by Anne Black
Contents
Title
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
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The Game
Book Two
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.
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Sheffield Publishing Group
First edition: Dec 2014
CHAPTER ONE
I walk out of Nick's office in a daze, unable to fully process all of the information we discussed. I have my marching orders, but I have no idea how -- or if -- I can actually pull this off. One minute I'm a happy-go-lucky writer covering a baseball team in a major market and the next I'm an undercover reporter using every available resource I have to uncover one of the biggest scandals to ever hit the league. It would be the assignment of a lifetime if it wasn't for one little problem: my growing feelings for Finn, the subject of the investigation.
Nick assured me I wouldn't be alone on the project, that several other reporters were already working on various aspects. But mine is the most crucial role as I need to obtain evidence of Finn using performance-enhancing drugs. Which should be totally easy. Maybe we'll have a few more dates, we'll cuddle in front of fireplaces, talk late into the night over glasses of wine, hold hands during long walks on the beach and then he'll feel comfortable enough to request I shoot him in the ass with a steroid needle. Now that's a fairy-tale happy ending!
Except there won't be a prince and a magic kiss at the end of this story. Nick and I talked extensively about this assignment and how I should play it and he urged me to get as close as possible to Finn. Little did Nick know that I'm already getting closer to Finn than I should be and that I can't take my mind off him.
Nick said Jim will be back on the beat tomorrow, his medical leave complete, so I'll be free to focus on my new assignment. I'll still cover games and file general interest pieces, providing a cover story for why I am still with the team. "Tell everyone we promoted you to feature writer," Nick said. "Congratulations."
Which leaves tonight's game, which Finn is starting. Of course he is. Why can't anything ever be easy in my world? Instead of having some time to figure out how to approach this, I'm thrown feet first into the fire. I'm so lucky, I should think about playing the lottery.
I don't see him before the game, but Finn is on point on the mound. He cruises to an easy victory, giving up one run over six innings. I straighten my chocolate brown pencil skirt and retuck my white button-down silk shirt into my waistband while we wait outside CJ's office for our postgame manager chat. When I got dressed this morning, I wanted to look casual, yet sexy, for Finn. I left one button undone, revealing a hint of tanned skin and glimpse of a gold chain necklace. I fiddle with the necklace now, pulling it back and forth so it grazes against the back of my neck. I let it fall and it touches the hollow of my throat, one of the places Finn's lips were not so long ago.
Matt approaches the pack of reporters and tells us we're free to enter the clubhouse. As a media relations staffer, he grants access to the clubhouse for reporters and cameramen and is usually hanging around if anyone has questions. He smiles at me and I return the gesture before heading in with the others. Finn is showered but standing shirtless at his locker with just a pair of jeans on his long frame. My face instantly colors pink as I think about my hands skimming over those gorgeous pecs. Our eyes meet for one quick second before I look away, unable to maintain eye contact with him and do my job at the same time. The usual volley of conversation begins, with the TV cameras crowding around for the best shot. The local NBC guy whacks me in the back of the head with his camera when he turns and I give him a dirty look before refocusing on Finn.
"I just trusted my stuff today," he says. I inwardly groan at the clichés he's spouting as he continues. "But it was a team effort."
"Ryan," I say from the back of the crowd, his eyes traveling toward the sound of my voice, "Can you talk a little about getting out of the sixth with the bases loaded?"
"Well, Katelyn, I don't think there's much to say," Finn says neutrally, thankfully using my real name. "They got lucky with a walk and two hits, but I struck him out to end the inning."
"CJ took you out after that inning," I continue. "You didn't look too happy with that."
"I don't think any pitcher is happy about coming out of the game. I always want the ball. And if I think I deserve it, I'll fight for it." He looks me dead in the eyes, his meaning lost by everyone around us. The next reporter asks a question and Finn's attention is diverted to the other side of the group. I head for the door, ready to start my story when Matt stops me.
"Hey, Katelyn," he says. "What's up?"
"Not much," I reply. "Just heading up to get to work."
"I heard Jim's back tomorrow. Are you leaving us?"
"Umm, not exactly. I'll still ... I mean ... I'm going to be writing features for a while." My first lie and it doesn't roll easily off the tongue. I would make a terrible spy.
"Thats's great!" Matt says excitedly. "They must have really liked your work while Jim was out."
"Something like that. You know what they say, the reward for good work is more work." Do people actually say that? I have no idea but it sounds like something someone would post on Facebook, accompanied by a cartoon drawing of a stretching cat.
"Let's celebrate," he says. "This is a big deal! You wanna grab a beer after the game?"
"Thanks, that would be great, but I can't," I stammer. "I have to be at the office for training at nine tomorrow morning so I need to be up bright and early."
"How about tomorrow night?" Matt asks.
