The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  Sparks shimmy over my skin as we head to the bar.

  Orgasm aura indeed.

  The thing I like best about the Sports Network Awards is that it includes fans. Most awards galas are industry only—players, agents, owners, publicists, and so on.

  But every year the sports network makes tickets available to a handful of regular folks, usually via charity auctions.

  It gives the fete a different energy, makes it more real. Keeps you on your toes.

  On one hand, a bunch of thirtysomething investment bankers dropped to their knees and gave me a Wayne’s World “We’re not worthy” welcome, thanking me for bringing the Hawks back to California. On the other hand, I was serenaded with John Denver’s “Fly Away,” the words changed to “Fly away, Hawks.” Message received.

  The team is both loved and reviled.

  That’s sports for you. Little else can engender such passion, and that passion is why I love my job.

  Heck, it’s why I have a job.

  “Safe to say it’s a love-hate thing here,” Matthew says, leaning casually against the bar as we snag a few minutes to chat post-serenade.

  “Don’t I know it,” I say.

  “But it’s all in a day’s work,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

  “Exactly. It’s just part of the job. And that’s what we’re doing.”

  “Speaking of doing,” he says, dipping his voice, “are you on the pull tonight?”

  “What?” I whisper, shocked.

  He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come now, Nadia. We know each other well. You can’t fool me. There’s something happening with Mr. Interesting from the wedding. I saw the way you looked at him too when he presented an award earlier. So, is there?” he asks, with a nod toward my . . . date.

  Yes, Crosby feels like my date.

  My eyes roam to the man I want. He’s chatting with Holden, as well as Juan Rodriquez, one of the Cougars’ starting pitchers. I love how close he is with his teammates, how they’re good friends and look out for each other. He told me recently that he and Chance babysat Juan’s toddler son when Juan wanted to take his wife out to dinner.

  As I check out the man I shared a limo ride with, I fight off a grin, then change the subject. Matthew’s my friend, but what’s happening between Crosby and me is private right now.

  “You never know,” I say evasively. “What’s going on with Phoebe? Has she changed her tune at all?”

  “The opposite. She’s turned up the volume on her complaints.”

  “Let’s hope it’s just a rough patch,” I say.

  “I have a feeling it’s more like a rough road to the breakup,” he says, and I frown, but he waves it off. “It was probably destined to happen anyway. And look, when she throws me in the rubbish bin officially, I fully intend to take up wine and painting.”

  I laugh. “Why’s that?”

  “Well, can you think of a better way for me to meet a lovely woman in San Francisco than to go to one of those wine-and-painting classes?”

  I burst into laughter. “Gee. I hadn’t thought about your backup plan. But clearly you have.”

  “I’m truly joking. I don’t actually have a plan. And I certainly don’t have a plan involving wine and painting.”

  “For now,” I say.

  He gestures to the stage, then taps his watch. “Better get on, love. It’s nearly your turn to present.”

  I head backstage, waiting for my chance to present an award.

  A voice booms from the podium—the pretty, confident soprano voice of Lily Whiting, the main anchor at The Sports Network. I’ve met Lily in Vegas a few times. She’s a fantastic reporter who was recently married, but went back to using her professional name rather than her married name. I admire that about her. It’s not easy being a strong woman in a high position and she wants to stand on her own merits. She’s proof you can be ridiculously in love and be your own woman in business.

  “And now presenting the award for the best sportsman or sportswoman is a woman I admire greatly,” Lily says. “A woman who fights hard for equal pay for other women in this male-dominated field, who’s making strides at bringing more women into sports and who has already brought a top team back to the Bay Area. She embraces community with her team’s involvement in local charities. I am so proud to welcome back one of our own with the return of the Hawks to San Francisco, helmed by Nadia Harlowe.”

  I stride onto the stage, thank Lily, then head to the mic to present the award.

