Page 77 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
It’s now or never.
When I’m breathing fine again, he lifts a brow. “Since you’re not dying, want to give me your news?”
I expected this to be hard.
I figured I’d need an extra serving of guts to tell him my news.
I don’t though.
Turns out I’ve been prepping for this my whole life. Every night, I get into the batter’s box as a man on the mound launches fireballs at me.
I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.
“I met a woman,” I say.
Josh beams, waving his hand in my direction. “Excellent. You’ve got a bit of that man-in-love vibe about you.”
I smile. Wait till he hears who the woman is. “Yeah, that’s a fair assessment. She’s amazing, and I’ve absolutely fallen in love with her.”
“This is fantastic. I couldn’t be happier,” he says, then takes a bite of his burger.
The pitch flies over the plate. I swing. “She’s Edward Thompson’s daughter.”
And it’s my agent’s turn to nearly choke on his lunch. After a few coughs and sputters, he gives me an anguished look. “Say that again?”
“I met her a few years ago. Didn’t know she was his daughter. We reconnected right before Opening Day. I started seeing her. I’m in love with her,” I say, and I haven’t said those words to Reese exactly, but it feels fantastic to voice them aloud.
Only, Josh doesn’t seem thrilled.
He grimaces, sweeping his arm out to indicate the city of San Francisco. “Of all the women in this city, did you really have to fall in love with the coach’s daughter?”
“Seems I did.”
He drops his forehead into his palm. “Dear Lord, why are you testing me like this?”
I laugh. “Sorry. Not sorry.”
“Does Thompson know?”
“Not yet,” I say, my stomach curling. I know that conversation won’t be easy. But it’ll be necessary.
“Dude . . .” Josh says heavily.
“You think he’ll bench me? Trade me?”
Dragging a hand down his face, he groans. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Because you have one thing going for you in that regard.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not a playboy. You haven’t dated anyone publicly in a long time, so that’s good. If you were swinging your dick around town, that’d be an issue.”
“No dick swinging here. In that regard, I have been a choirboy.”
“Good. But still.” He raises his face. “The optics of this, man.”
“Optics? Can you just speak English?”
“If this comes out the wrong way, it could look bad.”
“Sure. I understand that, but why is it inherently wrong?”
The second I give that voice, something in me transforms. The concerns vanish because there’s nothing wrong with Reese and me.
I square my shoulders and speak from the heart. “I mean, I get that there’s this whole taboo around it, but we’re both adults. We’re both making this choice. She’s not some off-limits seventeen-year-old siren. She’ll be twenty-five in the fall. I’m twenty-seven. We met through an interview for her podcast. We fell for each other. And when she left the country, I didn’t date anyone else. Nor did she. Now she’s back. What is so bad about this?” I say again, getting heated, pushing him for an answer beyond optics.
A small smile tugs at his lips. “See, when you put it that way, it’s great. But you know as well as anyone that the media doesn’t always frame it the way you intend. That’s all.”
I stab my finger against the counter. “So we control the story. We give them a part of us. A true part of us. We don’t have to give them every detail. But we give them a truth, because there is nothing wrong with the truth of me falling in love with her.”
I sound like I’m giving a speech.
And holy hell.
I fucking am.
Reese’s advice hasn’t just sunk in. It’s become a part of me. I don’t want to be the king of “no comment.” I don’t want to hide. And I don’t want to worry about optics.
I want to be honest.
I want the public to know who I am. Maybe not all of me. Maybe not every part.
But Reese was right—I can share a true part of me, and that’s what I want to share.
This true part.
“Fuck optics,” I say. “There’s nothing wrong with falling for the coach’s daughter if you love her and treat her right.”
Josh stares at me, barely blinking. Then he shakes his head and slow claps. “You have my vote.”
I furrow my brow. “So that means . . .?”
“It means you make excellent points. But,” he says, turning that one-syllable word into ten, “would you just do me the solid of giving me a couple of days to figure out how to pull this off? I’ve got a ton of meetings in Los Angeles and an event to go to, but then we’ll put our heads together and do this right, okay?”
I sigh but nod. “So I’ve sold you on this?”
