Page 37 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
After a few weeks of teeth-grinding, tossing, and turning, I finally decided to tell my mom. But when I sat down to say the hardest words I’d ever have to say, she looked at me with sympathy and kindness in her bright blue eyes. “I know, sweetie. I’ve known for a few months.”
At age thirteen, already taller than she and all kinds of gawky, I crawled into her lap and sobbed.
We both did, comforting each other over his infidelity.
A few days later, he moved out.
A few weeks later, he moved in with that woman.
I didn’t go to another one of his games for a long time. For months, I turned my back on baseball too. Part of me wanted to hate the sport. To vilify the game.
But Grant was playing in his first high school championship, and when I begrudgingly went to the series to root for my friend, I realized that baseball was so much more than my father. It was my friends. It was my own love of sports.
I refused to let my father destroy the game I’d loved since I was a little girl. I wouldn’t let him take that from me too.
I made baseball my own, separate from him, starting with my name, jettisoning his for my mother’s.
For more than a decade, he drifted in and out of my life like the wind.
Now he’s grafted himself back on to me.
Holden’s eyes are lined with misery. He swallows, parts his lips, and finally manages to speak. “He’s your father? For real?” he croaks, like each word tastes bitter and acrid, like burned food, or the taste of metal.
“Yes,” I say coolly. “I am Edward Thompson’s daughter. And I don’t use his last name. I haven’t used it ever since he—”
I cut myself off. I could so easily launch into a litany of all the reasons I don’t like my father. But the look in Holden’s eyes mere seconds ago when he told me about his new manager says I’d be hurting Holden. If I finished my sentence the way I want—haven’t used it ever since he cheated on my mom repeatedly—I’d be serving up a detail that isn’t going to help Holden do his job.
I can’t hurt him that way.
I have to protect him from the truth of my father.
My dad is an amazing manager. He’s revered by players. He’s an incredible broadcaster.
He’s a baseball wizard.
That’s all Holden needs to know. He doesn’t need to know how my father treats women.
“I don’t use his last name. Obviously,” I say, forcing out a laugh even though it’s not really funny.
He scratches his jaw. “Yeah, I kind of figured that out pretty quickly. And I had no idea you were related.”
“But how would you know?” I ask gently. He sounds like he’s beating himself up. “You said you only heard today that he became manager, so why would you have been looking him up? You’d have to dig pretty deep in his bio to find any connection to his daughters.”
The man who kissed me minutes ago shakes his head several times, still stuck in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re the . . .”
“The coach’s daughter,” I supply. It’s best to deal with facts. And rules. If you mess with the coach’s daughter and it doesn’t work out, then the coach might bench you, drop you in the lineup, or worse, recommend you to the general manager for a trade. To top it off, there’s the perception issue—how the press might view us, how the press might spin it to fans, how my boss might see things. “Which means I’m off-limits, according to the athlete code. I’m forbidden fruit. We’d be gossip blog fodder.”
“Fuck. We would, and they might,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “And my agent wants me to work on my rep with the press.” Another anguished groan comes from his lips, and I make a mental note to ask him later about his agent’s wishes. Now’s not the time. Especially when he clenches his jaw and grits out a long, frustrated sigh. “I can’t believe this, Reese. I want to see you. I want to take you out. I want to be with you, but . . .”
I love his words madly, but they slice me to the core too.
Because of the but.
Because of the inevitable pressure of public opinion.
Doesn’t matter that I’m not close to my dad.
Doesn’t matter if my father cares or not if I date one of his players.
For the record, I have no idea if he’d care. But I doubt it because he only cares about his own relationships.
The ones he can get away with.
None of that matters, though, when the perception is so fraught with whispers, with secrets, with the possibility of the forbidden.
I suppose I’ve always been forbidden fruit to players; it’s just never been an issue till now.
