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 than 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.