Chapter 3

[Ross]

I didn't know exactly what to say to her. I didn't have an honest answer for why I wanted to share a drink with her or crack open this bottle I'd been saving since the season started, when I didn't have a cause to celebrate.

My team lost the world championship.

The woman I'd been dating broke things off with me three weeks ago in the middle of the playoff mayhem.

My sons don't like me very much.

After the season is my motto, and the season is now over.

I'm in this weird in-between state where it hasn't sunk in. Only a few hours have passed. In another couple months, I'll be itching to coach again, but I won't have a team. I don't know where I'll be. Maybe these are the things we should talk about, but I don't want to discuss the stuff weighing me down. I just want to have a drink and share some company without a crowd.

Plus, Vee is . . . intriguing.

A woman shared by two men? Fuck me .

And that dance in the elevator. The panic in her face. Her rush to escape and her struggle to enter . . . my room. Her frustration made her cute. Pretty in a way I hadn't noticed at first. Shoulder-length hair that's dirty blonde. Medium height with toned legs and curvy hips. Her blue eyes hold wisdom. Her face tells the truth. She's shown me her feisty side.

I won't mention how I checked out her tempting back as I lowered her zipper.

I want to know more about this two-men thing. Was she into that? I could never share a woman with another man. Plus, she gives off a good girl vibe, sweet and soft, feminine, yet her wit and tongue are sharp like steel cleats. She isn't afraid to say what she means or what she feels. She's a welcome contradiction .

With her hand still clutching the side of mine, I flip my palm and grasp her fingers. They're tiny compared to mine. Delicate. She said she's an author. She must type a lot.

"Tell me more about you. Another secret." With my focus on her hand, I spread her palm over mine, before dragging my thumb and forefinger down the length of her index finger, massaging the extremity as I go.

"I think you should coach Chicago."

My head snaps up. "That's not a secret of yours." I chuckle bitterly. "And what do you know about baseball?"

"My dad loved the sport. I go to the games for the atmosphere." Her smile says she's joking, which loosens the tension in my shoulders.

The fact that I remember her is mind-boggling. That damn video made a social media sweep, and I was tagged over and over again in it. People begged me to find her. Fans suggested I ask out a stranger.

At the time, I wasn't in a good headspace. A relationship was the last thing I wanted after Patty's sudden passing. Dating was nowhere on my bingo card then.

I had sex, though. Something physical to distract me from my grief, without any fear of becoming attached to anyone on a deeper level. I lost myself to the flashing lights and superficiality of a revolving door of celebrity women, because they never wanted anything from me other an orgasm and a picture splashed on some high-profile website or gossip magazine.

But when Chandler came along, I realized something was missing in my life. Something is still missing, and I feel unsettled, adrift almost. Our break-up had not caused any heartbreak.

"What do you love about the atmosphere?" From a coaching perspective, the vibe in a huge stadium is indescribable. The sense of grandeur. A place of pride. A feeling of belonging. The thrill of competition.

"The community. Everyone dressed in team colors. The enthusiasm over a game. The love of a team. When the Anchors win, the fans feel like winners." She raises her fist in solidarity. "Plus, Anchor Field serves a mean margarita."

I smile at the simplicity she's made of my career but understand what she's saying. In my psychology of sport class back in college, I learned about winning-team fan-pride. The BIRG Effect, where fans bask in the reflected glory of their chosen team's success.

It's abundantly clear how they feel about a loss, too.

The taunts. The insults. The cry to fire the coach.

Verona has just emphatically described every fandom that exists.

"You're kind of adorable." A chuckle that feels unfamiliar and rough from disuse follows my compliment.

"Ugh." She groans, glancing down at her hand which I'm still massaging finger by finger. A sharp contrast exists between her creamy fingers, nails polished in a dark purple, and my rough ones.

"Puppies are adorable. And if you compare me to a dog, I'm kicking you out."

The last thing I want to do is go back to my empty room and sit there alone. I could have met up with the other coaches. Hung out with the players. But they have their own rituals after a loss. I didn't want to share in the misery. I also didn't want to be by myself.

Being here, in her room, is just what I needed. A distraction from everything. Then again, isn't that how I ended up in Philadelphia nearly seven years ago? I'd needed to escape reality.

"Let's not talk about baseball."

"Okay," she whispers, dropping her voice to something huskier, alluring even.

