2. Dating Profile
2
DATING PROFILE
Zane
Every time I step into the batter’s box, I have a plan. Crowd the plate, get ahead in the count, foul off everything that looks remotely tasty.
For three years in the majors, the strategy has worked. My batting average climbed to more than three hundred last year, and it’s parked there nicely through early June.
I have a strategy for today too—treat Maddox like one of the guys. If I come on strong like I did the night we met, I’ll be thinking of him as hookup material, and that’s a recipe for trouble.
He’s a business partner. I have too much on the line to risk mixing business with pleasure.
The be-a-bud approach is how I played things when we texted about this trip to Los Angeles, making plans to meet before game one of my four-game series against the Bandits.
Admit it: you’ve got a spa day planned for us , I’d teased a few days ago.
Yes. Been meaning to ask—Swedish or sports massage?
Was hot stone not an option?
Ah, *particular about his massage services.* This is good intel, he’d replied.
Fine, don’t tell me. Just know this—I hate surprises, I’d said.
Zane, I promise I’m not surprising you. This is me literally telling you—we’re going to walk around Venice Beach, check out some shops, get a bite to eat, and chat. The better I know you, the better the deal I can make. It’s really that simple.
Now, as we wait in line at Edge & Plow, I survey the café. It’s cool and trendy, like the guy standing next to me. I survey him too—that whole I-get-shit-done look Maddox has going on with his tailored shirt, his expensive tie, and his fit-as-fuck slacks works for me big time.
Thanks a lot, temptation.
I get back in my mental batting stance. “So, this is the movie montage scene,” I muse as we wait for a couple of tourists—the white sneakers and khaki shorts are the giveaway—to order. “You know, where we wander around town and drink coffee and say witty things.”
“Do you have witty things prepared to say?” he counters.
“Hello? Back up five seconds—that was wit,” I say with a smile that covers some of my nerves about this meeting. Don’t want Maddox to know I’ve got any jitters whatsoever—about business, about baseball, or about my future in the game.
That’s the other reason I need to keep today on the level. I want to impress the fuck out of him so he’ll go to bat for me.
“Sure. You could call it a movie scene, then,” Maddox says. “But there won’t be a dressing room montage.”
I snap my fingers. “Damn. I was hoping for one.”
He gestures to the menu, diverting my attention. “What can I get for you? Coffee? Tea? Latte?”
I shudder. “I don’t drink hot beverages.”
He knits his brow in inquiry. “At all? As in, ever?”
“Nope. Never. Used to love black tea in the morning, but one time I burned my tongue when I got a tea from Starbucks. It was surface-of-the-sun hot.”
“That’s no fun,” he says, then tips his forehead to the black and white menu hanging above the counter. “But they do have cold drinks.”
I feign surprise. “They do? Is that a new thing?”
“Iced lattes, Zane. They’re all the rage,” he deadpans. Then he lowers his voice. “They even have iced coffee and iced tea.”
“Mind blown.”
When Maddox reaches the barista, he orders a coffee for himself and an iced tea for me. As the barista flies through making them, I nod in approval. “Good guess.”
He smiles, then we grab our cups and snag a table outside on the sidewalk that’s bustling with mid-morning crowds—women in trendy hats and flowy dresses, men in beards and skinny pants, an eclectic artsy crew.
“Question. If you like hot tea, why let one bad incident stop you from drinking it again?” Maddox asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Fool me once,” I say. “That’s sort of my adage. I’m a big believer in learning your lessons, stat.”
My dad drilled that into my brother and me. But I don’t need to elaborate on family shit with my new agent.
Instead, I knock back some of the iced tea and focus on Maddox as he drinks his coffee. “What about you? Is that your third cup of the day? I bet you were up at five, working a conference call, brewing your morning cup as you barked orders at some underling. Floyd, get me the CEO of Hot Athletes Wear My Clothes, Incorporated, on the line right now .”
Maddox chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s the best you can do on the fly? Hot Athletes Wear My Clothes, Incorporated for a fictional athletic wear company?”
