Chapter 1

November

Offseason

[Vee]

"Hold the elevator."

My heels clack against the tile floor of the Autumn Hotel's lobby as I race for the elevator. I can't wait to take off these shoes and the constricting panties beneath my dress.

A masculine hand grips the closing door, triggering it to re-open, and I skip into the lift. Collapsing against the back wall, I tip up my head and let out a sharp, singular laugh.

I made it .

With my heart racing from the sprint, I'm breathless when I say, "Eleven, please."

The doors close and I lower my head, giving a cursory glance at my elevator mate and dismissing him. Then I do a double take.

Holy cow! I mean, Holy. Speckled. Cow. Baseball legend Ross Davis is standing in the elevator with me, staring at his phone. Baseball cap slung low over his eyes. Three-quarter zip shirt. Dress slacks. Not going to lie. I totally objectify his backside in those pants that curve around his firm ass and outline muscular thighs.

With my back to the interior wall, I plaster myself even tighter to the panel. The gold-colored rail lining the space jabs into my lower spine. My gaze drifts to the shiny chrome bank of floor numbers, finding eleven is the only button glowing.

That isn't as consequential as the fact I'm standing— alone —with not only a present icon in baseball but someone I have the biggest sport-celebrity crush on.

Some people have book boyfriends. I have a baseball boyfriend.

Ross Davis was the pitcher for the Chicago Anchors when they won the World Championship eight years ago. As a die-hard fan of the royal blue and red, he stood out in the league because of his age. He was thirty-nine back then, making him forty-seven now.

However, I'd recognize him anywhere. Hidden beneath the ball cap on his head is the buzz-cut of salt-and-pepper hair but the beard on his jaw is what distinguishes him. Silver, gray, and white in an artful blend on a man with a fuller face. He's very tall up close with mile-wide shoulders and a solid stance.

Ross Davis as a fantasy in my head is nothing compared to Ross Davis in the flesh. My hands grow clammy, my mouth sticky like caramel corn. My heart rate is slightly more erratic than usual.

When he left the Anchors, he took a year off before becoming manager of the Philadelphia Flash. Neither of us are near our home states as we stand in this elevator in downtown Houston on the final night of the current championship series. The last game of the season for his team.

I'm here for a writers' conference.

And again, I'm the only person in the elevator with him.

I should say something. Then again, I shouldn't say anything. The game was rough. He's clearly focused on his phone. He probably doesn't want to be interrupted. Definitely does not want to be fangirled over. Although, since I'm forty-five, I guess I might be called a fan woman . However, I'm not a ball chaser. The women who toss themselves at baseball players for their fame and status. Not to mention, any overzealous attention from me might make me look like a stalker.

But I'm absolutely crushing on him.

Suddenly, the elevator jolts. The lights flicker. A grinding sound kathunks , and the lift abruptly stops.

With my fingers clutching the railing behind me, I glance at Ross, who lifts his head, and squints at the electronic square that blinked through the once-ascending numbers.

"What the fuck?" he mutters under his breath. He presses the number eleven, but we are obviously not moving. Next, he jabs at the emergency call button. Nothing happens. We wait in silence. He triple-jabs the offensive button. Poke-poke-poke . Still, nothing.

"Maybe you should use your phone. "

His shoulders stiffen, head lifting higher, before twisting only his upper body to face me. With the device in his hand, he stares at me like he'd forgotten someone else was present.

His eyes narrow before he gazes down at his phone and rapidly types out a message.

With his head bowed, he shakes it side to side. "No service."

The elevator jolts. My knees buckle and I clutch the railing harder. We seem to rise a few feet and then abruptly halt, rocking the lift.

Dear God, I'm going to die. In an elevator. With Ross Davis .

There could be worse ways to go but plummeting to my death still wasn't on my bingo card. As we rapidly descend to the end of our lives, I'm going to scream like I'm watching a horror flick, pee myself, and then die in a pool of urine at the feet of Ross Davis.

Graphic. I get it. My overactive imagination is what makes me a great writer.

And the thought of peeing sparks the urge.

No . Just no, no, no . My weak bladder is not allowed to kick in right now.

I. Do. Not. Need. To. Pee.

The mental command only stirs more urgency. My palms sweat on the railing. I can smell the tainted mixture of metal and perspiration. Or maybe that's me, as my pits are beginning to moisten as if I hadn't already been a little damp from my race to the elevator.

My pajamas, a lush bed, and a good romance novel were calling my name.

Trapped in an elevator would make a great meet-cute, but this was not romantic.

Peeing myself in front of Ross Davis is not the fluff of fantasies.

Lifting a hand, I fan my face, which has no effect but I'm internally telling myself it helps.

"Are you alright?" Ross asks, finally acknowledging my presence.

"Is it hot in here?" Mother of baseball, this can't be happening . On top of the sudden need to pee, panic is setting in, triggering a hot flash. Not that the scorching-curse can be called forth. The devilish hormones inside me have a mind of their own and they've chosen this moment to strike, adding to my discomfort. Starting at my shins, heat rises up my body like the vines of the ivy wall in the iconic Chicago Anchor stadium. My skin goes up in flames. Steam is probably wafting off my flesh.

