She took off her sandals and placed his key card on the kitchen island. “Me too. It smells like a flower shop in here.”
He blushed. “Ah, yeah. I asked my housekeeper to help make it feel homey, and she took that to mean buy out the entire stock of a florist and a grocery store.”
“I like it. It’s nice.” She thrust out a large white box. “And I brought you this case of gourmet pears,” she said. “Because I didn’t know what else to get.”
Ty laughed. “I love nothing more than a good gourmet pear. Come on in. I’ll give you the tour.”
Gwen set down her purse and followed him into the living room. To the right was a formal dining room, with a long table fully set for eight imaginary guests, and a crystal chandelier. He’d never once eaten there.
“Kitchen, dining room, living room,” he said, gesturing. “Balcony. I thought we could grill, if you like grilling.”
“I do.”
“Perfect. I have steak, chicken, tofu, and every vegetable in the world.”
She smiled. “Your housekeeper?”
“I think she’s trying to send me a message.”
“Gain some weight?”
“Get some friends.”
He led the way down the hall to the guest rooms and bathrooms, pointing out each on the way. “Home gym,” he said, gesturing into the room next to the master, then stayed in the hallway and nodded into his bedroom. “And my room.”
Gwen peered around appreciatively. “This place is huge. Do you ever get lost?”
“Quite the opposite. I don’t even know the last time I went into half those rooms. That’s what I like about your place. It’s nice. You can tell someone lives there.”
She smiled. “I’m trying.”
They returned to the kitchen, where they each opted for steak and beer, then onto the balcony where he put the meat on the grill next to the potatoes. The steaks sizzled and popped as the fat hit the coals, and they sipped their drinks and looked over the city. It was the first moment since he’d woken up that morning that Ty felt himself start to relax.
“I thought maybe you’d want to reschedule,” Gwen said eventually.
He glanced over. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you had a bad day. Because of everything that’s been going on.”
“Nah.” He hoped he sounded more blasé than he felt. “This whole season’s been like that—well, minus the tape—and normally I just come home and mope by myself. You gave me something to look forward to.”
A blush crept up her neck and he smiled.
“Are you really reading Reed’s book?” she asked.
“Yeah. Strip’s orders. And Reed’s doing it so he can try to bond with his daughter, which is nice. If reading the book helps, then I’ll do it.” Ty rested his forearms on the balcony rail and looked out over the city. “I didn’t like him much when he first came over,” he admitted. “But he’s not that bad.”
“You guys seem to get along.”
“If I tell you something, you have to promise not to repeat it.”
Gwen raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“I give him socks.”
Now she raised her other eyebrow. “What?”
“For luck. I lend him a sock before each game. I’ve been doing it for a month. His batting average is up over 100 points.”
“Because of socks?”
“The world works in mysterious ways, Gwen.”
She laughed and drank her beer, gesturing at her surroundings. “No kidding. Three months ago I was trying to figure out the best way to quit without telling Allison. Now I’m here.” She sipped and added, “Don’t tell Allison.”
“About which part? The quitting, or the being here?”
“Both.”
They shared a smile. After a second, Gwen frowned.
“What is it?” Ty asked.
“You don’t have a trophy room.”
“What?”
She turned and gripped the doorframe as she peered into the penthouse, gaze going to the built-in shelves that flanked the enormous flat-screen television. They were bare. “You don’t have any memorabilia. No trophies. No balls. No posters. This could be any apartment in the world. Where are you?”
“Your house wasn’t filled with pictures of you.”
“Yeah, but I’m not the guy whose Time interview included the line, ‘I never get tired of my own company. How could I? I’m fascinating.’”
“Well, that was just—”
“Or whose sport channel documentary showed you ranking your advertisements in order of least to most favorite, then declaring them all a first place tie.”
Ty felt his cheeks heat. “I was playing a part.”
“Which part was that?”
“Cocky young athlete.”
“And now?”
“Less cocky, but still young, athlete.”
She smiled. “Seriously. Where’s your stuff? I’m asking as a friend, and a fan.”
Ty dragged a hand through his hair. “I keep it at my cabin. Locked up.”
“Why?”
“Because my best baseball memories happened before last October, and seeing that stuff...made me sad.” It was assumed he felt sad about Connor’s arrest, but he hadn’t actually said the words out loud before that moment. Somehow the admission eased a bit of the tension that had built up inside him, trapping the feelings in.
Gwen’s expression softened. “Oh. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s all right. It’s part of why I gave you a key. I knew there was nothing here you’d want to steal.”
“Just that giant vase of lemons.”
Ty hesitated, then gave in. “Okay, there is one thing I kept here.”
“Really?”
“Don’t get too excited.”
“That’s impossible.”
“All right, come on.”
He heard her following behind as he headed for one of the guest rooms and the battered old metal trunk in the corner. He moved aside five cases of coconut water, then carefully opened the lid to retrieve a small cardboard box, about the size of a hardcover book. Gwen crouched beside him as he lifted off the top to expose an old grocery bag, protecting something soft.
“Remember,” he said. “Don’t get excited.”
“I’m not. I swear.” She sounded excited.
