Chapter 7

[Vee]

After an amazing week with my girls, they each depart Arizona with a hint of sunshine on their skin and melancholy in their eyes. The week has been filled with late night movies, loads of alcohol, a little retail therapy, plus copious time together. Saying goodbye is always difficult.

Cassandra flies back to Chicago with them.

Hannah will return to college where she is studying physical therapy. Laurel goes back to her classroom. She's a fifth-grade teacher. Their spring break week lining up on the calendar was a small miracle. We haven't had this kind of time together for years, and I treasured every moment.

As for me, I plan to stay behind in Arizona for another few weeks. Nearly a full month without interruption in hopes of inspiration to write a damn book.

However, on day one, I found myself staring longingly out the window at the sunshine and decided I'd write outside, where I promptly took a nap in the shade on an outdoor two-seater. Suburban Scottsdale is blissfully quiet compared to Chicago.

The next day, I told myself I couldn't leave the house without writing one chapter. Instead, I cleaned out my email inbox and organized the photos on my computer.

Day three, I intended to escape the house and visit a local coffee shop, like I often do back home, but I stepped into a breakfast café and enjoyed a meal heavy enough to warp my focus.

By mid-week, I'd given up and decided to attend a baseball game, hoping something completely unrelated to writing might trigger creativity.

I've never attended a baseball game solo, but I am comfortable doing things alone. Plus, I'm a people watcher. Sitting among strangers, I often mentally sketch out their lives. Their hangups and heartbreaks. Their loves and laughter. And sometimes, my fictional creations prompt an idea, that turns into an obsession, that becomes a story.

Yes, an overcast sky and a midday baseball game might do the trick .

Surprisingly, my seat is roughly in the same spot as the game I'd previously attended. The Anchors are on a tough losing streak.

With a cold drink in a souvenir cup and a small bucket of popcorn, I settle into the atmosphere, mindlessly staring out at the field.

Who is Gee Scott? What is Caleb Williams' story? Why is Ford Sylver so angry?

Ideas . . . concepts . . . scenarios . . . and a slow build.

Pulling my phone from the pocket of my Anchor hoodie as bags are not allowed in the stadium, I quickly type my random fictional thoughts about each of the young players in the Notes app.

Small town hero.

Hawaiian vacation mishap.

Heartbroken family.

When a person nearby groans and abruptly stands, I finally lift my head.

How have I missed most of the innings of this game? The Anchors are tied in the ninth. Ford Sylver is up to bat.

"He fucking sucks this year," someone behind me grumbles.

"He's an unsung hero," someone else replies. "His stats are impressive."

"I'd be more impressed if he did something here."

As the first man finishes his complaint, Ford's bat cracks against the ball which soars for the outfield and lands in the lawn seats.

Homerun!

The crowd goes wild as the players on second and third base hit home with Ford on their heels.

With the Anchors at a sudden seven-to-four advantage, their opponent is quickly struck out with only three at bats. The Anchors have their first W since the previous game I attended.

I stand proudly among the mass of fans around me and join in singing our winning anthem. Ross Davis and his team have done it. They might be slow out of the gate, but the season isn't lost. That's what spring training is all about. Arranging and re-arranging players and positions, and finding that fit, that rhythm, that schtick makes a team tick.

When the song finishes, I gather my empty drink cup and the tub of popcorn I'd devoured and prepare to exit my row.

Once again, a man, dressed in an Anchors uniform, stands in the aisle.

"Kip Garcia." I slowly smile as I now recognize him. With graying hair on both his head and his jaw, plus his sun-kissed skin, he is a good-looking man I'd place in his early fifties. I didn't know who Kip Garcia was a week ago, but Hannah had all the facts.

Former Boston player. Pitching coach for Chicago. Has been with the team for ten years, which means he'd been a coach when Ross had been a pitcher for the Anchors.

Kip returns my smile with the briefest hint of white teeth and a spark to his infield-green eyes.

"You wouldn't, by chance, be willing to follow me." He arches one brow, slowly shaking his head like he can't believe he is requesting such a thing.

I am equally surprised.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you. Rather, see you. Again." With those friendly eyes staring back at me, I know exactly who he means. The confusion comes with why he wants to see me.

"That certainly sounds mysterious," I tease, curiosity getting the best of me. "But I'd be willing to follow you, for an autograph. My friend Cassandra would never forgive me if I didn't get one from you."

Kip chuckles. "Not many people want the pitching coaches' signature."

Cassandra wants more than a penned scribble from Kip, but asking if he is available and if I can have his phone number for a friend feels a little forward, not to mention awkward.

"My best friend is a huge fan."

"Anything for a fan, then." His smile widens before he tips his head to the side. "The question is, will you do anything for your team? "

As my brows crease at his cryptic question, he nods and adds, "This way, then."

Kip steps back, allowing me to exit the row, and leads me up the aisle to the concourse behind the stadium seats. Once there, he walks in front of me and I follow him through the maze of excited fans, grateful for a win. The smaller stadium doesn't house much of a dugout or locker rooms, and I am guided across a lawn space doubling as a parking lot to another building adjacent to the main field.

"Ask for Ross. Tell the security guard your name."

