Page 6 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
Don’t be lured by her gorgeous looks.
Don’t get sucked into the vortex of those cheekbones, that thick blonde hair, those bow-shaped lips, all red and cherry-ripe.
Women are distracting.
Focus on the plan, the schedule you made for today.
Do the interview. Snag a workout. Go to bed early. Catch the morning flight to Dallas and crush the ever-loving hell out of the Texas Scoundrels in a three-game series.
That’s what I’m going to do.
But after I check her out. She’s just too beautiful not to appreciate.
When I reach her, I flash my most professional, headshot-worthy grin, then extend a hand. “You must be Reese Fallon.”
She gives me a firm, confident handshake. “And you must be—wait, let me guess—Holden Kingsley.”
“Damn good intuition there.”
“It kicks in now and then,” she says, much more self-assured than I’d have expected from a college student. Then again, she’s a senior, and I was pretty confident when I was finishing up three years ago too.
She nods toward the stage, empty now as the other speakers mill about, chatting with audience members. “Did you enjoy your roundtable?”
I crook a grin. “I did, but there was no table. What’s the deal with that?”
Her mouth falls open in faux outrage, and lips-wide-open is a damn good look on her.
Don’t get distracted, Kingsley.
“That is so deceptive,” she says, parking her hands on her hips with a tsk of indignation. “Who hosts a roundtable without a table?”
“Right? That’s what I thought.” I like this vibe—easygoing and as satisfying as catching a lazy pop fly. We’ll chat, we’ll make harmless small talk, then I’ll be on my way.
“I hope you were able to roll with it,” she says.
I shrug. “That kind of stuff can throw other men off their game. Not this guy.”
A twinkle of mischief flickers in those blue eyes. “So you were able to handle that . . . curveball?”
I groan at the pun, but then shake my head and say, “Well-played.”
She gestures to the auditorium exit, starting us on our way up past the seats, her tone turning more professional. “The media rooms in Spark are great for interviews. I thought we could do the sit-down for the podcast in one of the soundproof booths before we do the walk-around portion of it?”
“That sounds fantastic. No curveballs there,” I say, adding a wink. Because why not?
“And you are adept at connecting with curveballs,” she says.
The woman knows the kind of pitches I can hit? Damn. That is impressive. “Seems you’ve done your homework.”
She gives a casual shrug and a bright smile, then rattles off some of my minor league stats and then my major league ones. “I know a thing or two about baseball,” she adds.
That makes her even more appealing.
No surprise there, since I’m a sucker for women who dig sports. No surprise, since my world and my goals revolve around them. Still, it’s hot as hell when a woman knows the difference between finding a gap in the outfield and finding a hole in the infield.
I could start a list of all the ways she appeals—confidence, smarts, and a stunning face, and it’s only been five minutes—but best to stay in the charming zone. Easy in, easy out.
As we cross the building’s foyer, I lower my voice and lean in slightly. “Confession: I study the opposing team and practice hitting what they’re likely to throw to me. So let’s hope that reputation continues.” I rap my knuckles on the door before I open it, dropping us onto the quad. “Knock on wood.”
With a curious glint in those crystal irises, she asks, “Are you superstitious, Holden?”
“Hey! If you start your questions now, what will we do for the actual interview?”
“I’ll ask again, but you’ll be ready,” she says as we fall into quick matching step, walking across campus.
I take a beat, unable to resist. “I’m always ready,” I say.
“That’s . . . a very good skill,” she says, a flicker of delight in those ice-blue eyes. “I’ve been reading up on you, but there’s not a ton of material out there about you—just you as a guy. You don’t do that many interviews, do you?”
“New guy,” I say, tapping my chest. “I kept my head down last season. I was a rookie who didn’t want to make rookie mistakes with the press. And this year, I haven’t been asked to do that many.”
“Is that why you said yes to mine? Because you aren’t asked a lot?”
Her questions are so straightforward that I don’t reach for the usual tricks I’ve learned from publicists—smile, nod, give generic “just want to help the team” answers. I’m digging her style as we walk and talk. “I said yes because I was damn impressed that you reached out directly to me. I like that. And because I know what it’s like to work that little bit harder to get what you want. To ask for what you need from professors or your coach.” She bristles at that, but I keep going. “For me, it was to ask for extra practice. To start early or work late. Or both.”
