Page 86 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
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Holden
This is not how I wanted him to find out about me and Reese.
Not at all.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Do you think he knows?”
What a dumbass question.
She nods to one of the front steps, where I spot the bag with the sweater I gave her. Reese gives me a soft, indulgent smile, and then a gentle whisper. “I think he does now, since that was him dropping off my sweater. I must have left it at his place earlier.”
“Fuck,” I groan. “Do you think he’s pissed?”
“I don’t know him—the man he is now—very well, but he surprised me this morning. And I think he’ll be fine with it. I told him I’d met someone. I didn’t tell him it was you, just that it was someone who made me wildly happy.”
And all the tension melts away. She must feel the shift because she asks, “Are you okay?”
Am I?
At first, I didn’t think I was.
But as I stare at this woman I love, there is only one answer.
Yes.
Thompson just found out sooner rather than later.
“I’m so good,” I say. Then I clasp her face, gaze into her eyes, and tell her, “I’m so incredibly good.”
All other thoughts fade away. Because this right here? This is what matters—standing outside with her.
Being fearless.
Knowing it’s our time.
Knowing this is our chance and we’re taking it.
“Want to know why?” I ask.
“Tell me.”
“Two years ago, all I wanted was to find a way to be with you. I was willing to fly around the country to see you in between games.”
“I wanted that too.”
“Then you had your great opportunity and you took it and that was amazing and I was happy for you. A few weeks ago, I ran into you again. And everything felt right. All I wanted was to find a way to see you more.”
“I wanted that too, Holden.”
“And you know what? We finally have that, after wanting it since we met. I’m not letting this slip through my fingers because of fear. Not because my plans are different, or the timing is wrong. You’re no longer my what-if woman. You are just my woman, and I’m letting go of all of the what-ifs.”
She loops her arms around my neck and threads her fingers into my hair, playing with the strands. “Then you better give me a red-hot kiss before you head to the ballpark, slugger.”
That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. To have her like this, kissing on the front steps of her place before I leave for a game. I drop my lips to hers and give her a good, long, lingering kiss. It’s deep and passionate and true. It’s everything.
“See you at the ballpark,” I say before I go.
I don’t have a plan for what I’ll say to her father tonight, and I’m okay with that.
I’ve spent so much of my career putting plans in motion, running on a routine, being ruled by an inflexible agenda of goals and expectations.
But the problem is I’ve worried too much about what others would think. What the press would think. What the public would think. What my coach would think.
I’ve been hemmed in by a road map, but even more so by my fear of deviating from it.
I put this pressure on myself to achieve as a thank-you to my parents, but that’s not why they did what they did.
That’s not why they went to every game, made sure I had every opportunity to reach my potential. They didn’t do it for me to give them something in return. They did it because they love me.
I’m so damn lucky to see that for what it is. Their time isn’t a debt that I have to repay. It’s a gift they gave me. A gift that made my life possible.
After I head home, I grab my things for the ballpark and call my folks one more time, getting them both on the call.
“Mom, Dad, I just want to tell you I’m so grateful for everything you did for me growing up. Everything you made possible. And I love you both so much.”
“I know,” my mom says. “We love you too.”
“We love you so much,” my dad echoes.
That’s it. That’s all. As I near the ballpark, I call Josh.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey, sorry, I was in a meeting earlier.”
“Cool. Listen, I know you wanted time to figure this out, but I’m telling Thompson tonight. I have to do this now.”
There’s silence. A clearing of his throat.
“Okay,” he says slowly, carefully. He draws a deep breath, then I swear I can hear the faint stretch of a smile as he says, “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
When I reach the park, I head straight for the manager’s office, rapping on the door.
But the hall reverberates with the sound of silence. I push the door open slightly. The office is empty. Thompson’s not here. I grab a sheet of paper, scrawl out a note, and leave it on his desk.
