Chapter 14

[Ross]

She left the game early.

"For a moment there, I thought we lost you," Kip teases, clapping me on the shoulder once we are inside the management offices.

"What do you mean?"

"You almost sprained your neck looking into the stands."

"I did not," I groan. But Kip didn't miss how I took off my jacket and sent it with a security guard into the stands. What was she thinking, wearing shorts and a tee to a game when rain was predicted? Not to mention, how had I not known she'd be here?

"Looks like your experiment is working," he chides next, shaking his head in disbelief.

Yeah, the experiment appears to be working as we won our game yesterday, finishing out the series with Boston. Then today, the game ended in a win as well, despite her leaving early. And suddenly, I'm not certain it's spending the night with her that's bringing me luck, or just her presence in the stands. Which doesn't make sense as she hadn't attended those two away games with Boston.

I force myself not to look at the bigger picture. Like maybe just having her in my life is the lucky bit.

However, I am not the only one in her life and I've been unsettled since the moment she told me she had plans last night. Which was a definitive rejection and warning not to spontaneously, or otherwise, visit her place.

I didn't like it. Didn't like the thought of another man taking her out or sharing her bed or even touching her, which was just plain ridiculous.

We weren't in an arrangement that demanded monogamy or loyalty. Still, she'd mentioned what her husband did to her, and I didn't like that he'd cheated on her. I might have had a string of situationships in my past, but I was loyal in each and every one of them. I couldn't fathom cheating on a woman, especially someone as sweet, kind, and funny as Vee.

"Yeah," I finally muster a response for Kip, who has been staring at me, waiting on a reply to his statement.

"You don't sound very excited about it." He narrows his eyes, placing his hands on his hips and tilting his head, trying to read me.

"I'm excited about the wins," I state, trying to lift my enthusiasm.

"But not the woman?" His eyes widen, as if puzzled by his suggestion.

I lower to my desk chair and tug off my ball cap, tossing it to my desk before rubbing the heels of my palms against my eyes. I sigh.

"I think that's the trouble." I glance up at Kip. "I like her."

Kip chuckles. "You like her? Like like -like her? Like you're a couple of teenagers and not middle-aged adults? Come on, man." Kip whines. "Find a better descriptor for your feelings."

My brows hitch while I tip back in my desk chair. "Oh, are we doing that now? Sharing our feelings with one another?"

Kip scoffs. "Don't be a dick, Davis. You haven't liked a woman since Patty."

I tip forward in my chair and brace my forearms on the desktop. "Tread carefully, Garcia," I warn him in return.

"Look, fucking the supermodels might be fun for a while." He grunts. "But that shit gets old, because we're getting old. And even though Chandler was hot, she was cold."

"Speak for yourself about age, old man," I tease.

"Act your age. An adult."

Kip isn't wrong. Chandler only cared about herself, and her temperament ran to the extremes. She could appear playful and spontaneous and yet act distant and reserved. Somewhere in between was the sex.

And dammit, I hated that I'd admitted to Vee the other night that sex had been a focus of my relationship with Chandler. I didn't want Vee thinking I used women.

Chandler for sex. Vee for superstitious sleeping arrangements .

Still, I wasn't giving much of an impression that I'd want anything more with a woman. Right now, I don't have time for more. I'm still too new to the team and need my eyes on the ball, not off in la-la land, daydreaming about a spunky author writing kinky plotlines.

Although she never did confirm that she wrote that particular book.

Anyway , I understand what Kip is trying to impart. Be a grown up .

"I honestly can't think of any other way to describe my feelings. She's the writer." I simply like her. Not poetic or romantic or frilly verbiage. I just like her.

I chuckle to myself, recalling how she called me out on not being verbose the other night. When I hadn't typed more than one word in a responding text to her. Patty would sometimes complain I wasn't in touch with my emotions. I was goal-driven instead. Win .

My boys certainly felt the absence of my feelings, as I struggled after Patty's death to deal with my grief and balance theirs at nine and eleven years old. I made a lot of mistakes.

"So, she's a writer," Kip singsongs, wiggling his brows. "Anything I've read."

I remember her questioning me when I'd asked her the same thing. "Do you read romance?"

He gasps like I've shot him through the heart. The shocked expression on his face looks more like an admission of guilt than a pained accusation.

"Do you?" I question again, leaning forward once more, reminding myself I need to look up her books.

Kip glances nervously to his left. "I've been known to indulge in one or two." His voice remains steady while his confidence waffles. His cheeks tinge pink. "Women like that."

"Like what?" I ask, like I'm not well-versed in women.

"When you take an interest in them. Do what they do or read what they read. Hell, they especially like it when you read what they read to them. "

A minute passes while I process what he's explained. Then I scoff while leaning against the arm of my chair. "Who knew you were such a romantic?"

"Maybe you should try it. You're finally with a woman your own age. A woman you like ," he drones. "Might be more fun than you expect."

With that, Kip turns on his heels and exits my office, leaving me feeling a little chastised and a tad hurt.