I bristle as if greatly offended. “I thought the incorporated was a nice touch. How fast are you at making up fake names?” I challenge.
But Maddox LeGrande wastes no time. “Toned—a hotshot athletic-wear company. Entice—cologne that intoxicates the senses. Kingsley and Steele—they make the trendiest, must-have clothes. XZO—sports cars with a price tag so high the acronym stands for nothing.” He sips some coffee then sets down the cup with a certain confidence. “Should I go on?”
Holy shit. That was fuck hot. This man’s brain might be as big as his dick, and I am here for both of those. “Did you really just come up with those names on the spot?”
His expression is deadly serious. “Do you suppose my clients regularly challenge me to devise fictional business names on the fly?” He takes a beat, leaving space for the next thing he says, “You’re the first, Zane.” He licks his lips, leans back in his chair, and hits repeat. “You’re the first.”
Traitorous heat flares in my chest. That’s what he said the night I met him, when he told me I was the first client he’d ever flirted with.
I tamp down the growing fire as best I can. “Well, let me say this. You win.”
Maddox smiles warmly, accepting the compliment. “In any case, this is my first cup of coffee. I saved myself for you. And you’re wrong about the assistant. I don’t bark at my admin. But you’re close on the other points. I’ve been up since five. I took calls from the East Coast, went for a run, worked out, and finished a contract.”
Shaved , I want to add. That clean-cut jawline is Greek-statue-level goodness. Thank fuck he doesn’t hide it behind a beard.
But I do need to hide these lusty feelings that didn’t dissipate over the last two weeks. I’m still ridiculously attracted to this man who wants to strike me a deal. “Want to walk?” I ask.
I need a change of scenery. Can’t sit here at a sidewalk café with Maddox like this is a date. Makes me want the second half of the date far too much—the part when I’d take him home.
“Sure,” he says, and I fight valiantly not to stare as he moves past me to the sidewalk.
But I fail hard.
A little later, we wander through the independent bookstore a few blocks from the café, and my feet take me where they always do—the sports shelves.
I thumb through the newest releases.
“You read a lot of sports books?” Maddox asks.
I smirk. “I feel like this is a dating profile question.”
“It is. I’m trying to understand you so I can work best for you,” he says.
I scratch my jaw, a little doubtful. Is this really the way to nail an endorsement deal, with this kind of get-to-know-you sesh? I mean, I’m not complaining about spending time with Maddox. He’s sarcastic and sharp and takes no shit. But Vance never asked these questions. Maybe it’s because he’d been my agent since he snagged me in the draft, or maybe he just learned them over time.
“I like sports history,” I say. “I try to read athlete bios. It’s good to know who came before us. What they were like.” I tap a hardback on the shelf, the bio of a closing pitcher who escaped a dangerous country to play in the US. “I’ve read this one.” Then a football player who was dyslexic. “This too.” Next, I show him a basketball player who was raised by a foster mom working three jobs. “Another winner.”
“All good books. Good guys too,” he says. “And it looks like you grab them when they come out. They’re all recent releases.”
“Yes, but—” I glance around like I’m checking for eavesdroppers, then I lean in to whisper, “I read them on my phone.”
That was a tactical mistake. So close to his ear, I catch a tempting whiff of his ocean scent. Is that his shampoo? His aftershave? I could find out if I got into a car with him and kissed his neck before he turned on the engine. If I took him back to my hotel later, put him on his hands and knees, and buried my face in his hair. I could ask him as I seduced him. As I touched him everywhere and got to know how every inch of his skin tastes.
Fuck my naughty brain.
Desperately, I shake off those thoughts sneaking out from the dirty side of my mind. “But I mostly listen to podcasts. Comedians. Did you know pretty much every comedian has a podcast?”
There. Maddox can get to know me more, like he wants, and I can tap into the sweeter side of me.
“I did not know that.”
“They do. I’ll watch a stand-up special on Webflix then look up the comic, and they’ll usually have some funny but sad podcast.” I whip out my phone and show him my podcast app, like I need to prove I’m a man of my word.