"I can't!" I blurt out. I smile and calm myself. "I mean, I have a thing with a friend tomorrow. It's been in the works for ages and I can't blow it off at the last minute. But definitely another time, okay?"
"Great, I'll email you. See you after the road trip?"
"Yep, I'll be here. Don't do anything -- or anyone -- crazy on the trip."
"Me?" he asks with mock indignance.
"Yes, you. The man who told his last girlfriend he wanted to see other women on the road."
"You know me too well, Katelyn."
I walk away laughing. But the memory of Finn's bare chest sticks with me as I sit down at my laptop. The walls between my personal and professional life had a few holes knocked in them over the last couple of weeks, but they're about to come crashing d
own around me tomorrow. I just hope my heart isn't crushed in the rubble.
CHAPTER TWO
Another outfit change and my bedroom officially looks like a TJ Maxx dressing room at closing time. Dresses, skirts, jeans and shirts are littered on my bed and every available inch of my dark-wood dresser. Shoes and sandals are scattered haphazardly on the floor and I'm standing in front of my closet searching for yet another perfect outfit that doesn't exist.
I'm showered, waxed and perfumed in all the right areas and I splurged on new lingerie on a shopping trip over my lunch hour this afternoon. A plunging black lace demi bra with a matching thong are the only items of clothing I know for certain I will wear tonight. As for what goes over the lingerie, I have no clue.
Finally I pull a black sundress out of the back of the closet and hold it up to my body in front of the mirror. The neckline is flattering, the A-line skirt hits me right above the knee and the tight bodice accentuates my waist. Why didn't I think of this before? I quickly pull it on and struggle to zip it up by myself, contorting my right hand down and under my right shoulder and tugging it into place. I bet guys never have to worry about this sort of thing.
I touch up my makeup, adding a little more blush and one more swipe of a sheer burgundy lip gloss before I step back from the mirror. I slide my feet into a pair of black platform sandals and grab my Coach wristlet purse from the bed, cramming my iPhone and credit cards inside along with my lip gloss. Everything barely fits, but there's room for a piece of gum, which I tuck inside before I zip it closed.
Forgetting I needed to arrange for an Uber driver, I dig the phone out of my purse and take care of that. Three minutes later, I'm in the car heading for the Trump Tower, my leg nervously bouncing against the seat. I'm oblivious to the downtown landscape as my thoughts consume my attention.
Why can't this be a regular date with a regular guy at a regular restaurant? I smooth my dress over my legs and fidget with the strap on my wristlet. Instead, I'm heading to a player's apartment to eat dinner and gather intelligence on his medical history. This is the most screwed up date in the history of dates.
I arrive and walk into the opulent lobby. The Donald really hasn't embraced the minimalist movement. The doorman asks my name and tells me Mr. Finnegan has been expecting me, escorting me to the elevator bank and hitting the button for the sixty-sixth floor. The doors close and I'm whisked quickly and smoothly to his floor. Not sure exactly which unit is his, I hesitate for a moment when I step out. A door down the hall opens and Finn strides toward me with a smile on his face. He's wearing a black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of dark jeans. His bare feet pad softly down to the carpeted hallway and my heart stops for a brief second while I drink him in. The black shirt sets off the tan on his face, the result of hours spent practicing and playing in the sun, and a day's worth of blonde stubble gives him a hint of casualness. He really is ridiculously hot.
I smile and nervously tuck my own hair behind one ear, walking the short distance toward him. I don't know how to greet him, but he envelops me in a hug and whispers in my ear, "You look amazing." His cologne is intoxicating and I step back, slightly off balance with sensory overload. He takes my hand and walks me through the door to his condo.
This is like no other condo I've ever been to, however. It's more like a photoshoot staged for Architectural Digest. We walk through the foyer and as I walk into the living area, I can't help but notice the commanding wraparound, floor-to-ceiling windows with views of both Lake Michigan and the city. Leather couches are arranged in front of the biggest television I've seen outside of a Best Buy showroom with a pair of comfortable-looking leather chairs flanking a built-in fireplace. I glance briefly at the kitchen, all honey-colored cabinets and stainless steel appliances, the glow from silver pendant lights casting shadows on the cream-and-brown swirled granite countertop below.
The huge television is tuned to the Stars game, the batter almost life-sized on this screen. Finn leads me by the hand to the kitchen island, where two bottles of wine are already uncorked next to two glasses. "I wasn't sure if you'd want red or white, so I opened both," he says.
"How about white?" I say, thinking I don't want gross berry-stained lips and teeth later in the evening.
"Great," Finn says. He pours me a generous glass and hands it to me, pouring the second glass for himself. He raises his glass. "A toast. To new beginnings." We clink glasses and each take a sip. It's good. Really good. A crisp Sauvignon Blanc, with hints of citrus.