"Let's get back to that two-men thing."

"It's called polyamorous. And I know . . ." she projects louder, pursing her lips as she lifts her head. "Let's chat about why older men like younger women. I mean, age-gap is popular in romance right now but what's really the appeal?"

My brows hitch, suggesting she must know the answer. Sex . Call me shallow, but there had been a mutual benefit between me and former partners .

Without waiting for a definitive answer, Vee continues, "I mean, I might not be twenty years younger, but I'm twenty years wiser. I know what I want. I know my worth, and I know a thing or two about the bedroom. Is that it? Is it that an older woman has an opinion, specific desires, a set standard, and we aren't willing to settle for mediocre once we cross a certain age threshold? Is it that we're more selective? We want a unicorn, instead of a work horse, hammering away at us." She jostles her hips just the slightest to emphasize her meaning.

"A unicorn?" I chuckle, wondering if this is another genre among the romance book industry, but Vee is on a roll, and I like her enthusiasm and her defense.

"Is it more effort to be with an older woman? We don't want trinkets and the tropics. Okay, maybe I wouldn't turn down a man willing to take me to Hawaii, but really? What's wrong with confidence and companionship? What's wrong with being feisty and wanting friendship, plus some damn good foreplay."

My brows hitch. I'm certain she isn't propositioning me. She's simply stating a case which has me considering something.

Being with Chandler had never been about her age. Chandler wanted a nice dinner, some publicity, and sex. However, I'd finally concluded that fancy restaurants, a flash photograph, and consensual sexy times did not garner strong sentiment. And I wanted to feel something again.

"Don't you want someone who appreciates you?"

Her question strikes a chord.

"Someone who can commiserate with your need for reading glasses and the ache in your joints."

"Commiserate?" I chortle.

"Yeah, I mean, getting older sucks, but wouldn't it be better to be with someone who can laugh with you about it versus someone who calls you old man . Unless you're into that daddy stuff, which is a whole other shelf in the romance section." She waves dismissively and releases a long exhale. The fight has gone out of her. "Besides, getting older is a privilege. "

The final gavel drops on her argument, and I ignore the sudden thud in my chest. She's absolutely correct on her last point.

With a deep rumble in my throat, I say, "Romance certainly sounds like an interesting industry."

"We even have sports romance for those of us who love both, but we won't talk about baseball." She hitches one shoulder, teasingly dismissing the topic.

My focus shifts to her other hand, reaching for it and rubbing down each of her fingers, marveling at the delicacy of them. Vee's spirit and spunk don't match her tender frame.

She hums.

Eyeing her hand, stroking over her fingers, the moment feels strangely intimate. Why am I touching her? More importantly, why am I afraid to let go? Most surprising is the question that escapes. "What kind of story would you write about us?"

"Oh, are we a story?" She ticks up a brow, her eyes flashing a playful blue.

My gaze flicks up to meet hers. "Aren't we?" Could we be? The thought is ridiculous. Life is not fiction. It's hard facts like losing spouses and important games, not equivalent in any manner, but life is full of deprivation. If Vee did write us a story, I wonder if she would make us a success. What do they call it for romance? A happily ever after.

Do I want that?

"We'd be a stalled elevator meet-cute turned only one bed."

I glance around us, taking in the king-sized bed.

"But we aren't talking about beds or sex . . . or baseball," Vee confirms, a twitch in her smile.

Slowly, I return her smile. "Isn't baseball somehow related to romance? I remember something about first base and second base."

Her head tilts. "Is there something romantic about reaching second base?" Implying getting felt up might not be special.

My gaze drifts from her lips to her chest which is ample beneath her tight-fitting tee.

Cool Girls Read Hot Books . Cute.

Then, I shake my head, ridding myself of all thoughts of happily ever after and fictional tales. I'm here to chat, not check her out.

I don't want a rebound.

I'm not looking for sex.

I just want company. Her company.

Something unfamiliar and rare aches inside me. She isn't completely wrong about me wanting a woman who better understands me. Not the baseball fame or the spotlight fanfare, but me, Ross Davis, an aging man.

Patty would have been that person.

And I'm not old. Fuck that . I don't have the cricks she's talking about, but the day I bought reader glasses had been a difficult one. And she's right. I didn't like it when Chandler called me old man. I never let her call me daddy, although she asked if she could. I'm a father, for fuck's sake. That's just— I shudder.

