Page 129 of Elevator Pitch

“Hello?”

“Cassandra,” I groan as I cross my living room when she took the liberty to answer my phone. I didn’t block Ross’s phone number because that felt childish, but I also haven’t answered his calls. I got the message. Again.

When he told me to go home. When he wanted to keep me a secret.

Lay low? What did that even mean? This wasn’t some mafia romance where henchmen were out to get me. Ross and I had an arrangement, and clearly someone found out about it. As only Cassandra knows from my side, I assume the information leaked on Ross’s end. Maybe it was locker room talk. Men sharing their superstitions and how they acted on them. Maybe it had all been a joke to him, although I doubt that. He couldn’t have faked the orgasms he had with me. He just doesn’t want anyone to know we’re beyond the sleeping pact. Way beyond.

So much for being his girlfriend.

I’d held myself together, though only barely, as I headed to the airport the following morning, feeling despondent and rejected. Once I hit my apartment, the crying began. I’m heartbroken and pissed. I knew it would hurt when we ended, I just didn’t think it would end like this. How Ross took it upon himself to protect me, by pushing me away. Like he’s embarrassed by our situation.

Shouldn’t all that matter be the happily ever after no matter how the tale began?

Then again, I’m the writer, not him.

“Cee-Cee.” I hold out my hand, wiggling my fingers. We’ve been arguing once again about how I should hear Ross’s side of the story. I don’t have to make a decision, just hear him out.

But I’m tired of excuses from men. And I’m sad that once again I haven’t been a partner’s first choice.

When my phone rang on the coffee table, and Cassandra was closest to the device, she took the liberty to snatch it up and answer.

“Actually, this is Cassandra. Hang on a minute. She’s right here.” My best friend holds out the device, waving it at me with a strong jab of her arm while mouthing: Talk to him.

I shake my head, glaring at her before taking the phone from her. Fine, I mouth back.

“Hello.”

“Vee?” Relief washes through his voice. The sound is both strained while exhilarated.

“Ross.” We’ve established who we each are. I don’t know what else there is to say. Silence falls between us a second before he clears his throat.

“God, I wish I could just get on a plane and talk this out face-to-face.” He exhales. “Kiss you. Hold you. But I can’t.”

I sigh. “I know you can’t. I would never ask you to or expect you to. You have obligations and responsibilities. I’m not mad that you couldn’t drop everything and run home to me, Ross.” I pause, willing myself not to cry again. “Baseball is important to you, like writing is important to me. I’m mad because you pushed me out, practically put me on a flight, like I didn’t matter. Like I don’t have a voice in any of this.”

“I don’t know how things got so out of hand.”

Between us? I bite my lip, not willing to ask, not wanting to argue.

“I should have led with what happened in the locker room. You saw that picture. Valdez was spewing bullshit about you. And he somehow knew about the superstition pact.”

My mouth falls open.

“I was coming to your defense. Suspending him, actually, when that photo was taken.”

I don’t need to ask which photo. It’s made quite the rounds on social media. His assistant coaches standing in front of him. Someone with a hand on Valdez. Two guys restraining Bolan Adler.

Ross sighs. “Things got out of control. I lost my temper, which I never do, but I won’t let someone talk about you, Vee. Belittle what we have.” He pauses. “Because there is something between us, sweetheart. Superstition went out of the ballpark long ago. It’s you. You’re good for me.”

I roll my lips, holding back any comments, and taking a deep breath to keep myself in check.

“And I want to be good for you. Thought I was pushing you away when all I was trying to do was protect you. I hurt you, but I was only worried that if you’d have come to the next game, someone would see you, and hound you, not me. I don’t want that kind of limelight for you.”

“Because I’m not a supermodel.” I clamp my lips shut, mad at myself for interjecting.

“Because you’re so much more. Vee, you don’t need supermodel as a status. You’re beautiful, inside and out, and you’re right for me. And I miss you.”

My heart hammers. I want to believe him, but even if I miss him, too, I’ve learned my lesson about men who grovel.