing?"
"I think I'm good." Finn stared at me long and hard. "What other secrets are you hiding in that pretty head of yours, Katey?"
"No secrets, I'm an open book." I put my palms up and smile. "Ask me anything."
"OK, how about I ask how soon until our little friends are passed out together?"
I followed his gaze over to John and Steph, who are pressed up against a wall making out.
I rolled my eyes. "I give it about twenty minutes," I say. "And of course I'm the one who's going to end up taking care of her."
Finn puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles sharply. "Johnny, let's go, man."
"I know this sounds ridiculously cheesy but let us walk you home," Finn says seriously. "I don't want you to end up carrying her home when she refuses to walk one step further. And I'd hate for you to strain a muscle in your cue arm. Your career as a pool shark would be prematurely over."
I hesitated for a moment. I wasn't the girl who brought randoms back to her apartment. But he had a point. Steph had removed her wedge sandals and was still teetering with a weird smile on her face. She kept twirling her hair and asking John if he was really going to call her when he got home to Oregon. What? This was the girl who wanted a fresh start in Chicago! No, Steph, he is not going to call you when he gets home. Especially if home is Oregon.