  As I gaze out at the audience of team owners, reporters, athletes from all over the country, and plenty of fans, I smile, imagining my father watching over me. I send a silent wish to him that I’m honoring his vision, what he built from the ground up with the fortune that he’d amassed in other fields before pursuing his dream of owning a football team.

  I am so lucky to have inherited it from him, and I want to always make him proud.

  That’s what I hold on to so I can flash a smile at the crowd. My eyes lock ever so briefly on the friendliest of faces, and Crosby grins back at me, mouthing, You’ve got it.

  I wasn’t looking for encouragement, but it sure is nice to know that man has my back. I haven’t felt that before in this setting, but I relish the sense of partnership.

  It fuels me. It’s another first.

  “It’s an honor to return to the city I love,” I say.

  A boo rings through the audience. “Go back to Vegas with the showgirls!”

  “Quiet down!” another voice shouts.

  “Women can’t run teams.”

  “Women do run teams.”

  I simply grin. It is what it is. Even at an awards ceremony, there is heckling, and it’s a reminder of the work I need to do.

  “I know to some of you the Hawks are still interlopers, but I fully intend to do this city proud. San Francisco is big enough for many sports teams. After all, I bet we have Cougars fans here. And Dragons ones as well.”

  Next to Crosby, Holden claps.

  “But this isn’t about me,” I continue. “This moment is about an award that means a lot to so many of us. That perhaps is the highest honor. This is an award for the man or woman who exemplifies giving back. And tonight I am thrilled to share that the recipient of the Best Sportsman award goes to . . .” I stop to slide a finger under the envelope flap, then take out the embossed card.

  I grin when I see the name. One of Crosby’s good friends and teammates. “Grant Blackwood, catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, who exemplifies giving back with his volunteer efforts for several local charities, including supporting underprivileged young athletes and LGBTQ athletes. Congratulations, Grant.”

  I clap as the catcher jogs to the stage, a grin lighting up his eyes. The man is damned handsome, all-American, from the dark-blond hair, to the sky-blue eyes, to his friendly, outgoing personality. I shake his hand once he’s onstage, but he pulls me in for a big hug and swipes a kiss onto my cheek. “Thank you. But keep your damned hands off my third baseman,” he says in a deliberately teasing tone.

  I laugh, pat him on the shoulder, and say, “I promise to do my absolute best.”

  I move aside as Grant gives a quick and heartfelt thanks from the podium. When he’s through, I clap for him once more, then head backstage with him before I exit into the crowd again, looking for Crosby.

  Before I find him, though, a tall, dark, and handsome creature leans back from a clutch of athletes and agents, catches my eye, and winks.

  “Declan!” I beam, closing the final feet to the tuxedoed shortstop for the New York Comets. He steps away from his crew to meet me.

  “Future Baseball Team Owner,” he says in that sexy guy-next-door voice of his, then yanks me in for a hug.

  I laugh, throwing my arms around him. “Why are all the men in my life trying to get me to buy a baseball team?”

  “What?” he asks as we separate. “I’m not the only man in your life? Who is he? Who’s this other guy?”

  I swat him as I roll my eyes. “Pleas
e. You’re the only one,” I say, teasing my friend, a guy who’s most decidedly only ever been a friend. We met a few years ago when I was in New York for business and hit it off, bonding at a party over a shared love for breakfast food and the same loud rock music.

  “How long are you in town?” I ask.

  He looks at his watch as if it includes his calendar. “I take off tomorrow afternoon.”

  I shoot him a wide-eyed glare. “Hello. Why are you not on my schedule for breakfast tomorrow?”

  “I could say the same to you.”

  “You, me, tomorrow. Let’s do it.”

  “All I heard was you’re taking me out for the best omelets in the city,” he says.

  “You have such selective hearing. And I’ll text you a breakfast spot.”