He carefully pulled a child-size T-shirt out of the bag, unfolded it, and held it up for Gwen to see. It was very old and very worn, with a hole near the hem. Clay stains marred the navy fabric, and part of the gold logo was peeled away. It smelled old and musty, and something in his chest tugged at the memories it recalled.
“Wood Fire Bakery,” Gwen read, looking puzzled, until Ty turned the shirt around so she could see the back. “Number eight?” It took a second for the answer to dawn. “This was your baseball jersey when you were a kid?”
Ty studied it. “Yeah. My parents owned a bakery and sponsored the team. I was number eight because I was the last one in line when it came time to pick.”
“That’s how you got your number?”
“That’s the whole thrilling story.”
Ty carefully refolded the T-shirt and put it back in its bag, in its box, in its trunk, and covered the whole thing with three dozen bottles of coconut water for safe keeping.
They stood and looked at each other, in the least fancy room of his whole penthouse. Ty had taken women to exclusive clubs and restaurants, award shows and sporting events, and they’d never once looked at him the way Gwen looked at him now. Like he’d given her a glimpse of the world.
He reached over and hooked a finger in the hem of her shirt and drew her closer. “I’m glad you came,” he said, moving in for a kiss.
“I haven’t come yet,” she whispered, nipping his bottom lip when he laughed.
He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her, feeling the line of her spine, the curve of her hip, her ass. She tasted like beer and he loved it, loved this, loved knowing who he
was with, loved that she knew something more about him than his name and his net worth. He pulled off his T-shirt and felt her short nails dig into his shoulders, smiling because he’d had marks after the last time and hadn’t minded at all, even when his teammates razzed him about the scratches.
“The steak,” Gwen said, breaking the kiss.
Ty drew her back in, his lips on her neck. “Let’s go check.”
He walked forward and she walked backwards, their lips locked, elbows bumping doorframes and walls, stumbling but righting themselves before a truly disastrous fall. Ty couldn’t have possibly cared less about the steaks, but he liked this, liked the spontaneity, the freedom. One-night stands with gorgeous women from clubs might sound spontaneous, but they followed a carefully scripted plan from which he never deviated. Gwen was the first woman in a long time he’d been himself with, unguarded and open.
He stopped in the bathroom to grab a condom, and at some point they lost their clothes, and eventually staggered onto the balcony in just their underwear. They were alone up there, but still Gwen covered her breasts as he lifted the lid on the grill and turned the steaks.
“How do you like yours?” he asked.
“Medium.”
“Then we have a few more minutes.”
He dropped the lid and grabbed her, lowering her hands and covering her breasts with his own calloused palms, her moan of pleasure confirming she approved of the switch. Her hair had come undone and now a light breeze blew through, the strands lifting to tickle his cheek, making him shudder. Or maybe that was her deviant hand slipping between them, her fingers finding their way beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs and wrapping around his cock, stroking him surely and confidently, the way he’d shown her the other night. He liked that she’d paid attention. That she’d remembered.
They made out and fondled and fumbled until the steaks were done, then he yanked the meat off the grill and onto a board to rest, nudging Gwen back into the suite so they could take care of more pressing matters before dinner. His bedroom was suddenly impossibly far away, and when he felt the back of the leather chair in the living room against his calves, Ty sat down and Gwen stood between his knees. He looked at her then, lean legs, the soft swell of her stomach, red patches on her throat where his stubble had rubbed her.
He lifted his hips and got rid of his underwear, seeing Gwen’s eyes darken at the sight of his erection. He stroked himself a couple times, because he wanted to, because he liked when she watched, then leaned in and gave her a lecherous grin before using his teeth to pull her underwear past her hips. She laughed at the overkill and pushed the lacy fabric down to her knees to step out, gasping when Ty kept his face where it was and rested his nose at the top of the curls that covered her. She made a different sound when he slid his hands up the insides of her thighs and nudged them apart, then used his thumbs to stroke through her folds and find her. He fastened his lips around the sensitive skin and sucked, and Gwen gave a little cry and clutched his head—for balance, encouragement, direction—he didn’t know and he didn’t care. He slipped two fingers inside and found her wet and ready, but he licked and caressed until her knees were shaking and she pushed him back and clumsily straddled him on the chair.
Glad he’d had the foresight to bring along a condom, he rolled it on then slumped back in the seat while Gwen lowered herself onto his cock. They both groaned as she slid down until there was nowhere left to go, her forehead resting on his shoulder as she fought for breath.
“You okay?” he murmured into the side of her neck.
“Never better,” she mumbled.
Then she started to move, and he discovered that she was a liar.
It was possible for things to get much, much, much better.
CHAPTER 15
THE MONTH OF JUNE WENT much better than all the other months of the year combined, both for Gwen, and for the Thrashers. They’d managed to eke their way out of their dead-last sixth place in the American League East to a fifth place standing that had seemed untenable not too long ago. They’d then won the first seven games of the month of July, and were on track to win tonight’s game in Los Angeles.
