by Anne Black
The four of us walked the short distance to our apartment, Steph and John groping each other every block or so, while Finn and I walked behind them and made fun of them. Of course, when we unlocked the door, Steph immediately pulled John in and took him to her room. Well then. Knock yourself out, missy.
"I'd offer you a beer," I said to Finn. "But that was the reason we were even at that bar. We literally have nothing left to eat or drink in the apartment."
"Or to sit on," he said, gesturing at the empty floor.
"Well, we still haven't packed the TV," I said, plopping down on the floor and pointing the remote at the screen. SportsCenter came to life and Finn smiled.
"Impressive, a pool shark with an ESPN habit," he said.
"I do what I can," I said. We watched in silence for a few minutes before he took the remote from my hand and put it down on the floor. I playfully tried to grab it back and found myself facing him, my face inches from his. In a moment of what could only be insanity, I leaned forward and kissed him. But this guy was too good to be true. There was no way I was letting the hottest guy I've ever met get away without at least a kiss.
His lips were soft and pliant, and when I pulled back, he tossed his hat aside and lowered me gently to the floor. I thought I might pass out when he carefully moved the hair from my face with his fingers and leaned down to kiss me again. His slid his tongue into my mouth, which easily opened for him. What was I doing? I'd never had a one-night hook-up before. But his kisses were too amazing and I didn't want them to end.
He leaned on one elbow, his other arm free to caress my bare thigh while his tongue languidly moved around mine. I ran my hand down his chest and stopped short when I realized I could feel his abs through his thin T-shirt. My God, I needed to see those with my own eyes. But that would mean I would have to stop kissing him and I couldn't imagine any scenario in which I wanted that to happen right now.
His hand traveled up my hip to my waist and hesitated for a second before he moved to the buttons on my shirt. Finn paused our kisses each time his fingers expertly undid my buttons one by one. When he finally had the shirt undone, he leaned down and kissed the small of my throat and I couldn't help myself, I moaned. I quickly slid my hands under his shirt, running my fingers over the ripples of muscle and lifted it over his head. I pulled him down and on top of me, wanting to feel his weight against the length of my body. But he shifted so his body was next to mine, our legs intertwined.
Trailing kisses down my neck and shoulder, he touched my stomach and I jumped.
"You okay?" he asked, pulling back from a kiss. "Is this okay?" He looked into my eyes and I forgot my own name for a minute. I wanted him to stop talking so I could keep kissing him.
"This is amazing," I said.
"Your body is amazing," he said, trailing a finger from my collarbone down the middle of my body to the waistband of my skirt and back up again.
He cupped my breast in his hand, leaning down to softly kiss the skin right above my bra line. My skin was tingling in anticipation of feeling the soft pads of his fingers. I arched my back drawing him closer and felt his hand slip beneath me to unhook my lacy bra when suddenly the door to Steph's room banged open, hitting the wall.
Finn and I fumbled to cover ourselves, me haphazardly holding my shirt closed with one hand and him pulling his over his head backwards.
"Katey? Katey where are you?" Steph whispered. She stopped short when she saw us on the ground and laughed. "Whoops! Sorry! Didn't know you two lovebirds would be hooking up out here."
"Steph, what is going on? What do you need?" I asked in a tone that told her to make it quick.
"Oh, well, John passed out in my bed," she said. "And I don't want him here all night, so can you help me wake him up?"
Finn stood up and put his hat back on. "No problem," he said and he walked into Steph's room.
I glared at her and hissed, "What are you doing?"
Wide-eyed, she apologized. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea you two were hooking up! We didn't even do anything in there. We made out a little and then -- boom -- he passed out mid-kiss. What an ass."
We broke off the conversation when the guys returned to the living room, John looking disheveled and Finn looking annoyed.
John mumbled goodbye and walked away while Finn and I stood in the doorway.
"Can I call you?" he asked.
"We both know that's not going to happen," I said. "Oregon and Illinois are not exactly close to one another."
He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners, as he reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. "Don't con too many Chicago guys with your pool game," he said. He leaned down to kiss me and I raised myself up on my tiptoes. Our lips met in a soft, slow kiss and I pulled back first.
"Have fun in Oregon," I said.
"Have fun in Chicago," he said.
I watched as he loped down the sidewalk and punched John in the shoulder, the two of them laughing. I shut the door and slid down to the floor. As I buttoned my shirt, I put my fingers to my lips and smiled. Now that was an amazing farewell to Phoenix.
CHAPTER THREE
"Katelyn, you had an error in last night's story," reads an email from my editor, Nick, the morning after Finn comes to my rescue. "The Stars scored three runs in the third inning, not the fourth. This is the second time this week. If you can't get it right, I will find someone who can. This is unacceptable."
Ouch. I was distracted by the whole Finn thing and made a stupid mistake. Nick isn't my biggest fan under the best of circumstances and I know I need to do better.
After struggling to produce a coherent story about last night's game, I emailed it to the copyeditor, shut down my computer and arranged for a cab to my apartment. I couldn't stop thinking about Finn as I walked outside to the curb in a daze. A security guard even asked if I was all right after I dropped my purse and scattered lip glosses, keys, gum and my sunglasses all over the ground. Thankfully my laptop bag stayed on my shoulder where it belonged, or I would have been screwed.
