Page 70 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
As I take the subway to the ballpark in the Bronx on Thursday with some of the guys, the car filling with more rowdy fans the closer we get, she texts me about her work projects and the calendar she’s putting together.
With one arm looped around a pole and my cap pulled low, I read her latest text.
* * *
Reese: And then Jillian asked if I found Rafe Wilson attractive.
* * *
A dragon of jealousy roars inside me—bellows fucking fire. I google this guy, and I’m no expert on dude attractiveness, but I can tell he’s got it going on—strong jaw, thick hair, muscular arms.
I reply.
* * *
Holden: And your answer was “He’s fine, but he’s not Holden Kingsley”?
* * *
I swear I can feel her laughter vibrate across the country as she types.
* * *
Reese: Actually, that’s not far from the truth.
* * *
A knot of worry tightens my spine, but curiosity leads me on.
* * *
Holden: Okay, I’ll bite. What happened?
* * *
Reese: Don’t worry. I didn’t say I had a thing for you. But when we were discussing the calendar, my boss told me she doesn’t have a problem with employees dating athletes. She said she doesn’t put restrictions on that. Which means my worries about how dating you might look for my career aren’t really a thing. So, there’s that.
* * *
I inhale sharply, letting the enormity of that intel sink in. She’s . . . free.
Entirely free.
There are no issues for her.
The issues are mine, all fucking mine.
I breathe out hard through my nostrils, tension tightening in my shoulders, wishing my manager would say, “Cool, sure, date my daughter,” or my agent would say, “Everyone will love that!”
But those are pie-in-the-sky dreams.
Those are homers at every bat.
That doesn’t happen.
Still, as I read her text, possibilities start to press on my mind. Nascent ideas. Burgeoning options.
I don’t know which ones to pursue or what to do next.
All I know is everything is in my hands.
But she’s putting zero pressure on me.
She’s simply letting me know the score.
I write back.
* * *
Holden: Don’t date Rafe. Or anyone else. Please. Just give me some time.
* * *
I stare at the text before I hit send, rereading it as the train slaloms into the Bronx, slowing down as we near the stop for the storied ballpark.
Time.
Am I doing this?
Am I asking for this?
What the hell am I going to do with this time?
No clue, but I need to start to figure it out.
Because these conversations Reese and I have feel like ones we could have every day and every night.
I feel like I could be flying home to see her after these games.
It feels like we are together.
* * *
Reese: You have nothing to worry about in that regard.
* * *
But she won’t wait forever.
I say goodbye when I get to the ballpark because it’s time for baseball and only baseball.
That night, Declan goes on a tear. The star shortstop destroys Dante in an epic twenty pitch at bat, swinging and fouling, swinging and fouling, staying alive at the plate until he slams a three-run homer over the left-field fence. He rounds the bases, chin up, and I curse the motherfucker because that’s a hell of a hole to put us in.
We don’t climb out of it, especially when Shane sews up the win for the Comets with his shut-the-front-door dominance in the ninth, striking out the side on nine pitches only.
Including Gunnar.
My third baseman flings his batting glove on the dirt when he watches a nearly invisible fastball fly past him.
Game over.
I clap my teammate on the back as we head into the locker room. “Told you. The dude pelts fireballs from the mound.”
“You did not lie. I swear I saw smoke come off that last strike.”
The next morning, I tell Shane as much when I meet up with him and Declan for a run in Central Park.
“I think it’s time to change your name to the Fireman,” I tell the English closer.
“Not a chance, Romeo. Shakespeare is working just fine for me on the field and in the pickup scene, thank you very much,” he says. “And it’s so much better than the British Bad Boy of Baseball.”
Declan snort-laughs. “Yeah, that’s a mouthful. Glad to hear that Holden settled on the right name for you because if you’d have come to New York with the other one, I would have ripped it apart.”
“Duly noted. But if I ever need another one, Fire Starter is an excellent option,” he says to me.
“Either that or Game Over,” I add.
As we round the Reservoir, we talk shop, shooting the breeze.
Declan tosses me a look as we head into our third mile. “And how the hell is it out there with the Dragons? New coach treating you well?”
“He’s the Baseball Buddha. The man knows the game, knows what we need, knows how to motivate,” I say, singing Thompson’s praises.