"What about first base in a hotel room?" The question comes from left field.

Vee's fingers stiffen within my grasp.

"For story-telling purposes," I clarify as my eyes flick upward to meet hers.

"Strangers kissing in a hotel room? It has potential." Teasingly contemplative, she pouts. Her head tilts like she's honestly giving the idea thought. Her gaze is focused on me, processing, thinking. Then, she looks puzzled.

Even I'm confused. Do I want to kiss her? Am I innocently flirting? Or am I making an ass of myself? And why would I care if I am?

I just lost the granddaddy of championships. Weightier things should fill my head. I might lose my job. I might not be marketable to a new team. I might have to retire. Again.

I'm failing at everything lately.

I clear my throat and drop my gaze back to her hand, concentrating on rubbing her thumb. "Why did you decide to become a writer?"

"It's something I always wanted to do. I have an active imagination. And at one point, I decided it was time to do something for me. "

There's more to her story she isn't saying, but I don't ask. Instead, I kid her, "Like two men sharing you."

"Okay, that's enough of that." She yanks her hand free from mine, but I chase, catching her fingers before she can fully retreat.

"I'll drop it." I pause as I rub my thumb into her palm and her arm quivers. "Ticklish?"

"Maybe." She giggles.

"I just have one more thing to say about two men—"

She groans and tries to tug her hand away again, but I hold firm.

"I'd never share."

Her arm stiffens, forcing me to look up at her. "It's fiction."

"In reality . . ." I press down on the center of her palm, stroking the lifeline bisecting the middle of her hand. Her arm twitches again. She is ticklish. "I'd never share you ."

"That's"—She swallows, watching my thumb work over her inner hand—"oddly sweet of you to say."

She's sweet.

Then I yawn, wide and large and out of nowhere. Suddenly, my head is heavy, my body weary. I blink as exhaustion hits me like I've just run into the ivy wall at Anchor Field. I should excuse myself and head to my room, but I don't want to leave.

Her room.

Or her.

Not yet.

Unable to stop myself, I scoot down on the bed and extend my arm along the extra pillows beside me. Wiggling my hand, I signify I want her to lay down next to me.

"What are you doing?" She watches me, curious, cautious, but also with a mischievous smile which lights up her face. Her blue eyes dance. She has a playful side, a silly one at that. She's passionate and talks with her hands a lot. That old video seems to embody her personality. Watching her reaction to the moment, her face turned a pretty shade of pink, hinting at both her embarrassment and the potential of a crush on me back then .

I pat the bed. "Lie down."

Her brows pinch once, the crease deep with concern. A second passes, and I brace for her to kick me to the curb. I'm actually holding my breath.

Then, she shifts, hesitantly folding down to her side, nestling her neck against my arm until I tug her closer to me, hooking her into my side so her head rests on my shoulder.

She places a hand on my belly and smooths over the material of my sweatshirt. "This isn't very comfortable."

The athletic shirt is waterproof and wind resistant, and the fabric is slippery. I sit upward, taking Vee with me, and reach for the back of my collar. In the reflection of the blank television screen, I see Vee dig her teeth into her lower lip while she watches me. Her gaze is appraising, appreciative even, of the muscle mass I still maintain. I tug the outerwear over my head and toss the sportswear toward the ottoman. Then, I kick off my shoes. They fall off the edge of the bed with a thud.

"Anchors," she whispers when I settle onto my back again and she reads the logo on the tee I have on. The one beneath the outerwear.

Vee remains propped up, her gaze running the length of my extended arm, taking in the tattoos that decorate my former pitching powerhouse. Quickly, she snags her eyes away and runs her hand over my chest, across the logo of my former team on my tee. Wearing the apparel of an opposing team could get me canned. Hell, I probably will be sacked. However, this shirt is also my lucky tee, and in baseball we have serious superstitions. I wore this worn thing the night the Chicago Anchors won the championship when I was their all-star pitcher. When my life imploded once before, and baseball had been my savior.

"Don't tell anyone," I hush.

"Another secret between us."

I've told her more tonight than I've told anyone in weeks. Not many know Chandler and I aren't together anymore. No one knows I want a coaching position with Chicago. Not a soul would believe how much I miss that city .