  I give him a kiss on the cheek and resume my hunt for Crosby. I spot him at the edge of the ballroom, and head over. He’s hanging out with Holden, who’s slung his tux jacket over his arm and rolled up his shirtsleeves. A tattoo adorns his forearm, an illustration of a tree extending over his muscles down to his wrist.

  Holden offers a fist for knocking. “Well said, Nadia. I dug the bit about room for both teams.”

  “Thank you,” I say, knocking back.

  “It’s hard when you feel like you’re ten steps behind from the start.”

  “It is. But I find it’s best to try not to let the negative comments affect how you do your job.” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I take it you’re dealing with some of the fallout from the Dragons’ cheating scandal?”

  “So much of it.” He sighs heavily, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “The media constantly wants to talk about it, even in the off-season.”

  Crosby gestures to his friend. “I keep telling him that he needs someone to help him handle the media. Someone beyond the team.”

  I meet Holden’s green-eyed gaze. “What do you think, Holden?”

  With a scratch of his jaw, he shrugs. “I guess I’ll see about that when the season starts.”

  I give him a sympathetic smile. “Let me know if I can help. I know some sharpshooters who can give you lots of tips.”

  His eyes glimmer with the hint of a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Holden turns to Crosby, tipping his forehead toward me. “She’s cool. Maybe I’ll let this one slide,” he says.

  Crosby’s brow furrows. “Let what slide?”

  Holden rolls his eyes, claps Crosby on the shoulder, and says, “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. For now, don’t do anything in front of me that’ll require a call to the Maldives.”

  He saunters away. Once he’s out of earshot, Crosby leans closer, his voice warm and tantalizing near my ear, making me shiver. “But privately, I’d like to do all sorts of things to you.”

  Pleasure zings through my body, and I can’t wait for this event to end.

  Soon, it does, and we make our way out of the ballroom. Lily Whiting catches us, stopping Crosby to ask if he’ll do an interview before he leaves for spring training.

  “Absolutely,” he tells her.

  “Great. I’ll be in touch to set it up.”

  As she leaves, Crosby turns back to me. “See? I’m good with the media.”

  “If I were your team’s owner, I’d be very proud of you.”

  “If you were my team’s owner, I’d still want to bang you,” he whispers.

  I laugh, shaking my head.

  “I mean it. Your job is hot. Smart women are hot. Powerful women are hot. Also, you’re hot.”

  I am indeed, thanks to his compliments—ones that are the polar opposite of what I heard my last year dating in Vegas.

  Crosby is the opposite of so many men, and I love that he’s not threatened by me. That he admires me rather, and supports me.

  Still, once we’re outside, I put on my big-girl pants and say the hard thing.

  20

  Nadia

  Outside the event hotel, I take a step closer to my plus-one and slow the train even though I don’t entirely want to. “I want to invite you over, but I think I’d break rule number three,” I say, my voice low and just for him as I tug my wrap a little tighter around my shoulders, the mercury dipping as the stars twinkle in the night sky.

  Crosby heaves a sigh then nods in agreement. “You read my mind. If I’m alone with you tonight, I’m going to have the hardest time keeping my hands off you.”

  “It’s not your hands I’m worried about,” I say in a flirty tone as the limo pulls up.

  He lets his gaze drift downward, straight to his crotch. “Aw, that’s so sweet of you to worry about my cock.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about your cock at all,” I toss back.

  Crosby grabs the door before the driver gets out, shaking his head in admiration as I slide into the long black car. “You’re a woman unleashed. As soon as you say one swear, you’re saying them all.”

  “That’s poppy . . . cock,” I say with a wicked grin.

  “Speaking of . . . let’s go get a cocktail.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we walk into the Spotted Zebra.

  The fun decor fits the name perfectly. One wall is pink. Another is black. Yet another is brick. Alt rock plays on the sound system, and hip bartenders and servers in monochrome uniforms circle the joint with drinks.

  Low couches with black-and-white stripes beckon patrons, inviting them to lounge.