The direction sounds rather cloak and dagger, and just as suspicious as his earlier question. Would I do anything for my favorite team?

As players head in the direction Kip points, I make the assumption that the team's locker room is in the other facility, and the management offices must be in the same location.

Offering Kip a smile, I catch the skeptical shake of his head once more, like he knows a secret he can't believe he's keeping.

Like he knows something about me, and he doesn't understand it.

Why would Ross Davis want to see me again?

+ + +

Standing across from Ross feels a bit surreal.

His office door was open, still I rapped on it before entering. He'd been pacing the small confines and stopped abruptly at the sharp knock. His eyes race a cursory scan down my body taking in the replica Anchors jersey I'm wearing. The one with his name and number on the back. His gaze catches on the team's logo across my chest and then he glances away. He swallows hard. Quickly, his gaze returns to me, and we stare at one another for no more than five seconds. The time shorter than it takes a batter to reach first base after hitting the ball, and yet, time seemed to stand still.

Finally, Ross speaks, rubbing his hands against his thick thighs. "Vee. "

"Hiya, Ross Davis." The cheer in my voice doesn't match the shaking in my knees or the fluttering in my belly. How could I forget how strikingly good-looking Ross is up close and personal? That stubble on his jaw. The strength in his arms. The thickness of his thighs. I'd spent a night in a bed with this man and the memories do not compare to the reality.

Those piercing blue eyes. That brilliant silvery scruff. The rosy lushness of his mouth.

"Good game," I add.

Ross chuckles gruffly. "Yeah, about that." He swipes at his hat, tugging it off his head by the bill and rubbing his palm over his buzzed hair. With the cap still in his hand, he lowers it before him.

"How have you been?"

"Good." I drag out the word and tilt my head, eyeing him suspiciously. There's no way Ross Davis asked me to his office to question how I've been for five months.

"Still writing?" He lifts his head and meets my eyes a second, narrowing them like he's trying to get a read on me, before he glances away.

"Yes," I lie as I haven't written anything of substance in three months. Today was different, though. Today was a good idea plucking day. "And I see you're still coaching."

My corresponding smile hints at our secret. He wanted to be exactly where he is, managing the Anchors.

"Yeah, about that, too."

I lean against the open door, crossing my arms and willing my legs to stop shaking. "And what exactly about that ?"

Stepping closer to me, Ross cups my elbow and gently tugs me forward, moving me further into his office before closing the door behind me.

"Want to take a seat?"

"Am I in trouble, Coach?" Suddenly, I feel like a player called into the office to discuss my lack of talent .

Ross chuckles, tosses his hat on his desk, and takes a seat behind it, folding his hands on the surface. With the furniture as a barrier between us, I become even more anxious as to why I'm in this office. The distance between us is like a gap in mountain ranges considering we shared a bed and a night together, offering secrets to one another.

Ross flattens his hands against the smooth top of his desk and then stands. Rounding the desk, he stands in front of the steel-gray piece before leaning against the edge, folding his arms over his broad chest and crossing his ankles. Then he shifts again and lowers his arms, curling his hands around the frame of the desk to brace himself.

"Are you alright?"

Ross lowers his gaze and I glance down at his big feet as well, wondering if, as the saying goes, his shoe size equals the length of another body part. Then I wonder if staring at his shoes will give me a hint as to why I'm in his office and why the heck he seems so nervous.

"Did you lie to me?"

"What?" My head snaps up like a player watching a pop fly to centerfield.

"About the writing? About being an author?" He stares at me. "I never found your books."

"I write under a pen name," I state, not offering the name. That's a secret he hasn't earned yet, but an additional flutter flits through my low belly.

Ross Davis sought out my books .

He nods once, slowly, as if understanding the anonymity.

"Why would I lie to you?" If I'm here for an inquisition, then I don't need to be here. I don't owe Ross Davis an explanation about my life or my secrets. He's the one who asked me to come to his office.

"I don't know." Ross swipes over his hair again with a thick hand, nervously glancing at me before looking away again.

I stand. "I don't know why you called me into your office. Just like I still don't understand why you came to my hotel room, but if I'm here to be interrogated or something, then . . . I don't need to be here. "

Nothing I said made sense, but Ross had me tongue-tied and weak-kneed, and he stands too close to me, although I'm the one who stood up.

"I have a proposition for you."

The word has me blinking and my heart hammering. The strangest thought occurs. Would Ross propose he and Kip share me? It was improbable. It was also absurd. It was so out in left field I don't know where the thought came from.

With a shaky hand, I rub my forehead, as if my fingertips can erase the thought.

Is it hot in this office? I'm suddenly too warm and I'm having an out-of-body experience.

Ross Davis is too close. His manly, spicy scent invades my olfactory senses. Like being stuck in that elevator with him, my body wants to squirm. Thankfully, I'm not experiencing a bathroom emergency.

With trepidation, I question him. "What is the proposition?"

"As you know, baseball players are highly superstitious."

Why is he using that tone with me? One that sounds instructional and distant.

"And once we have something set in our head, a routine . . . a ritual, we don't like to break the pattern."

