Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
I slide it back to him. He chews his lip for a second, and I brace myself for whatever is coming my way—a rant, advice, or, worse, sympathy.
“I’m not supposed to ask, but can I get a picture?” he says.
“Sure, man.” I duck down a little to get us both in the frame as he snaps a few.
“Great year last year.”
“Even if it didn’t end how we wanted it.”
“Buck up. There’s always next season.” The guard gives me an optimistic twitch of his graying mustache.
I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, I guess there is.” And I promise that I’ll do my best, then I find the bank of elevators.
Our teams arranged this publicity photoshoot, timed for the start of spring training. “It’ll be a totally quick one-and-done thing, easy-peasy, don’t even need to bring anything,” Maritza said, when she asked me to do this for the Union. “Something to show there’s no bad blood between you two now that baseball is back.”
That’s the message I’ve gotten since the end of October. Play nice. Like I’m the one who started it.
I stab the elevator button, then make my way up to the ninth floor. Will Chris be here already? Or will I have to wait for him? And why do I care?
Because I do.
When I exit the elevator and stride into the sleek, bright, white studio space, the answer is that he beat me here too.
And he looks so damn good that Grant’s words push to the front of my mind. That I don’t know if Chris wants the same thing. But I sure as hell know what I want, and he’s currently lying on the studio’s black leather couch, already charming the production assistant, a petite blonde with purple streaks in her hair.
“As long as you’re not secretly a Boston fan, I can score you tickets anytime,” Chris says.
Well, so can I. I hate Boston too.
But I keep that to myself, opting instead for a quick, “Hey there.”
“Oh, good, the fun’s arrived,” he says.
Because that’s what this is supposed to be. Fun.
5
Josh
The production assistant aims a smile at me that’s mostly teeth. “Yay, let’s get started. You both can go get jerseyed up.”
We’re ushered over to a corner studio with a numeral six on the door; it has a makeshift dressing area to change in.
Together.
She leaves, shutting the door behind us.
Grant’s words echo in my head. Get it out of your system.
Which is not helpful in studio sex.
I mean, six.
“This’ll be fun,” Chris deadpans.
“What’ll be fun?” I ask cautiously.
“Pretending we like each other,” he says, then winks, like I was pretty sure he did when he crossed home plate in the last game.
“I bet we can manage faking it,” I say, since he can’t always be the one with the smart-ass comments.
We stare at each other for a moment, my mind filled with all the shower thoughts I’ve had about him over the past few months. All the arguments, insults, recriminations. And maybe a few of the other things too, all of which are probably playing out in IMAX on my face.
“You should take off your pants,” Chris says.
Did he just say that? “Excuse me?”
“We’re supposed to get changed.” He motions to a low table with our uniforms and gloves on it. “You look like you need some directions. So I thought I’d help you out.”
I recover quickly, since I’ve got to hold my own against him. “You are so full of great advice,” I say, as I discard my puffer coat on the table perhaps with a little too much force. “Can I give you some?” Though my advice would be for him to quit looking at me like that. Mostly, so I stop looking back.
“Nope,” Chris says. “Can’t improve on perfection. But since I’m feeling generous, this is how you’re supposed to remove a shirt.” He reaches for the back of his tee, slowly peeling it up, revealing the cut of his abs and the scattering of hair on his chest. I’m used to changing in front of guys, and having them change in front of me, but this is different. Especially when he gives that trademark grin of his. The one he’s about to dazzle a camera with. The one that shouldn’t work on me, but hell, it does.
Chris tosses his shirt on a nearby table. And then undoes his belt buckle.
It’s loud in the otherwise empty space, the only other noise is the murmur of the crew as they set up. A reminder that I need to keep a level head for this photoshoot. Even if it feels impossible with him standing there, slowly easing the leather of his belt out of its loops then undoing his fly.
He taps his foot with mock impatience. “Now you.”
A heavy World Series ring glints on his finger. It’s somehow more obscene than if he were naked, the line of hair between his navel and the opened vee of his pants like a blinking arrow. Maybe my agent is right about this as an experience. Because I want to lean into not only our rivalry but also Chris over the couch.