Page 23 of Elevator Pitch

I stand proudly among the mass of fans around me and join in singing our winning anthem. Ross Davis and his team have done it. They might be slow out of the gate, but the season isn’t lost. That’s what spring training is all about. Arranging and re-arranging players and positions, and finding that fit, that rhythm, that schtick makes a team tick.

When the song finishes, I gather my empty drink cup and the tub of popcorn I’d devoured and prepare to exit my row.

Once again, a man, dressed in an Anchors uniform, stands in the aisle.

“Kip Garcia.” I slowly smile as I now recognize him. With graying hair on both his head and his jaw, plus his sun-kissed skin, he is a good-looking man I’d place in his early fifties. I didn’t know who Kip Garcia was a week ago, but Hannah had all the facts.

Former Boston player. Pitching coach for Chicago. Has been with the team for ten years, which means he’d been a coach when Ross had been a pitcher for the Anchors.

Kip returns my smile with the briefest hint of white teeth and a spark to his infield-green eyes.

“You wouldn’t, by chance, be willing to follow me.” He arches one brow, slowly shaking his head like he can’t believe he is requesting such a thing.

I am equally surprised.

“There’s someone who’d like to meet you. Rather, see you. Again.” With those friendly eyes staring back at me, I know exactly who he means. The confusion comes with why he wants to see me.

“That certainly sounds mysterious,” I tease, curiosity getting the best of me. “But I’d be willing to follow you, for an autograph. My friend Cassandra would never forgive me if I didn’t get one from you.”

Kip chuckles. “Not many people want the pitching coaches’ signature.”

Cassandra wants more than a penned scribble from Kip, but asking if he is available and if I can have his phone number for a friend feels a little forward, not to mention awkward.

“My best friend is a huge fan.”

“Anything for a fan, then.” His smile widens before he tips his head to the side. “The question is, will you do anything for your team?”

As my brows crease at his cryptic question, he nods and adds, “This way, then.”

Kip steps back, allowing me to exit the row, and leads me up the aisle to the concourse behind the stadium seats. Once there, he walks in front of me and I follow him through the maze of excited fans, grateful for a win. The smaller stadium doesn’t house much of a dugout or locker rooms, and I am guided across a lawn space doubling as a parking lot to another building adjacent to the main field.

“Ask for Ross. Tell the security guard your name.”

The direction sounds rather cloak and dagger, and just as suspicious as his earlier question. Would I do anything for my favorite team?

As players head in the direction Kip points, I make the assumption that the team’s locker room is in the other facility, and the management offices must be in the same location.

Offering Kip a smile, I catch the skeptical shake of his head once more, like he knows a secret he can’t believe he’s keeping.

Like he knows something about me, and he doesn’t understand it.

Why would Ross Davis want to see me again?

+ + +

Standing across from Ross feels a bit surreal.

His office door was open, still I rapped on it before entering. He’d been pacing the small confines and stopped abruptly at the sharp knock. His eyes race a cursory scan down my body taking in the replica Anchors jersey I’m wearing. The one with his name and number on the back. His gaze catches on the team’s logo across my chest and then he glances away. He swallows hard. Quickly, his gaze returns to me, and we stare at one another for no more than five seconds. The time shorter than it takes a batter to reach first base after hitting the ball, and yet, time seemed to stand still.

Finally, Ross speaks, rubbing his hands against his thick thighs. “Vee.”

“Hiya, Ross Davis.” The cheer in my voice doesn’t match the shaking in my knees or the fluttering in my belly. How could I forget how strikingly good-looking Ross is up close and personal? That stubble on his jaw. The strength in his arms. The thickness of his thighs. I’d spent a night in a bed with this man and the memories do not compare to the reality.

Those piercing blue eyes. That brilliant silvery scruff. The rosy lushness of his mouth.

“Good game,” I add.

Ross chuckles gruffly. “Yeah, about that.” He swipes at his hat, tugging it off his head by the bill and rubbing his palm over his buzzed hair. With the cap still in his hand, he lowers it before him.