Ross stares at me as I frantically wave one hand in front of my face while clinging to the railing with my other hand. The restrictive, uncomfortable, possibly size-too-small spandex I'm wearing is making everything worse. My stomach is tight, pressing down on my bladder. Once I shed these control-top panties, I plan to never wear them again. I bend a little at the knees, clenching my thighs together. Any second now, the full-on I've-got-to-potty dance will commence. Momentarily, the hot flash is distracting me. I'm certain the additional heat turns my face Anchor red.

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

Now that he's mentioned it . . . "Maybe a little bit." Are the walls getting closer in here? Is the oxygen lessening?

"Fuck." He tips back his head and glares at the ceiling for a second before tugging off his baseball cap and rubbing his thick hand over his head. I have never in my life had a thing for tattooed or nearly bald men until this man. And with that silvery beard and the winning smile I've seen him give a crowd of cameras, he's panty-melting.

Only I don't need my panties to melt. I need them to stay intact.

"It will probably only be a few minutes."

"Yep." I dig my teeth into my lower lip as I continue the hand-fanning, knee-bending, thigh-clenching dance.

"Rough game tonight," I add, then mentally curse myself. Now isn't the time for small talk. In fact, it might be best if he goes back to ignoring my existence and I peacefully die a slow death unacknowledged by him.

"You a baseball fan?" He resettles the cap on his head.

"Go Anchors," I muster.

"Shit," he mutters, lowering his head again. He played for our team for six seasons before that record breaking one. We were sad to see him go when he'd announced his retirement after a personal tragedy. He was a worthy coach, though. Players adored him. Front offices respected him .

He lifts his head again, tipping it back to stare at the ceiling. "I miss Chicago."

"Oh, yeah?" I grasp for something more intelligent to say. "What do you miss?"

His shoulders lift as he inhales deeply. He removes his cap again, scrubs over his head, and replaces the covering once more. "I miss the fans."

"For baseball," I interject, dropping my gaze to the Philadelphia logo on his shirt. Of course, he means baseball. Isn't that the topic?

He tilts his head, confusion scored in his expression. "Yeah."

"What else do you miss?" Maybe small talk won't be so bad. Keep him chatting. Then maybe he'll ignore the perspiration dampening my neck and the excessive wetness at my pits as I fight through the hot flash, the need to pee, and the onset of my height-phobia which involves additional sweating on my palms and feet.

"Walks along the lakefront in the summer. Hell, even the frigid temps of winter. Although my bones appreciate springtime in Florida." The Flash's spring training takes place in the sunshine state.

"Summer in the city is the best." Still not the most conversational statement but the truth. Chicago has this strange dichotomy of beachfront town and major metropolis divided by a famous highway, still affectionately called Lake Shore Drive.

"Ever done the polar plunge, though?" Ross shivers.

The idea of throwing myself into the frigid winter lake isn't helping with my need-to-pee emergency.

I cross my legs and bounce once. Ross notices. His brows cinch tight. He rubs his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, circling his lush-looking lips before drawing them together along the thick edge of his chin. His eyes are blue which I've only ever seen on a screen. Up close, they are the same royal shade as my beloved baseball team.

"Hello?" A scratchy voice projects through the emergency call speaker .

"Yes. Hello." Ross quickly turns toward the box and bellows louder than necessary for such a small space. "We're stuck." He glances at the floor numbers, none of which are lit to tell us where we've stalled.

"Sir, it should only be another minute."

"Someone in here is on the verge of a panic attack. If she goes into cardiac arrest, it will be on your conscience."

Oh my . "Was that necessary?" I demand, surprised by the sharpness of his tone and the terse insult to someone only trying to help us remain calm. Not to mention, he's calling out my verge-of-hysteria. The only heart attack I'll have is if my bladder gives out.

The elevator thuds, rumbling the lift before a loud clacking occurs, and we move again. I drop my fanning hand to my lower belly and squeeze my thighs tighter together. Knowing I'm this close to exiting this thing and reaching the safety of my room has the urge to pee ratcheting sky-high.

The sweat lingering on my skin is no longer related to the hot flash but to the potential mortification of not making it off this elevator and into my room in time.

Suddenly, the doors whoosh open.

Without a word to my former celebrity crush because he'd just lost all his points by reprimanding the elevator attendant, I rush toward my room. I have a vague sense of him turning in the same direction as me but I'm hyper-focused as I fumble with my room key. My hands tremble as the plastic card swipes over the electronic lock.

Red.

Red.

I flip the card over.

Red.

What the hell?

My hips rock. My knees knock. My thighs are pressed together tighter than a ballpark hotdog in a bun.

"That's my room." The masculine voice, embodied by the man standing beside me, watching me struggle to enter a hotel room, only irritates me further .

Glancing at the marker beside the door, I read the number. 1113.

Shit. I step to my left, forcing Ross Davis out of my way, and swipe my card over the keypad for my room. 1111.

