Page 3 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
I give them as we walk along the athletic fields en route to the new café, saying casually, “I tracked down Holden’s email.”
“Through your dad?” Tia asks.
I sneer then wretch dramatically. “Please. I’d never do that. Plus, they don’t know each other. And I didn’t ask Grant either.”
“Grant would give it to you in a heartbeat,” Tia says.
“And I’d do the same for him. He’s like a brother to me. But nope, I didn’t call in any favors. I tracked him down through his agent, wrote a fantastic pitch letter that I sent via his people, and then, voilà, he replied directly to me.”
“Damn,” Layla says, shaking her head. “I’m kind of in awe that you snagged an interview, and all with a little good old-fashioned elbow grease.”
I shake my hips as we walk past the spring flowering of cherry blossoms. “I did indeed.”
Tia holds up a hang on a sec finger. “So, help those of us who haven’t memorized the major league rosters. Holden Kingsley is the one who went here a few years ago?”
I nod again, so excited my smile could span the entire campus. “Yep. College superstar, drafted in the eighth round, played in the minors for two years, and was called up last year. That’s him. Also, hello? Did you see his note to me?” I clear my throat and quote like I’m performing Hamlet, “‘Yes, Hell yes. Absolutely yes.’ I mean, is there any more enthusiasm than a triple yes?”
Tia taps her chin thoughtfully. “That depends. Does he normally communicate in threes? Like, do you think when he ejaculates, he says, ‘I’m coming. Oh God, I’m coming. Oh God, I’m really, really coming’?”
I swat her, laughing. “You’re so bad.” Layla laughs, and I wag my finger at her too. “Don’t encourage her. It’s like feeding the lions at the zoo.”
“I’m hardly encouraging her,” Layla says, with a dismissive wave of her sparkling fingers. “I have no idea what guys do when they finish that thing they do.”
“Come,” Tia says pointedly, staring sharply at Layla. “It’s called come. Just like you do when you finish that thing you do with girls.”
I signal for a time-out. “Can we please not talk about coming right now?” There are a million reasons I don’t want to talk about any of our sex lives, especially mine, since it’s a cipher. “This interview has nothing to do with sex.”
“Everything is about sex, honey,” Tia says, patting my shoulder.
“That is not true,” I point out, but this is a futile argument. Tia, a psych major, insists sex is the underpinning of everything. I contend that humans possess enough higher brain function to set sex aside.
Sometimes.
“Generally, I agree with Tia on this,” says Layla, then pats her flat stomach. “But I’m starving, and sex won’t fill my belly. But food will. Plus, as we dine, we can talk about Reese being all badass with her podcast. You went from just the two of us listening to. . . a whole nation?”
Laughing, I roll my eyes. “Definitely not a whole nation, but I have several thousand listeners now. The show is really helping me make a name for myself.”
That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
To make my own name.
To have my own reputation, my own thing, where I’m not just my father’s daughter.
Plus, the podcast will open job doors for me in sports marketing when I graduate. An interview with a big-name athlete will be publicity for the show and more experience for my résumé.
We turn onto a side street that leads to the latest new spot I found. Layla grabs her phone, taps on the screen, then clears her throat. “Ahem. Look at this—Holden Kingsley, with his arms of steel, his swoony green eyes, and his panty-incinerating grin, tops the Hottest Young Athletes Twenty-Five and Under list.”
“Ooh. So he’s not too old for Reese,” Tia singsongs.
“Please. That’s so not the point,” I say, because that’s crazy and not at all what the interview is about.
“That might be the point. Wait. This press release says he’s coming to campus,” Layla says, gesturing to the screen like a game-show hostess. “You’re not just doing a phone interview. You’re talking to him in person, aren’t you?”
“Yes! It was his idea!” The temptation to squeal rises again, but I dial it down. I’d better not squeal when I’m with Holden in person. “He’s doing an alumni roundtable event with some other former student-athletes, so he said he wanted to do it face-to-face.”
“Do it,” Tia snickers as Layla opens the door for us.
“There truly is a twelve-year-old boy inhabiting you, isn’t there?” I ask.
Layla waves for attention. “Hello? I can be perverted too.”
“I’m well aware. But you’re not as bad as her.”
“I guess that gives me goals, then,” Layla says dryly as we walk into the café.
I glance around at the simple decor—dark reds and golds with a few sparse flourishes, like teapots with curved handles, and soft music to set the mood—then say hello to the woman at the counter. “This place looks great.”
