Page 59 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
“We’d be the focus of your season instead of how you play.”
I sigh heavily. “Yep. I get it.” I reach for her arm, squeezing it. “Thanks for helping me today with the media tips. You’re a lifesaver.”
She flashes me a grin that warms my heart. “It was my pleasure. You’ve got this,” she says. “One session at the Reese Fallon School of Media Training, and you’ll be a regular Crash Davis. I promise.”
“One session. Too bad I don’t need more,” I say.
“It’s a damn shame you’re such a quick study.”
She gives me a quick, soft goodbye kiss on my lips, then leaves. I watch her head down the steps, down the block, then out of sight.
My heart clutches. My chest tightens.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Get it together, man.
A little later, I catch a Lyft to the park, calling my parents as I go.
A chat will reset me. Especially when my mom says she needs to grade papers tomorrow.
Soon, she won’t have to. I can help them retire, buy a nicer home, make their future completely secure. That’s what I want to do. Take care of them.
I’m only in my fourth year playing ball, but for the first time, I’m making big money.
Enough to make a difference.
I’ve got to focus on the prize.
Avoid trouble.
Avoid gossip.
“How’s that new skipper of yours?” my father asks.
I close my eyes, gritting my teeth, as the Nissan Sentra eases through traffic on Lombard Street.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Great. He’s great.”
Two hours later, I’m at the ballpark, and Edward Thompson calls me aside by the dugout before the game begins. He motions for the starting pitcher and the catcher to join us as well. We talk about the kind of small ball the Aces have been executing recently, what we need to do to beat them.
“And that’s the game plan,” he says when he finishes.
We high-five, knock fists, and I make my way to the dugout to get ready for the game. Thompson sets a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, tension whipping through me as he says, “A word, Kingsley.”
Does he know? Did someone tip him off that I slept with his daughter? My gut twists, knotting around itself. My throat is sand.
“Yes?” I ask in my best poker voice, hoping he can’t read the motherfucking guilt in my tone.
But his dark eyes are warm, with no signs of looming revenge. “Watch out for Diaz. His bat’s on fire, and he loves to hit them up the middle,” he says in a teacherly tone, imparting wisdom.
I smile, recalling Reese’s words too. “Yes, he does.”
Then he slides into family talk. “How are your parents doing?”
“Good, good,” I say, relieved as I breathe again.
“And how’s everything with you? Is there a woman on the horizon?” he asks purely with curiosity, like a friendly relative would at the holidays.
I hope.
My lungs stop again. I can’t breathe once more. But then somehow my organs start up again. “Nope,” I bite out.
“Someday there will be,” he says, then walks off.
I try to shake off the encounter, to focus on the game. I lob a single, I field Diaz perfectly, but we lose the game by a score of 2 to 1.
When I go home that night, I feel like it was both the best day ever and a bit shitty too.
Then I remember I forgot to wink at Reese during my first at bat.
This is why I can’t have nice things.
Because balancing them is fucking impossible.
23
Reese
This isn’t awkward at all, walking up the steps of my father’s new home overlooking Richardson Bay, across the city in the heart of Sausalito.
It’s one of those picturesque seaside towns with curving streets and gentle waves lolling against the rocks on the shore.
The view of the Golden Gate Bridge is priceless.
I love this pretty little town, but I wish I were simply wandering through Sausalito about to pop into an ice cream shop or stop in a boutique to pick up a gift, an apron with a funny saying on it maybe, or a Christmas ornament with cutout cats.
Instead, I’m walking into my father’s house, about to have breakfast with him and his newest wife.
I haven’t seen the man who gave me half my genes since I spent the summer interning in the city after my junior year of college. He took me out to sushi one night.
That was all.
When I reach the top step, I push the buzzer, my stomach dipping and rising like a roller coaster. I offer up a faint prayer to the universe that perhaps he isn’t here. Perhaps he was called away to a baseball emergency.
Someone corked a bat.
Or a glove is missing.
Maybe the starting pitcher has a case of butterflies.
Wouldn’t that be great? As my nerves roil and sway, I hope for the most once-in-a-blue-moon of all options—the last-minute cancellation of our breakfast.