Green. Click .

Without a glance backward, I step inside, allow the door to slam behind me and enter the bathroom. The potty dance continues as I struggle to roll down my nude-colored shaper briefs and settle on the toilet. Relief hits instantly and I bow my head, resting my forehead in my hand with my elbow on my thigh.

Holy cow , that was close.

Taking a deep breath, I linger on the porcelain throne as sweat cools on my skin. Pushing the body-contouring torture garment over my knees, I let it fall to my ankles. After kicking off my heels, I jiggle my feet for the final stage of removing the underwear.

With another deep exhale, freedom comes for my once constricted belly while I wiggle my toes, now released from my pinching shoes.

Placing both hands on my thighs, I lean forward, shaking my head back and forth.

No one else . To no one else would such a moment happen. I nearly peed myself in an elevator in front of Ross Davis.

Who really wasn't a conversationalist, nor was he particularly polite. Not to mention he sort of threw me under the bus without compassion, like I was one hand wave away from smacking myself or dropping to the floor in a frothing panic.

I hate when you learn your crush isn't really all that in the end.

Sitting upright, I reach over my shoulder and attempt to lower the zipper on the back of my dress.

Single-Woman Issue 171: Zipper lowering. Equally as difficult as zipper lifting.

My arms don't bend behind my back quite like they once did to operate zippers on a dress. I only have the closure lowered a few inches before I take care of personal hygiene and stand from the toilet. With my shaper on the floor, I push the garment aside with my foot and wash my hands, taking a second to stare at myself in the mirror .

My blonde hair shows evidence of finger combing throughout the long day of attending seminars. My eyes are bloodshot from straining to read in low-light ballrooms, plus, I've had two glasses of wine. Reaching for a washcloth, I wet it and scrub my face with the warm terrycloth, removing any remaining makeup.

As I wring out the washcloth, a knock comes on my hotel room door. Being that I was kind of in a hurry to enter the bathroom, I hadn't bothered closing the privacy slider. Plus, I'm the only one staying in my room. Either way, I haven't ordered room service, and someone evidently has the wrong room. I pause, waiting out the sound.

But another knock occurs, a little harder, a little more insistent.

Setting aside the washcloth, I pick up a hair band and tuck my hair into a messy bun at my nape while I cross the room for the door.

Peeking through the peephole, a sight I never in a million years imagined seeing stands in the hallway.

Even with an overactive imagination, I couldn't make this situation up.

And for a full minute or more, I stare at the peephole, as if I have imagined him. My stomach ripples like stands full of fans attempting The Wave. Unhindered, I observe him. Even though he was rude in the elevator, the tilt of his head gives a vibe of bone-deep weariness. A vulnerability that has me stepping back.

I tug at the loose twist of my hair then smooth my hand over my belly, hoping to calm the fluttering within me. I'm highly conscious that my dress is partially unzipped. And , I'm not wearing underwear.

With a flourish, I open the door and stare into the hall.

Ross Davis's gaze drops to a cut-crystal bottle of amber-colored liquid he cups in his hand. "I was saving this for tonight." He lifts the container. "For the big win."

I nod, suddenly sympathetic. Nothing excuses his tone or behavior earlier, but I instantly recall he's had a tough night. Maybe rougher than getting stuck in an elevator with a woman fanning herself, but not quite as desperate as my near-urination emergency. I will not concede the direness of that situation .

"I'm sorry about the loss."

Yep . Ross Davis and the Philadelphia Flash lost the biggest night in baseball in a gut-wrenching sixth game match up with Houston. The game came down to the ninth inning with bases loaded and a double play when the centerfielder caught a fly ball and then threw to the second baseman, who tagged the runner for the game ending out. In a mediocre game, the play was a major blow.

Ross nods once. His demeanor melancholy as he lowers his gaze again to where his thick fingers circle the neck of the crystal container, which he cradles like a prized possession. Albeit a poor substitute for a championship trophy.

For some reason, I envision what it would look like to have those thick fingers wrapped around me in some way. My thighs. My wrist. My throat.

"And I'm sorry for my behavior in the elevator. I called the front desk to apologize to the kid." He lifts the bottle in his hands and shrugs, the subtle movement almost bashful. "Anyway, I wondered if you'd like to share a drink with me. Even though, I can't promise to be the best company."

Holding onto the door, I shift to one leg and rub my bare foot over my ankle. Ross watches the motion. He's no longer wearing his team's three-quarter zip shirt or those ass-complementing dress slacks, but a plain black sweatshirt made of waterproof material and athletic pants.

We might be total strangers to one another but the aura of defeat around him has me stepping back and silently waving him inside. A hint of freshly-showered man mixes with a splash of spicy, masculine cologne as he passes me.

Was I really sitting on the toilet long enough for him to shower? Then again, I remember the days when Cameron could shower in under five minutes and be prepared to go in a total of eight. It's a man-thing.

However, the man-thing I'm most curious about right now is why Ross Davis wants to share a drink with me and how we're doing it in my hotel room.