  We swing by the bar, saying hello to Sierra, Grant’s sister, who flashes a grin at us as she tucks a pink-streaked strand of her blonde hair back into its messy bun.

  “Hey there.” Ink dances up and down her right arm, and both her earlobes are pierced many times over.

  “Hi, Sierra,” I say. “Good to see you.”

  “Welcome back, prodigal daughter,” she says dryly, then leans in to give me a quick hug across the bar.

  “Ha. That’ll be my new nickname.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t let the boos get you down. We’ll play the Hawks games here.” She nods to the TV blasting a hockey game in the corner. “Well, when it’s not hockey season.”

  “Hello? How about baseball?” Crosby chimes in.

  Sierra yawns, big and over-the-top. “Baseball is sooo boring.”

  Crosby clutches his heart. “You’re killing me.”

  Sierra slaps some napkins down on the bar. “What can I get you two?”

  Crosby orders me a wine, then a beer for himself, and when Sierra hands us the drinks, we grab a spot in the corner, settling onto a striped couch.

  He already shed his jacket and bow tie in the car, so now he rolls up his shirtsleeves, showing off his strong forearms. I admire the sight of them for a second, imagining how they’d look with him braced over me, his arms pinning me.

  Wild sensations kick through me, a hot rush of adrenaline. I cross my legs, trying to keep my desires in check.

  He lifts his glass. “Let’s drink to . . .”

  “To not calling the Maldives?”

  His lips curve up in a naughty grin. “So tempting though.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  I take a sip of the wine, then set it down. He does the same with his beer. “I was impressed by you onstage,” he says. “You are poise personified.”

  I beam, grateful for the compliment. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. Especially considering what other men have thought about my job.”

  “Fuck them,” he scoffs. And that’s all. That’s literally all he has to say. “You have your plate full, and you still handle yourself like the badass you’ve always been.”

  I smile. “Stop, or you’ll make me blush.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re not a blusher. I know you.”

  “True. I’m not a blusher at all.”

  He leans a little closer, his voice dipping to that low and husky range that I love. “But are you a blusher in the bedroom?”

  Tingles spread across my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll both find out.” />
  He laughs, then moves a little closer. But rather than whisper, he clears his throat. “So, have you never met a man you wanted to have sex with? Were you waiting for a relationship? Or was the timing never right? Or was it something else entirely? Which, of course, I guess raises the question of . . . why now?”

  I love the lack of judgment, the genuine interest in the elephant in the room—the why.

  But I slide in with a joke first. “You mean other than your prowess and pure masculine raw sex appeal?”

  He gives a casual shrug. “Well, yeah, obviously that.”

  I tell him the basics, about college and the lack of men there, then about my focus on classes during my master’s program, and finally about the matchmaker woes last year, though he mostly knows those details.

  “But more than that,” I finish, “I’ve never wanted to go there with anyone before. I never felt the desire intensely enough. Don’t get me wrong though—I have a lot of sexual desire.”

  His eyes glint. “I can tell.”

  “And there are plenty of things I want to do. There are plenty of things I fantasize about. And, hey, my toys get quite a workout.”

  He drags a hand across his brow as if wiping off sweat. “You’re not helping with keeping rule number three tonight.”

  I lean my head back and laugh. “Trust me, it’s hard for me too. Whatever the case before, I’m very interested in sex now. And I’m very interested in sex with you.”

  He waves a napkin like a white flag. “I surrender.”

  I swat his arm playfully. “What I’m trying to say is this—I wasn’t holding on to my virginity because it’s some precious thing, or because I have some notion that I’ll walk down the aisle in five years, or whenever, still a virgin.”

  “Five years? Is that the wedding plan?”

  A surge of embarrassment rushes blood to my cheeks. “I don’t have a wedding plan. I was just throwing that out there.”

  “So no pressure, then, for you or your future hubs.” His grin is playful, but he catches my gaze on those last couple of words, almost like he’s testing them out.