And I'm not certain which emotion lines up with what. The growing older jab, or the lack of interest poke, or the fact that I'm out of practice at being romantic.

+ + +

As romantic gestures go, presenting a woman with season tickets to the Chicago Anchors might not rank up there for some.

"That's a sweet gesture," Vee says half-heartedly once she lets me into her place and I present her the tickets.

For her service to the team, I'd said.

I'd sent a text before arriving unannounced and asked if I could stop by with something for her. I didn't want to intrude on any plans she might have this evening.

"But I don't need them," she continues, glancing up at me as we stand in the entry area. She hasn't invited me further into her place when I'd really like to finish that bottle of wine we started the other night, and talk.

Maybe she emptied the bottle with her plans last night.

"My dad was an avid fan. I can't remember if I told you that before."

I couldn't either as I was too focused on her eyes. The blue soft yet sparkling, like the flicker of holiday lightbulbs. Her mouth is coated in a pink gloss. Freckles sprinkle her cheeks as if she has recently been in the sun when today had been gloomy and cloudy.

She's pretty. Adorably pretty. Enticingly pretty .

"Anyway, he often took me to the games." She shrugs. "It was a special time for us. Like a date with Dad moment." She wistfully sighs in recall, while the memories cinch her forehead a second, like an ache exists in remembering such sacred times. "He took my girls to games as well, giving them precious memories, too. So, when he passed away, I couldn't let the tradition go. I took over his lottery spot, claiming the tickets in his memory. So, I have season tickets."

I'm caught between stunned that she has an entire season worth of tickets and relieved that this means I'll continue to see her. Not that we'd gotten to that particular discussion point in the experiment. The what's next moment. But still, she'll be around the stadium once we return to Chicago.

I also feel a little stupid, thinking I was offering her something special, when she already has season tickets and loads of memories mingled with them.

I slip the certificate I had printed which explained how she could claim her tickets back into my pocket, and we stare at one another a minute.

"So, you'll be at all the home games, then?"

"Well, not all of them. If I have plans, or my girls can't use the tickets, we sell them. Try to recoup a little bit of the cost." She grimaces, expressing her dislike of the rising ticket prices.

"Plans, huh?" I grunt.

When she doesn't respond or ask me to stick around, I invite myself to stay. "Want to finish that bottle of wine from the other night?" I arch one brow and slowly smile at my memory of us. Then my voice hardens. "Unless you finished it with your date last night."

"I didn't say I had a date last night." Her voice rises in surprise, eyes widening as her hands come to her hips.

"You said you had plans ." But I can read between the lines, even if the lines seem to be blurring a little bit.

"I did have plans. I went to dinner with an author friend who lives in the area." She tilts her head. "Why would you think I had a date? "

I lower my head, pursing my lips then twisting them, debating if I should answer honestly or not.

"I just thought plans meant you had a date, but you didn't want to tell me." And I didn't like the idea of you having a date.

"Why wouldn't I tell you?" Her tone suggests this is a legit question. "Furthermore, why would it matter?"

I feel her gaze on me, but I can't look up at her. I'm being unfair, selfish even, but then I lift my head and answer honestly, "Because I don't want to share you."

Her sweet mouth pops open before she clamps her lips back together a second. Then she speaks, "You aren't sharing me. We're only sleeping together."

The statement sounds so absurd, the argument exact, that we both laugh, scattering the tension between us and loosening the pressure on my shoulders. I hadn't realized how tense I was over the idea of her having a date.

"How about that wine?" I nod toward her kitchen, and she leads the way, taking her spot inside the kitchen while I help myself to a stool on the living room side of the counter. She pours us each a glass and slides one closer to me.

"I just want to clarify, that if I had a date, I'd say date. And me saying I have plans, in order not to attend a home game, would also be exactly what I mean. Pre-scheduled or last-minute plans. If I had a date , I might bring him to a game." She lifts her glass, drinking a hearty sip of wine, while glaring at me over the rim of the stemless glassware.

I growl, upset at the thought when I have no right to be worked up.

"You're very grumpy tonight for a man who won today."

"Sent my jacket to a woman in the stands and she ducked out early from the game."

"Oh. And that woman was so appreciative of the jacket. Now that was a sweet gesture." She smiles, her voice shifting, softening. She wasn't offended by the gift of season tickets, but she looked a little put off by them. Maybe she was hurt by the presentation. Or maybe my gift should have been more personal .

She wasn't specifically helping the team, but more so helping me. By sleeping with me.

Maybe Kip was right. Am I out of touch with what women want? All I really care about is what Vee might want. What she needs. And my presentation should have been more thoughtful. Something that expressed more of my gratitude for her and what she's doing for me by playing along with my superstition.

"Speaking of your jacket, let me get it for you." She rounds the counter for the living room.

Shifting on the stool, I catch her wrist as she nears me. "Is there a rush?" She seems eager to get me out of here tonight.

Her head lowers, eyes aimed where my hand cuffs her wrist, my thumb gently rubbing the inner skin over her pulse point. "You don't need to spend the night tonight. You didn't spend the night last night and you won today." Her head lifts and our eyes meet. "I think that proves the experiment isn't necessary."