Gwen was at home, laptop on her knees, live tweeting the game and stifling her yawns in the crook of her elbow. Seven o’clock start times in California meant late nights for her, but the upside to having a secret fling with a guy who appeared on television at least six days a week was that the long distance gap narrowed for three and a half hours each day.
She updated the pitching graphic and posted it. 5 innings and 7Ks for @timbowerspitch! Thrashers lead 4-1 heading into the 6th. For good measure she added a gif of Ibanez dancing on the field.
The thing about winning was that everybody’s moods increased right along with the notches in the win column, and Gwen was enjoying her job more and more each day. She still got the trolls who pounced on every post with a sarcastic comment—or twelve—but she was also getting likes and retweets and pictures of fans proudly displaying their Thrashers jerseys.
Speaking of jerseys, she was currently reliving her teenage years, wearing a Thrashers jersey over a tank top and shorts. Or maybe it was more accurate to say she was living her teenage dream years, because this jersey not only said Ashe on the back, it belonged to Tyler Ashe, and it smelled like him and she wore it whenever he was away. Which was too often, now that she’d gotten used to having him around. Teams generally played ten to twelve games at home, went on the road for just as many, had an off day in between, then started all over again. She hadn’t been sent to tag along on any more of the out-of-town series, and she missed him. They still spoke every night when he got back to the hotel, but with the time difference, she was normally half-asleep and they did little more than make small talk and say good night.
Gwen sighed when the game came back on. Two Hollywood actresses who had previously been linked to Ty were sitting in the seats behind home plate, and the cameras couldn’t get enough close-ups of their gorgeous faces. While the mysterious emailer hadn’t done anything more with the sex tape—yet—the photos were enough to get blogs re-interested in Tyler Ashe’s personal life, and the two starlets in Thrashers jerseys were generating non-stop comments on social media.
Guess his stats are improving off the field as well as on, someone tweeted.
Think he’ll hit two home runs tonight? someone added.
He’s guaranteed at least a single, said another commenter. Maybe a double. That one was accompanied by a clip of two female porn stars servicing a male actor.
Is that from his tape? a fourth person replied. Still waiting on the video—those pics were a tease! And to refresh everyone’s memory, they posted one of the photos.
Gwen closed the laptop and willed herself to focus on the game on television, though her eyes were bleary and she was having trouble paying attention. Things were busy when the team was in town, but they were even crazier when they were away. They were frantically putting the finishing touches on the Dream Auction baskets, which needed to be ready in a week, and they’d worked overtime on the All-Star voting efforts, trying to drum up interest in their players without looking desperate. In the end, Escobar, the veteran catcher, had secured the most votes for his position, and would be the only Thrashers player at the game. The good news was the rest of the guys got four days off to go on vacation, visit their families, play golf—whatever they wanted. With 162 games in a regular season, the break was well-earned.
She yawned again and shook her head to stay awake, but despite her best efforts, her eyes were determined to close. Sleep had been hard to come by recently, not just because she’d spent more nights with Ty than without, but because of the stupid slogan campaign. Her dreams were peppered with suggested Thrashers slogans, some so awful they woke her up in a cold sweat. Ty had even started asking, “What was it this time?” without opening his eyes, and, near tears, she’d cry, “Thrashers are bashers!” and he’d chuckle and pull her back down to sleep.
Somewhere
between praying for sleep and dreading sleep, Gwen fell asleep. She woke hours later, disoriented, the living room cast in the flickering blue lights from the television. It was three o’clock in the morning. A quick glance at her phone confirmed the Thrashers had hung on for the win. The picture accompanying the headline was of the two actresses jumping for joy in the stands.
THE NEXT DAY, GWEN, Brandon, and Chad worked on the details for Blanche’s bowling fundraiser. They were in the boardroom again, a speaker broadcasting a popular Los Angeles sports radio station as they worked.
Chad was sorting out the catering, Gwen was confirming the guest list, and Brandon was nervously reviewing designs for the bowling shirt every donor would wear at the event. Allison had deemed the design task “nearly impossible to mess up,” and assigned it to Brandon, who had narrowed it down to his favorite options, eager to impress Allison when she got back. She’d flown to Los Angeles that morning to calm the media furor caused when one of the actresses from the night before had joined the Thrashers at an upscale club to celebrate the win, and was later caught topless with a pants-less Girardi in the men’s bathroom.
Brandon held up a photo of one of the potential designs. “How about this one?”
“Ew,” Chad said, with an exaggerated frown of disgust. “Why?” Then he sighed dramatically. “Never mind. They’re all awful. There’s no hope.”
“Hey,” Brandon protested. “I have this shirt at home!”
Chad shrugged. “See what I mean?”
Gwen tried to smile, but it was hard to concentrate. The reason they had the radio playing was so they could listen to Ty’s interview with infamous shock jock, Landon Thom. Ty and Landon had been friends for a decade, and Ty’s agent had arranged the interview to remind people that Ty was still the player they’d grown to love. Which was to say, the cocky, oversexed baseball player from the tabloids, and not the guy Gwen had been seeing. As much as she understood the motivation behind the move, it was still difficult to get her heart and her brain on the same page, especially as they moved past the polite introductions and Landon settled into his real questions.
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