Page 40 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
We reach the lobby at last. There, a woman with lush red hair whips her gaze our way, then flashes a grin at Holden. A local sports reporter, she seizes the chance. “Holden, good to see you. Exciting news about the Dragons and the new manager. With you on the team, and now Thompson, what do you think about the Dragons’ chances? You bring such a great presence to the club.”
He scoffs then says in a surly voice, nearly under his breath, “I love baseball, but I’m nobody’s savior. I just want to play.”
Oh no.
My shoulders straighten.
My radar pings.
That’s going to sound terrible in the press. All they’re going to run is a fat headline that says “Lone Wolf Kingsley.”
“Excuse me?” she asks. I’m not sure if she missed his grumble or if she’s surprised by what he said, but I take it for the lifeline it is.
I don’t wait for permission. I don’t care that he isn’t my client, isn’t my boyfriend. He’s a guy I care about, and that’s all the reason I need to help him.
I lean close to Holden and whisper, “Tell her this: ‘I’m excited about all the changes on the team and happy to be a part of it. Thank you so much.’”
Holden repeats after me, and that’s enough for the redhead. “Thank you, Holden.”
Once we’re outside, we stop on the steps, and I turn to him. Holden Kingsley has more to worry about than how the media would spin him sleeping with the coach’s daughter. Right now, he’s his own worst enemy.
“You need some lessons in how to talk to the press. And I know just the person to help.”
15
Holden
Four miles down.
A healthy breakfast.
A full round of weights.
Time to go to work for Opening Day.
I head out of my building, ready to snag a ride with Crosby to the Dragons’ ballpark before he goes to the Cougars’.
Dude likes to drive. More power to him, though I don’t get it. The best thing about San Francisco versus Los Angeles? Never needing my own wheels here is at the top of my list.
Crosby’s outside my place in Pacific Heights, tossing his keys up and down in his palm.
Grant leans casually against the passenger side door of Crosby’s red Tesla. “For the millionth time, a hot dog is not a sandwich.”
Crosby scoffs. “Two pieces of bread. Something in the middle. That’s a sandwich, man,” he says.
As I bound down the steps, Grant whips his head back and forth. “It’s folded bread. It’s rolled. That’s not a sandwich. Not a sandwich on any planet.”
I clear my throat. “Pretty sure on Planet Inedible, a hot dog is indeed a sandwich. But on this planet, can we agree it’s on the same level with muffins?”
“Thank you,” Grant says, gesturing to me like I’ve vindicated his very presence on earth. “Thank you very much.” He turns back to Crosby. “Muffins and hot dogs don’t belong anywhere.”
Crosby holds up his hands. “Dude, I don’t eat either of those things. It was a semantics debate. Not a which-tastes-better-because-neither-does debate.”
“And the debate rages on,” I say as I slide into the back seat, Grant into the front.
It’s funny, seeing Grant in a brand-new light as Reese’s longtime friend. I don’t know him well, beyond agreeing on the wrongness of hot dogs, but I’ve always thought he’s a good guy, so I can understand why she’d be tight with him.
As Crosby turns on the ignition, he tosses me a glance in the rearview mirror. “How long do I have to be your chauffeur? You’re not even on our team.”
Grant speaks to him in a reassuring tone. “Now, now. We need to be nice to the poor Dragon. It’s tough that he’s not on a team as good as ours, Crosby. We should be magnanimous to the little guys.”
I have no choice but to flip them both the bird. I start with Grant. “This is for you.” Then the driver. “And this one is for you.”
Crosby adopts a simpering smile. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”
Grant makes a time-out gesture. “Clarification, for semantics and all. Is that the side where you’re with someone or where you’re all alone?”
“Alone. I bet you know nothing about waking up alone, tomcat,” Crosby says to Grant.
Grant flubs his lips. “Please. You think I’d let some rando sleep over?”
“Wait, so no one sleeps over at your place?” I lean closer to the front, interest piqued. “Are you a bed hog, or are you just one hundred percent against relationships?”
The Cougars catcher shudders. “No. I’m not against relationships at all. The issue is this.” He jerks his head around to level me with a stare. “Did you know most guys want to cuddle? So much. Like, all night long.”
“I didn’t know that. But I know this,” Crosby puts in, hooking a thumb at himself before he turns the next corner. “I fucking love it. So yeah, I’m not surprised. I had a hunch most guys were secret cuddlers.”