Panic hits like a hundred-mile-an-hour hit to the elbow, pain radiating over my limbs. I sense Vee is pulling away, about to end our arrangement. And if that happened, I might never see her again.

Shaking my head, I argue. "You were at the game today, though. And we won."

She sighs. "So what you're saying is now I need to start attending all the games, both here and back home?" She chuckles but the sound is strained.

Would it be selfish to say cancel any pre-scheduled plans that conflict with those home games? Probably. How about no fucking dates allowed? Yeah, that wouldn't be right either.

"We haven't talked about the regular season yet," I remind her.

"I don't think we need to go there yet ," she counters.

But we both know, time is ticking, and the calendar dates are getting crossed off on our stay in Arizona, both hers and the Anchors.

"Let's just take it night by night then?" I lower my voice, noticing a quiver in it. A vulnerability I don't want her hearing. I'm not ready to say goodbye to her .

"You weren't paying much attention at the game," I state next, wanting to shift topics, but also curious what held her interest as she clearly wasn't attentively observing the team. Why go to a game if she isn't interested? Then again, I recall her telling me about the atmosphere and margaritas.

She shrugs again, lowering her head, and I realize I'm still holding her wrist. With my foot, I drag the other stool forward, away from the overhanging counter, then pat the seat with my free hand.

Vee slides onto the seat, facing me, and I bracket my legs on either side of her knees. Again with my foot, I draw the stool closer to me, wedging her between my spread thighs.

"I was writing." Vee reaches for her wineglass and sips.

"Really?" I arch one brow, both surprised and pleased that she found inspiration during the game. Then my expression folds and I bitterly chuckle. "Not two men again, I hope."

"A whole team of players," she chides, then she bursts out laughing and points at me. "You should see your face."

I grab her finger and squeeze. "Not fucking funny," I mutter. Then I lower her hand, massaging her finger like I've done before, tugging at the short length, and kneading along the fine bones.

Vee's gaze drops. "That feels so nice."

"You type all day, right?"

"Well, not all day." She chokes on a strangled laugh. "In fact, not most days, until recently."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been struggling to write. For months ," she emphasizes. "Publishing is a hard industry. Everyone is looking for the next great thing to write. What plot sells? What do readers want? What fits best with my brand?"

Her eyes don't leave where I'm massaging her hand. "The first game I attended alone, inspiration struck. Might not be a best seller. Might be a plot already told. Might not even be what readers want." She scoffs .

"But it's a story. A romantic one, at that." Her voice lulls, offering another wistful sigh mingling with secret wonder. Like she's both pleased and surprised at the romantic nature of her own storytelling.

"What's it about?"

Her head lifts, eyes staring directly at me for a split second before darting away. "I don't think I'm ready to share yet. I'm in the early stages still."

"Well, I'm glad inspiration struck. And I look forward to reading it. Once you're ready to share." I dip my head, forcing her eyes to meet mine again.

She clears her throat. "Cameron was never interested in my books."

My fingers still from working her hand, and I stare at her face, where her eyes are avoiding mine once more.

"And Cameron is . . ."

"My late husband." She lifts her shoulders dismissively. "He wasn't interested in story lines, or reading my books, or even talking about the business side of publishing. He didn't care."

I hurt for her like I've taken a fast ball to the chest. "He probably cared, he just didn't know how to show his interest or what questions to ask."

She weakly smiles, her voice sad. "No. He really didn't care about my writing."

I don't want to believe it. What kind of man isn't interested in his wife's career? About the thing that brings her joy because writing certainly gives Vee pleasure. She lights up when she talks about her work. At least, the bits and pieces she's shared.

"I became used to not talking about my career, so I'm sorry if I sound standoffish about it. It's just hard to believe you'd really be interested in hearing about the book world, as we call it."

"Vee," I groan, tipping up her chin. "I'm interested." In the book world, in her world, in her .

"Talk all you want. Share plot ideas or storylines. Tell me about the industry. Because you know about mine. You know about baseball and superstitions. And you know that I'm right where I wanted to be, managing the Anchors. It makes me happy." I chuckle. "I'm stressed, but content. And I can tell writing books makes you happy, so share that shit with me."

She laughs soggily while blinking rapidly a few times, clearing her eyes of tears she doesn't want me to notice.

"Share the stresses, too."

She laughs a little harder, swiping at the corner of her eye to dissolve a tear before it falls. "Thank you."

The desire to pull her close, hug her, heck, even kiss her, is so strong, I find myself leaning forward, then stop the trajectory. Still, I want to reassure her I'm here for her. I even consider teasing her about her polyamorous plotline to dissolve her sadness, but reconsider that jest as well. Instead, I ask something I'm more curious about.

"So, is this a baseball romance? Did I get the terminology correct?"

She snorts softly. Not a full snortle, but a pleasing sound all the same, tells me I'm correct. "You're the one who mentioned baseball and romance go together."

I smile that she remembers something about our first night.

I also wonder how she'd feel about experiencing first base with me.