A satisfied grin takes over his face. “Love the evidence,” he says. “And your need to show it to me.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Man, this is not fair. You know all these things about me and I know jack about you.” I wouldn’t mind a little tidbit. “Where do you live? I bet you’re in Santa Monica, some sweet high-rise overlooking the ocean. Or Beverly Hills, maybe.”
He scoffs. “I don’t live in Beverly Hills.”
“Santa Monica, then. I’m brilliant.”
He smirks. “I live ten minutes away, here in Venice. But not on the beach. In the neighborhoods.”
I’m getting all kinds of ideas. We could go back to his house in a flash. I could bend him over his couch, the kitchen table, the bathroom counter. “So you picked Venice because it’s close,” I say, a little flirty.
Maybe a lot flirty.
“I picked it because it’s the best place in Los Angeles,” he corrects. “It’s vibrant and lively and embraces everyone. And the food is great.”
More, I want more. I beckon for details with a wiggle of my fingers. “This is good. Serve up some more Maddox facts.”
He tips his forehead to the mystery section then heads that way. I follow. He picks up a paperback where, on the cover, a woman rides a horse and holsters a gun. “For my aunt. She loves mysteries set in the Old West. She plays in a pickleball league. Lives with her wife in Sedona. She came out at forty-nine. Now you know more about me.”
Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “Dude, that’s your family, not you.”
“But at least you know where I live,” Maddox says with a smile.
As we leave the store, a canary-yellow Ferrari Spider streaks by. I stare at it longingly as it cruises the main drag, humming low in my throat.
“Want to play?” Maddox asks.
I blink. Does he mean something about the car? Then I follow his arm. Oh. He’s pointing to a retro arcade one shop away.
“Nah. Not my thing. I like games I play with my body,” I say.
He snickers.
“Who has the dirty mind now?” I tease as we walk.
He shoots me a look that I sure hope says both of us . But his words are all business. “What kind of games do you like?”
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m the only one still thinking with his dick.
“Golf, basketball, badminton, volleyball. As a kid, I never stopped moving until I collapsed at the end of the day. That’s probably why I never got into console games. Even when I listen to podcasts or music, I’m usually running or working out.”
Maddox nods thoughtfully, and I swear the dude is taking notes.
We walk some more, and when my stomach rumbles, Maddox suggests a taco shop, then a sushi joint, then a rotisserie chicken food truck. None of those float my boat. But when I spot a salad and bowl shop, I’ve hit pay dirt. “Green food or die. Pretty much my favorite.” I shrug a little sheepishly. “I try to eat clean.”
He just smiles, and I know that’s going in his mental notebook too.
We eat at the picnic tables outside and shoot the breeze about baseball, which helps me stay anchored on the sweet side of my head. When we finish, I check the time on my phone.
Damn. I only have thirty minutes before I have to take off for the ballpark. “I have to jet at two-thirty,” I say.
“I know. I have a meeting at three-thirty. I’ll make sure you’re out of here on time,” he says. “Maybe even early.”
Too bad .
Maddox heads the other direction down Abbot Kinney Boulevard, past fit moms pushing expensive strollers and tanned dudes carting surfboards and smoothies. When we near a men’s clothing shop, Maddox points at my shirt. “By the way, nice daiquiris.”
Finally. Fucking finally, he’s noticed the shirt I wore. For him . I stop outside the store and tug carelessly at the shirt covered in cartoon cocktails. “Oh, is that what these are? I hadn’t realized.”
That earns me a small smile. “Yeah, right.”
But two can play the remember-when game. I gesture to his tie, a rich shade of sapphire. “Nice tie. Is that Bespoke?”
Maddox grins deliciously. “You know the clothing brand Bespoke?”
Oh, hottie. You have no idea. “I’m good with ties. All kinds of ties,” I say, breaking my promise and not caring for a fucking second.
Especially when desire flares in his deep brown eyes. This man. Maddox wants what I have to give, no doubt. I reach for the silk, running my fingers down the material. My fingertips graze his chest, just barely, but enough to make him haul in a breath. I reach the end of the tie, let it slide across my palm, then drop it against his stomach. “And you look so fucking good in them,” I say.