"Another secret," I whisper in confirmation, tugging her to me and innocently kissing her hair. She smells fresh and floral, which is expected. She's a hearts and flower kind of woman, and I'd never be the kind of man she deserves.

"Did you really want to go out with me?" Somehow, I don't think Vee would have been interested in me simply for a swanky dinner and some publicity. Maybe not even for great sex. Maybe she'd been chasing the same sentiment I had. She just wanted to feel something again.

She giggles nervously and pokes me in the chest. "Okay, no more secrets for you, mister."

We remain silent a minute. The fan of the air conditioner kicks on. The chatter of people passing the room in the hallway filters to us.

But I really want to know if my theory is correct.

"Why did she do it?" I shift so I can better see Vee's face. "Why did your daughter bring that poster to the game?"

Vee draws a finger along the anchor on my shirt. "She knew I was sad, and she thought you might be too." She shakes her head. "She was just a girl looking out for her mom, but it was incredibly insensitive, and I apologize on her behalf."

Insensitive? Because I'd been a new widower then?

Pressing my nose to her hair, I inhale her scent again. Am I still sad? Truth is, I don't feel much of anything. I'm numb lately. In comparison to the woman against my chest, who appears full of passion and drive. Playfulness and decisiveness.

"She sounds . . . fun."

"She is." Vee sighs wistfully, pride in the sleepy sound. "More fun than me. Her social calendar is so full. Kids these days . . ." She quietly chuckles, then her voice turns a touch more somber. "She was just a boy-crazed teen back then. Now, she's an adult."

I chuckle, bitter sympathy in the sound as I understand her meaning about aging children and packed calendars. I've missed out on a lot of my boys' activities from March to October. Missed their games and spring plays. Almost missed Harley's high school graduation this year. The time has passed so much quicker than I thought it would.

Without Patty present, I've been failing at fatherhood.

After the season . But the seasons have rushed along.

Tightening my hold on Vee, she responds by draping her arm over my stomach and slinging her ankle over my shin.

My dick twitches at the contact. He's been ignored since long before Chandler and I separated, but sex isn't why I'm here tonight. Romance and baseball might go hand in hand, but tonight I'm alright with never leaving the batter's box. Crazy as it sounds, I don't want to strike out with Vee.

Another heavy yawn pulls up my throat.

"What are we doing, Ross Davis?" Vee's voice softens, hushed and sleepy.

"I think we're sleeping together."

She chuckles. "I miss sleeping with someone."

It's like she read my thoughts. There were days the ache for Patty runs deep. And then there were empty nights with Chandler. She wanted to capture the allusion of cuddling, snapping endless photos for social media before we rolled to separate sides of a bed. We lacked a true connection.

I should ask if Vee has a man in her life now. Make certain she's not breaking any vows, although she isn't wearing a wedding ring. If there is someone in her life, Vee seems strong enough to have told me to hit the road instead of allowing me to enter her room.

Why would she do that with a man she doesn't know?

"You're not sleeping with just anyone, Vee. Tonight, you're sleeping with me. Only me."

Fuck the idea of another man . Or two men!

Vee hums. "Only you." Her sleepy voice drifts. "I'm sleeping with Ross Davis." Her relaxed chuckle rumbles over my chest.

Will she exploit this night to be a viral sensation again? Will she use this time against me? There isn't a bone in my body that believes she'd do that, even if I don't know her. Verona Huxley gives me strange comfort. A good kind of weird energy is coming off her. A sensation of good fortune and future luck .

"What kind of happenstance is that?" she mutters drowsily, continuing her thought.

"Happy chance?" I repeat.

"Happenstance. A coincidence. You and me in the elevator. And now you and me in my bed."

Definitely a happy chance. "I like my phrase better."

She quietly chuckles. "I think it's kind of the same thing."

As the sweet sound of her quiet laughter flutters through the room, I drift off to sleep imagining this is my life. I lose a game and come home to a woman who empathizes and supports my mood, because she understands me . She appreciates me, not just the fame of a game, and what it could mean for her status. Her image. Her brand. Her portfolio.

I snuggle selfishly into Vee, holding her tighter to me.

Silently, I thank an elevator for getting stuck and giving me an awkward ten minutes that have turned into a night of much-needed distraction.

No fooling around. No complicated sex.

Just some pillow talk.

It's refreshing. Like Vee.

A happy chance .