"Are you a big wine guy?" I ask.
"Actually I'm not," he said. "I asked the guy at the wine shop for a recommendation and he said this was great."
Finn takes another sip and I detect a slight grimace.
"You don't like it?" I ask.
"No, no, it's fine."
I get the distinct impression it's not fine. "You don't drink wine, do you?"
He sheepishly looks up from his glass, which he is intently swirling with his right hand. "No. But I thought you might like it."
"Don't be ridiculous! You don't need to impress me. Please, seriously, have something else."
"Oh thank God." Finn opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of Amstel Light before reaching into a drawer for an opener. He opens the bottle and takes a long sip, smiling after he takes the bottle away from his mouth. "That is so much better."
I smile and take another sip of my wine. Dusk is just settling over the lake, the sun setting in the opposite direction. Lights are twinkling in buildings to our left and I can't help but wonder how one affords a place like this. Then I remember, one affords a place like this when one signs a multi-million dollar contract to throw a baseball roughly sixty feet. One does not afford a place like this when writing two thousand words a day.
"Trump Tower, huh?" I ask, breaking the ice.
"My agent found the place for me," Finn says. "I didn't have a lot of time when they called me up."
"Mmm-hmmm. West Elm's accounting division must have been very happy you were called up," I tease.
"This is how it looked when I showed up!" Finn protests.
"I'm kidding. I like it. It's manly chic. All this leather and stainless steel. I feel like I'm in a country club smoking room. Except a country club smoking room doesn't feature a television people can see from space."
I walk over to the bank of windows and stare. Finn comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders from behind me.
"This is a gorgeous view," I say.
"No, this is a gorgeous view." He spins me so I'm facing him, my wine glass the only thing separating my chest from his. He leans down and kisses me gently. I can't separate fact from fiction in my head and I respond to the pressure of his lips on mine, slowly returning his kisses. He pulls back momentarily, taking my wine glass and putting it down on a side table that looks like a hammered steel bongo drum.
As he turns back to me, I get ahold of myself and put my hands on his chest to ward him off. "So, you promised me dinner. What's on the menu?"
"How do you feel about Gibsons? I know a guy there and he'll deliver anything I want."
How do I feel about the best steak joint in a city of steak joints? I feel pretty damn good. "Gibsons is fantastic."
"Great, do you want anything specific or should I just order?" Finn asks, looking relieved.
"Well, I'm vegan, so if you could just get a couple of salads and maybe a grilled portobella, that would be outstanding."
Finn stops and looks crestfallen. "Umm, wow, okay. That sounds, well ... yeah. It'll be fine!" His fake enthusiasm is endearing and I can't keep a straight face. I shove him in the shoulder.
"I'm kidding, you idiot! Life isn't worth living if you can't have meat and cheese."
"Oh thank God. I thought you were serious and I had no idea what the hell I was going to do," he laughs and grabs his phone. "I'll order for both of us."
He arranges for a literal feast: shrimp cocktail, wedge salads, bone-in filet and porterhouse steaks
, scalloped cheese potatoes, asparagus with hollandaise sauce and Black Forest cake for dessert. I'm going to need a stretcher when I leave because I'll be in a food coma.
"You know there's only two of us here, right?" I ask. "Or did you invite four other friends? That's an insane amount of food."
"I wanted to make sure we had options," he says, picking up his beer. "Besides, you've never seen me eat. It takes a lot of protein to fuel this." Finn grabs his stomach and pretends to jiggle some spare fat. Except I happen to know there's not an ounce of fat on that ripped abdomen.
He holds his arm out and gestures to the couch, so I grab my wine glass and sit down. The buttery black leather is supple beneath me. This couch probably cost more than my college education. But damn if it's not both beautiful and comfortable. Finn grabs the remote and hesitates with it pointed at the screen. "Any requests?"
"This is fine," I say. "Really. Shouldn't you be watching anyway, team unity and all that jazz?"
"I can catch the highlights on SportsCenter. What about you, wouldn't you rather be away from it all on your night off?"
"I'm never really off. It's all part of the job." If only he knew just how much work was actually involved in this date.
The scroll below the action shows scores and game situations and then switches to news highlights. We watch in silence for a few minutes before the headline "ESPN.com reports new round of steroid allegations."
I sneak a peek at Finn and his body language changes, his hands forming involuntary fists, his jaw clenching with tension. At that moment, the sound of the crowd explodes as the Stars go ahead with a home run. And just like that, Finn softens and relaxes, slow-clapping his approval for his teammates. "Looks like Mac is seeing the ball pretty well tonight," he comments.
His reaction noted, I turn toward him and smile and think, maybe we're on to something here.
CHAPTER THREE