Exhausted, I fell into bed when I got home around one in the morning, but tossed and turned before finally getting some solid sleep just before four. When my alarm went off at ten, I groaned and grabbed my iPhone and started scrolling through my emails, when I saw Nick's message.
Nick is never happy with anything I do, but now that I'm filling in for the normal beat guy for a few weeks, I never have to physically see Nick because I never go to the office. What an awesome start to my morning.
I hit Steph's office number in my contact list and she picks up on the second ring.
"Stephanie Sumner," she says crisply.
"You will never in a million years believe who I saw last night," I say, skipping the pleasantries.
"Elvis?" she asks.
"No, he already left the building," I reply. "Are you ready? Remember those guys we hooked up with right before we moved to Chicago? It was him. It was Finn. Except his name's not Finn. It's Ryan."
"Slow down," Steph says. "You're talking so fast I can't understand you. I don't remember the guy I hooked up with, but I certainly remember yours. That dude was a Grade-A certifiable hottie. But he lied to you about his name? And where on earth did you run into him? And why are you calling me so early? It's eight in the morning here on the West Coast."
"His name is actually Ryan. Ryan Finnegan. His nickname is Finn. And are you ready for this? He plays for the Stars. He just got called up. And I called this early because I knew you would be up, yoga-ed, showered and already trolling US Weekly's website."
"You know me too well. But I apparently don't know you at all. You hooked up with a player?"
"Four years ago! I didn't even know he was a baseball player. Well, I mean he wasn't. Not then. But he is now. And he's not just any player, he's Ryan Finnegan. This is the guy people have been salivating over since they drafted him three years ago. They say he's going to personally bring a World Series title to Chicago."
"So why didn't you
reconnect with him three years ago?" Steph asks.
"Steph, I didn't know that Ryan Finnegan was my Finn!" I say with exasperation in my voice. "I wasn't covering the Stars when they signed him. Remember when I was so far down the totem pole, Nick had me covering suburban high-school football games? I was so out of the loop they could have signed Babe Ruth to throw batting practice and I wouldn't have noticed."
"Isn't Babe Ruth dead?" Steph asks.
"Can we stay on point here, please?"
"And the point is...?"
"The point is there's a guy in the clubhouse who's kissed me while I was half-naked. And that is not something that just stays a secret amongst baseball players. But he doesn't know who I am yet."
"I'm sorry, I am not following along here. Please explain how he doesn't know who you. Did you not catch up last night?" Steph says.
"He said I looked familiar, but I introduced myself as Katelyn," I say impatiently.
"Again, some more information would be helpful," Steph says.
"He knows me as Katey, Steph! Four years ago I had long blonde hair and my name was Katey. Now I have long brown hair and my professional name is Katelyn."
Steph giggles. "I forgot you were a blonde at the end of college. You should totally go back to that. It was hot."
I rub my temples and pull the bedsheets tighter over my legs. "Can you please focus? He said I seemed familiar last night, but our chat was thankfully cut short before he could put two and two together. How the hell do I handle this tonight? I have to go into that clubhouse and face him. And not just tonight, but every night for the foreseeable future. He's going to remember eventually." I groan when I think about the unending string of awkward encounters from now until the end of the season.
"You think you were that memorable, Nelson?" she jokes. "Just act normal. So you kinda sorta hooked up with a baseball player four years ago when you were both in college. I think there's a statute of limitations on that. And I think it was about five minutes after he walked out the door."
"You don't understand," I moan. "I'm one of the only three women that covers the Stars right now. I have to fight each and every day for them to stop looking at me as a potential one-night stand and start looking at me as the trustworthy girl with whom they'd like to share their baseball knowledge and feelings about their performance on the field. If even one jackass from the press box finds out I have intimate knowledge of Finn, I will be ruined. It will destroy any credibility I have built up."
I continue. "You don't know what it's like. You cover celebrity gossip in Los Angeles. It's your job to schmooze with the people you cover. Hooking up with musicians and actors is practically in your job description."
"I do not hook up with musicians," Steph says haughtily.
"Liar. You made out with the guy from Maroon Five last week," I say.
"That's not hooking up."
Steph and I start talking at the same time and she yells to make herself heard. I stop talking.
"You just need to play it cool," she says. "He's going to make the connection soon enough. And when he does, you need to be ready to nip it in the bud. Explain to him that it would be better if no one knew about that night -- and to be clear, it was one night where nothing even really happened -- and you should agree to leave the past in the past."
"You're right, it wasn't a big deal and it shouldn't be a big deal," I say. "Maybe I can just pretend I have no idea what he's talking about and then distract him by demonstrating my ability to compute on-base percentage figures in my head."
"Great plan. Let me know how that works out for you. Now, as much as I would like to continue this fascinating conversation, I gotta go. I have to finish the research for an interview our anchor is doing tonight with one of the Kardashians."
"Which one?"
"Khloe."
