Chapter 4

[Vee]

At some point during the night, I pressed off Ross's chest and rolled to my side, giving my back to him. Like iron fragments chasing a magnet, Ross rolled with me, lining his body up tight against mine. His heavy arm draped over my waist. I fell into a restless doze.

The gentle hum of him snoring could have been the reason for feeling unsettled.

Or the fact I'm literally sleeping with Ross Davis, my imaginary baseball boyfriend.

My overactive thoughts wander through a variety of scenarios, if only I were a little more reckless and a lot more seductive. Like how I would have kissed my crush at some point. That strong hand of his would have cupped my neck, wanting more from me. Our tongues would have met, and I'd have had a connection like none other, taking us down the first base line to making out.

How long has it been since I've been kissed?

My wayward thoughts round toward second base. I didn't miss how his eyes raked over my T-shirt. His hands are the size of a baseball mitt and, in my fantasy, he'd cover my breast, squeezing, kneading, before plucking at the tight nub of my nipple.

With that mental image, I squirm a little and feel the glory of something solid and firm pressing against my backside. Baseball euphemisms abound. He has quite the bat in his pants, and I'd like him to take a swing. I dig my teeth into my lower lip to suppress a giggle. I'm so exhausted I'm not thinking straight, and I'm in this weird dream state with Ross Davis behind me and the firmness of his morning wood against my ass.

If I'd been braver last night, I would have run my hand lower than the Anchors logo on the tee covering his firm chest. Down, down, down to the wedge that wasn't hidden by loose fitting sweatpants. Slipping below his beltline, my hand would have stolen to third base. He would have placed his hand on my backside and tugged me over his firm body, coaxing me to straddle that big bat of his.

After that, we would have headed for a home run. Or at least I would have scored because there's no doubt what he's packing in those sweatpants would have brought me to an instant fireworks-over-the-stadium celebration.

I nearly burst out laughing at my own ridiculousness.

But when his hand flattens and he coasts it over my belly, I stiffen. Torn between the desire for his touch, and knowing I'd want so much more than a roll in these sheets with Ross Davis, I stay still. He nuzzles his nose into my nape while tightening his arm around my midsection and tugging me closer to him. His hips gently roll forward and then he stalls.

I sense his confusion. That awareness he's pressed up against a woman. A woman he doesn't know or recognize. I can almost hear his mind sprinting, wondering what he's doing in this strange ballpark, AKA my hotel room.

The arm hooked over my waist tenses. His breath catches. His solid length holds firmly against my lower cheeks.

"Mornin'," he grumbles, groggy and low.

"Good morning," I choke.

He abruptly rolls away and falls to his back. As I twist to face him, he swipes both hands down his face before blinking up at the dim ceiling.

"I'm still here," he whispers.

"You're still here," I echo. Why did he stay? Instead, I ask, "How did you sleep?"

He turns his head on the pillow and looks directly at me, taking in my eyes before lowering to my lips. His brows pinch, as if questioning himself before he answers. "Well. Really well."

His puzzled tone has me wondering if he normally doesn't sleep well, but I suspect someone of his caliber wrestles with stress, causing him sleepless nights and exhausting days. The responsibility for a major league team must be huge.

"How did you sleep?" he asks eventually .

I shrug. "Eh." But I can't fight the slow curl of my lips. I slept with Ross Davis .

As if reading my thoughts, he says. "We probably shouldn't tell anyone about this." An anxious edge rounds out his words. The underlying command is clear. No one can know and I'm instantly offended he thinks I'd share our moment with anyone else. I'm also hurt that our time together is suddenly being reduced like some kind of dirty one night stand he wants to keep hidden in the shadows.

Still, I shove aside the sting in my chest. "Your secrets are safe with me." With one hand over the top of the other, I wave them in a manner that crisscrosses them, weakly attempting the umpire signal for safe .

Silence follows before I clear my throat.

