Page 10 of Elevator Pitch

“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 an 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.