"Is she the skinny one with the fifty kids?"
"No, she's the funny one who was married to some NBA player."
"Right, gotchya."
"You don't even know your Kardashians. I'm embarrassed to say I'm friends with you."
"This is why people from other countries hate Americans, Steph."
"Gotta go!"
"Love you, love your show," I respond, ending the call.
I lie back in my bed and let myself think one more time about Finn's lips on mine before I shove it out of my mind. I have a career to think about, and no matter how great of a kisser he was, it's not happening again. Besides, he probably doesn't even remember something that happened four years ago.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two nights later, I find myself listening to another B-list celebrity singing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" during the seventh-inning stretch while looking down at the infield. Finn is pitching his first game for the Stars and all eyes, including mine, are on him. I saw him earlier, sitting in front of his locker with his back to room, headphones covering his ears while he studied game footage on an iPad. But I ignored him and focused on my interview with one of his teammates.
Finn throws his final warm-up pitch and walks to the back of the mound to collect himself. He has eight shutout innings behind him tonight and shows no sign of letting up. I watch as he adjusts his hat and takes a sign from his catcher, languidly winding up before his arm slingshots through the motion and he releases a ninety-seven-mile-per-hour fastball. I catch myself thinking about how his powerhouse quads and that nice firm butt fill out the uniform and almost laugh out loud. Seriously, what is wrong with me tonight?
For the last four years, I've trained myself to ignore even the cutest athletes. And it's not hard when you get to know most of them -- jerks who cheat on their wives and think they're God's gift to women. I can't tell you how many sleazy pick-up lines I've heard, how many hands I've had to remove from the small of my back and the number of times I've been called "baby" by these guys. Unfortunately, it's part of the job and if I want to complain, there's a line of five thousand other young women who would kill to be sexually harassed on the job if it meant they were advancing their careers.
Of course, it's totally fine for the players to flirt and proposition the female reporters, but if there was even a whiff of a woman showing interest in one of the men, she'd be ruined forever. The double standard is firmly in place in the sporting world, which means each woman has to work triply hard to keep herself and her reputation above reproach. And being the good girl that I am, I've never considered dating a player. Although it's not like I'm dating non-players, either. The life of a sportswriter is spent working nights and weekends. I get to the ballpark in the late afternoon, don't leave until well after midnight most nights -- longer if the game goes extra innings or we have the dreaded rain delay --and fall into bed by two. And when I wasn't covering the Stars, I was working basically the same schedule covering whatever scraps Nick threw me from any given football, basketball or hockey game.
The grind of my job is the main reason I haven't had a serious boyfriend since I moved to Chicago. Sure, there have been a handful of random guys I've dated for a few weeks at a time, but every time the novelty of dating someone who can give them fantasy football advice while arguing against the designated hitter rule wears off, the guys get bored of trying to schedule Tuesday afternoon lunch dates and passing out drunk before I even get home on Friday nights. I just don't have time to date and I'd rather focus on my career anyway.
Finn strikes out the final batter of the game and we all rise to head to the clubhouse for the postgame interviews. This will be the first time I face him since last week and I'm not sure how to play it. But I know I have to act professional because I have a story to write tonight and doodling "Katey + Finn" in my notebook isn't going to get it done.
We all file into the manager's press conference, where he has nothing but praise for his new pitcher. We dutifully record his every word and then line up to head to the locker room for an audience with the man of the hour. He's already showered and dressed, which eliminates me having to see him naked. I say a small pr
ayer of thanks and join the throng of reporters crowded around his locker.
After different reporters ask endless variations of the same questions, and Finn responds with endless variations of the same answer, everyone disperses. I drop my notebook and before I can bend down to retrieve it, Finn has it in his hand.
"Hey, Katelyn from the Chronicle," he says, handing it back to me. He smiles and his eyes crinkle just the slightest bit at the corners.
I stare into those green eyes for a second longer than is customary before I answer, "Hi, Ryan from the team. Nice win, tonight."
He shrugs and grabs a bottle of orange Gatorade off the shelf behind him. "All in a day's work," he says. "I'd like to thank God and my teammates. I'm just taking it one game at a time."
I roll my eyes. "You're a walking cliche already and you've only pitched one game in the Majors," I say.
"I've been practicing," he says, smiling. "Here's something you can help me with. I've been thinking about the other day. Have we met? I mean before this."
"I'm not sure," I lie. "Did you go to ASU?"
"Nope, I went to Oregon State. But there's something about you. I can't put my finger on it."
"People always tell me I look like a girl from some reality show. Maybe that's it."
"Maybe. Well, go easy on me in tomorrow's story."
"Easy on you? You debuted with a two-hitter. I think the story will write itself."
I head back to my computer, feeling guilty about my sin of omission but happy I dodged the bullet of recognition. Maybe he'll never remember!
I write up my story, checking three times to make sure everything is factually correct and email the story to my copyeditor. After answering some messages and writing up a preview for tomorrow's game, I pack up my things and head out, the last reporter to leave the press box. As I walk out the security exit, I run into one of the team's public relations coordinators, Matt Carter.