"I was thinking about what you said last night," I pause as he watches me. "You mentioned baseball players being superstitious. I've heard of unwashed socks, unruly facial hair, and lucky T-shirts." My gaze falls to his Anchors tee. "Maybe this is a conflict of interest."

I chew my lip, worried I'm opening a can of worms by hinting at last night's game and offering my opinion.

Ross tips his head in a way he glances at his shirt. He smooths his big hand over the soft cotton and I almost whimper considering I'd been daydreaming about that paw cupping my breast.

"Maybe, your heart lies somewhere else," I whisper, tiptoeing the line I've already crossed.

He gazes back at me. "Are you suggesting my heart is in Chicago?"

I dig my teeth into my lower lip.

With our eyes locked on each other, time stills.

I'll never forget this night, Ross Davis .

While my brain has bandwidth for endless fantasies, my heart doesn't have the capacity for our reality. He's a famous baseball coach. I'm just a fan. The two shall not meet again.

Clearing my throat again, and breaking the intensity of our connection, I say, "It's just a thought."

"You might be onto something." His heavy brows press together a second before he looks up at the ceiling, blinking several times again like it will bring him clarity. "Maybe I do need a scene change . . . or a new ritual."

"Maybe," I tease, quietly laughing before I offer another suggestion. "Like randomly sleeping with a stranger in a hotel room. Emphasis on sleeping ."

"Yeah." A divot momentarily forms again between his brows, questioning, confused. "Something like that."

Ross shakes his head, then swipes his hand down his face once more, and abruptly sits upright, swinging his legs off the bed and giving me his back. Glancing at me over his shoulder, he says, "I should probably get going."

I roll my lips inward, fighting the desire to ask him to stay, maybe join me for breakfast. However, that isn't an option. This was only one night.

Suddenly, a loud bass mingled with the words "hit it" erupts from somewhere, and the sound of Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock fills my room.

"What is that?" I laugh, slowly pressing myself upright as Ross turns for the nightstand where his phone and the prized bottle of alcohol remain.

"My alarm."

"Wasn't that . . ." I chuckle softly. "Your walk-up song?"

He huffs out a laugh. "Yeah."

"Dude," I groan. "The 80s called and want their music back."

His blue eyes light up as he twists to face me better. "Do not disrespect a classic." He points a long thick finger at me in jest. I grip it with my smaller hand, tugging on it, while laughing harder at his serious tone.

This man is a mystery, full of secrets, and some serious superstitions. Or maybe it's just that he's holding onto history, afraid to let go.

"So, it's time for you to hit it ." I follow my poor attempt at mimicking the rappers by throwing out my arms before crossing them in front of my chest which has him chuckling. Then, he slides off the edge of the bed and stands .

Instantly, this strange bond with him breaks. Like he's left the sacred island of the rumpled sheets and too many pillows, and I'm going to be stranded here alone.

Tossing my own legs over the opposite side of the bed, I stand as well, and we face off across the deserted land between us.

Ross anxiously scratches underneath his chin.

Deciding I need to be the one to break the sudden awkwardness of the morning after, I step toward the short hallway that leads to the door.

"It was a pleasure sleeping with you, Ross Davis."

He chuckles deeper, before slipping his phone into his pocket, and reaching for his shoes and sweatshirt. He picks up the bottle of precious booze, then rounds the bed, walking right up to me. Opening his arms, he tugs me to his solid frame. Held firmly against him, he squeezes tight like he doesn't want to let me go.

Or maybe that's just me wishful thinking.

The word fan comes from fantasy. Or fanatic.

I'll always be one for Ross Davis in his role as a player and a coach. But as a man, Ross has shown he's only human, flawed and complicated, real and fascinating.

"Thanks for last night," he mutters near my ear before slowly releasing me. He swallows hard and meets my eyes. "Maybe we'll meet again."

"Maybe."

Stranger things have happened.

Like getting stuck in an elevator with my baseball boyfriend.

Or spending the night with him. Only sleeping. Sharing pillow talk and private thoughts.

Silently, I hope we do meet another time.

Happenstance, perhaps .