I nod, mouth opening with no ready response to what feels like schooling in baseball lore.

"And I've noticed a pattern." He pauses, lifting his head and meeting my eyes. "With you."

"With me?" I squeak out, like I'm about to be reprimanded. Like he knows I've been skipping out on writing to do anything but write.

"Yes. You." He folds his arms over his chest again. "And I'd like to propose an experiment."

"With you?" I ask, tipping my head forward and wide-eye staring at him, like opening my eyes wider will help me confirm I'm hearing him correctly.

"Yes. With me. "

"And what exactly is this experiment?"

"I'd like you to sleep with me." He exhales. "Again."

I stare blankly at him, certain I misheard him. His voice has been so off-putting and detached, and yet, I think he just asked me to sleep with him again.

"You want me." I point to myself. "To sleep with you." I point at him. "Again."

"Yes."

"Just sleep."

"Yes."

"In the same bed?"

"That's how it happened the first time."

"And this time?"

"In the same bed again."

"Why?"

Ross sighs, lowers his head and squeezes the back of his neck, like he can't believe what he is about to say. "Because you might be my lucky charm." He slowly lifts his gaze. "My happy chance."

"Your happy chance?" I sound like a freaking parrot with all the repetitiveness. Because I'm confused.

Ross waves toward me. "That happenstance thing."

"That—" I cut myself off from echoing him again. This is ridiculous, but because I'm mid-forties and fully in my F-it era, I ask, "And how exactly would that work? Me. In your bed."

He rubs his knuckles beneath his chin, the gesture bordering on anxious. The sound of his skin against that coarse hair causes a quiver in my belly. His mouth is tightly smug, like I've said yes when I'm still trying to process what he's suggesting.

"I guess, you'd come to my place."

My mouth gapes.

"Or I could come to yours," he states, noting what I'm certain is a horrified expression on my face .

Finally, I smack my lips closed and blink once. "You know, typically, a man asks if he can buy me a drink or dinner before suggesting his place or mine."

From his casual position, still perched against his desk, his eyes narrow. "And how often do men propose his place or yours to you?"

More mouth gaping. More lip smacking. Never . "I don't see how that would be any of your business."

My dating history is not the discussion at hand. This preposterous proposition is.

Those blue eyes of his become flames before he rolls his gaze down my body, the look causing a feather-like rush right down my center. A ripple of lust skitters over my skin, and I shiver.

Then I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I'd like to help but I just can't—"

"This was your idea."

"Mine?" I choke, back to one-syllable questions.

"The morning after."

My lips part once more, prepped to repeat what he's stated. Instead, I stare at him, my brows knitting tightly together in confusion.

"You said I needed a change in routine. Like sleeping with a stranger in a hotel room."

"I never said that." More blinking. More staring. "But if I had"—because I'm slowly recalling I might have said something similar—"How do you remember that?"

"Because I remember everything." His eyes laser in on mine. The look intense, electrifying even.

About that night? About me?

"And I'm thinking it can't be just anyone in my bed. It needs to be you."

Me? A virtual stranger?

Truthfully, we aren't complete strangers anymore. Did ten minutes trapped in an elevator make us besties? Absolutely not. But we shared roughly nine hours together in one bed in a hotel room in Houston. We learned a thing or two about one another. However, that didn't make us friends or bed fellows.

His final request stalls all higher functions. My brain stops trying to make sense of his thought process. My breath hitches. My heart, however, continues to hammer because deep down in my gut, I want to be significant to him, which is a puzzling concept.

"The facts are, I wanted this job, managing the Anchors," he continues. "And the only person I'd told about my fear of being fired from the Flash, and my hope of being hired here, was you. Then it happened."

Coincidence , I want to argue.

"Then we hadn't won a game in the first week of this training season, until you showed up a week ago. Then we win."

"Not exactly scientific evidence of—"

"And then . . ." he continues as if I wasn't speaking. "Today. You're here and we finally win for the second time."

I stare at him. He can't be serious with this nonsense, and yet, staring at him, the hopeful gleam in his eyes tells me he's convinced this is how things evolved. My presence, not the talent of his team, brought about a win.

"So give me training season tickets, and I'll attend a few more games." I can't believe I'm playing into his theory. This preposterous idea that I'm lucky for him. But as I'm not writing like I should be, maybe attendance at a couple more training games will be good for me, too.

Silence falls between us like a ball-drop in the outfield. I turn my head, glancing at a whiteboard with a baseball diamond embossed on it. Players on a team working in sync are vital to success, not a silly talisman. And certainly not some random set of happenstances.

Facing Ross again, I prepare to present my argument.

"Look." He holds his hand up, stopping me before I speak. "I know it sounds outrageous. Strange. Ridiculous even. But I'm not beyond begging you to take a chance on me. On this little experiment. Just give me one night. Maybe two. I'm staying at the hotel here on the campus. "

I glance behind me as if I can see the four-star chain hotel on the opposite side of the stadium grounds.

"I need you," he states, his raspy voice softening from sandpaper against wood to soft grains of sand falling. His eyes lighten, vulnerable, hopeful.

And herein laid the problem.

I didn't want to be some hairbrained experiment for Ross Davis.