His lips part. His breath comes fast. “Well, good thing they’re what I like to wear,” he murmurs, his voice a fucking invitation, his words more so, and my temperature shoots impossibly higher.
But Maddox douses the flames when he says, “Zane, can I be straight with you?”
My lips quirk up. Can’t help myself. “I mean, I don’t know. Can you be straight?”
He laughs, dragging a hand down his face. But when he drops it, he clears his expression. “Here’s some real talk,” he says, all business, no bullshit on the streets of Venice. “The video game deal didn’t fall apart because of the company’s earnings.”
What is he talking about? “But that’s what they said,” I point out.
“Yes, that’s what they said. But then they went and hired Chris Garnett,” he says gently, mentioning the New York Gothams infielder. “He loves Rocket League and a ton of other video games. You don’t.”
Well, that’s a direct hit, but I try to take it on the chin. “Okay, got it.”
“The Energize Drinks deal didn’t come together either.”
I cross my arms. “I’m aware. You told me over dinner. Remember?”
“I do. And this isn’t bad, Zane.”
But it sure as shit sounds that way, with how he’s naming all the companies that didn’t want me to endorse their products. “Doesn’t entirely sound good, Maddox.”
He sets his hand on my arm. A reassuring gesture, but it both irritates me and excites me. “Those companies weren’t a good fit for you, and you weren’t a good fit for them. I’m being blunt with you because that’s my job. I’m not going to stand here and tell you that you’re right for every single brand. You’re not. No one is. And guess what? You’d be wrong for a coffee drink when you don’t drink coffee.”
“Feel free to pile on some more,” I mutter.
He squeezes my arm harder. “Listen to me.”
I huff. “Fine. I’m listening.”
“You’d probably love to endorse Ferraris or McLarens. I saw the way you stared at those cars with lust in your eyes.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “You gonna get me a deal for one of those babies? Hell yes.”
He smiles kindly but shakes his head. “No.”
I groan, then drag a hand through my hair. “You’re killing me.”
Another squeeze of my biceps, and I look at him again, waiting for him to put me out of my misery.
“You’re too new for a big brand like that,” he says. “When you break out with three seasons in a row of one hundred-RBI stats and become the face of the franchise, that’s when you can land a luxury sports car deal. I’d be a terrible agent if I said I would even try for one now. But what I am going to do is find you a partnership that makes sense. That fits you. Brands and fans can ferret out a lie like that.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s why I’m glad Energize Drinks fell apart. I’m glad the video game company picked someone else. Someone, a fan probably, would have figured out you don’t even play video games, or you don’t drink energy drinks. Hell, I knew you don’t drink energy drinks.”
He has a damn good point there. “True, true.”
“My job is to find you a deal that’ll make you and the brand so very happy. A healthy quick-serve restaurant, a streaming music service, a podcast network, a water-bottle company. Make your own lucky bottle , or some such. Maybe a scotch distiller. Or,” he says, his eyes traveling up and down my body, “better yet, a men’s fashion company.”
I smile. I feel good again. “Now you’re talking.”
He reaches for the collar of my shirt, fingers it, then lets go. “This whole look you’ve got going on?”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“You have style. You dress well, but you have this sexy playful vibe too. You don’t dress like you’re going to an office, but you don’t slum it in sweats either. You have exactly the style for an upmarket menswear brand trying to reach young men who want to look good but don’t want to look like their fathers. That’s what I want to find for you.”
Holy shit. This guy does his motherfucking homework. I am sold. “Do it, Maddox. Fucking do it.”
“That’s my goal.” He glances at his watch. “And now it’s time to get your car and get you onto the field.”
Twenty minutes later, I slide into the town car, wishing this day weren’t ending. But I executed my strategy today and nailed this at-bat. What’s the harm in taking another swing?
“You do know we have a four-game series?” I ask from inside the car.
“I do.”
“You should come to one of the games.” Then I pull closed the door and tell the driver to take me to the ballpark.
I sure hope Maddox shows up.