“Face it, angel. You’re stuck with me for the next three weeks. And during that time, I’m going to woo you like you’ve never been wooed before.”
That was what I was afraid of.
Now that I knew Pink was as genuine as he claimed to be—not to mention, a certified romance reader and plant daddy to boot—I couldn’t shake this nagging feeling that once our ruse was up, I might not want to let him go.
Pink
Roasters 97–60
It was safe to say that most people—dear old Dad notwithstanding—would describe me as a fairly agreeable person. In fact, the phrases “aggressively outgoing” and “golden retriever puppy” had been thrown around on more than one occasion by multiple people. It was a well-known fact that I shined when given the opportunity—on the field, in the bedroom, and during interviews.
“We’re almost done, Pink. Just a few more photos.”
I nodded from my spot on the mound, tucking my glove under my arm as I waited for Brock Heller’s photographer to reframe his shot.
The three of us had been at this for nearly an hour, ever since our abysmal game. Losing was a natural part of the sport—not that that made it any easier to swallow—but it weighed a little differently on the pitcher’s shoulders. This wasmyloss,myfault. Nobody else on the team had given up three homeruns in four innings. That had been allme.
And now, I had to smile pretty and pretend like everything was okay, as if the loss hadn’t fazed me one bit. Good thing I’d had years of training in that arena.
What most people—not even my teammates—didn’t realize was that I never chose the spotlight; the spotlight chose me.
Even in junior high—well before my baseball career had begun—when my dad had been on his second gubernatorial run, most weekends had been filled with attending social functions and fundraisers. While the other kids had spent their Sundays by the pool or playing the latest version ofThe Sims, I’d attended polo matches with the sons and daughters of Connecticut’s finest, in a suit picked out by my father’s executive assistant/mistress.
By thirteen, I’d dined with more U.S. Congress members than most people met in their lifetime. At fourteen, I’d joined my school’s Model UN chapter. It hadn’t been until my sophomore year of high school that I’d tried out for the baseball team, and even then, I had only done it to spite dear old Dad, who’d thought a son who played football would be “more beneficial” for his career. At least, that was what his advising staff had told him.
It seemed that in trying to go my own way, I had merely traded one dog and pony show for another. At least this one came with friends who liked me for me—most of the time, at least—and not my dad’s connections.
“While he’s setting up, do you mind if I ask a few more questions?” Brock asked, tentatively approaching the mound.
He had traded his usual beach casual attire for some wide-legged trousers and a button-down, short-sleeved top. The floral print reminded me of the sofa from our old house on Martha’s Vineyard.
“Sure,” I answered, toeing the dirt. “You justhadto cover my shittiest game of the season, huh?”
He smiled. “Now, we both know that’s not true. Your game against Detroit back in June was way worse.”
“Damn. Way to hit a guy when he’s down.”
“Actually, sinceyoubrought it up, how do you deal with a loss like this? Do you have a specific postgame ritual?”
The answer was yes, but I didn’t want him to know that. If Brock knew about the game diary, he might ask about the story behind it, and that was a road nobody wanted to go down, least of all me. It had been hard enough to make it out the first time.
“Nothing special,” I told him, lying through my fakest of smiles. “I treat myself to an inordinate amount of carbs—the Totchos from Thorn Tavern are my absolute favorite. I ice my shoulder, get lots of rest, do some gardening if I have the time for it—”
“You garden?”
“I do,” I sounded proudly. My passion for plants wasn’t something I shared with everyone, but I felt like I had to give the guy something. “Believe it or not, I know my way around a gourd.”
Brock’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming.”
“I’ve been told lately that I’m full of surprises.” An image of Nessa clad in an oversized sweater and leggings, clutching a book to her chest, popped into my head. “Actually, a good friend of mine got me into reading romance novels recently. She owns a romance bookstore in Rose City.”
“Wow, another Rose City shoutout. The town should hire you to do tourism campaigns.”
I held my hands up in front of me, glove and all. “Hey, I wouldn’t say no.”
We talked for a few more minutes after that. He even snapped a few photos of me in the dugout with myHitters are for Quitterspaperback before downloading a digital copy to his Kindle app. Brock Heller was okay, more down-to-earth than most of the journalists I had interacted with previously.
“I probably shouldn’t hedge my bets, but this ‘good friend’ of yours who got you into reading romance . . .”
