Page 30 of Elevator Pitch

“I am just trying to understand your thinking. Your reasoning.”

Ross extends his arms while not releasing the to-go mug centered on the table between his hands. “I need this. I need to make an impression. I need wins.”

“You’re the manager, Ross. You’d been a player a long time before you took to coaching. You’re a good coach. You know what to do.” I emphasize. “You’ve done this before with the Flash.”

His gaze lands on mine. “And look how that turned out for me.”

He might have been let go from the Flash, but he also wanted to return to Chicago, or at least, that’s what he told me months ago.

“Look, Coach,” I chide. “It’s the beginning of the season. All teams look rough. You move players around like chess pieces if you need to, but they’ll get there. You’ll get there.” Wherever the proverbial there is.

“Is this supposed to be a pep talk?” His mouth crooks upward again. His eyes blaze with heat, but the flame is soft.

“Whatever it takes,” I tell him.

“What it might take is another night together.” His entire demeanor shifts, and although I’m a writer, I can’t find the words to describe his expression, other than a puppy-dog plea despite the white scruff along his jaw suggesting he’s more like man’s lifelong best friend than a scrappy pup.

Now who is the adorable one?

I sigh as thoughts collide in my head. What would it really hurt? We’ve already spent a night together. It’s only a bed and a few hours. We don’t need to touch. We don’t even need to talk. One night might prove his superstition is simply unwarranted. I am not lucky for him.

“Okay,” I mutter, lowering my gaze for the tea I’ve left untouched since burning my mouth.

I’m not a superstitious person, so I’m hopeful that scalding move wasn’t a foreshadow that Ross Davis could burn me in this process. However, as I appear to have lost my head, I can’t be trusted to interpret symbolism.

“Yeah?” His voice lifts, hopeful while hesitant.

“Yeah.”

And the next question I ask is almost as ludicrous as this entire idea. “What time is your bedtime?”

Chapter 9

[Ross]

I can’t believe she agreed to my plan. However, I could have leapt over the table, and kissed her for accepting it.

I know how it sounds. Kip told me I was being ridiculous. Hell, even she’s said as much, but the fact she believes me, or believes in helping me, means the world to me.

Maybe it is preposterous to think spending another night next to her would change anything. She’s right. I’m the coach. The beginning of the season always has bumps, especially as I’m new to the Anchors, and the team has undergone some major shifts in players.

The last-minute addition of Bolan Adler as a catcher.

The tension between Ford Sylver and Romero Valdez.

Not to mention the young, scrappy new guys, like Gee Scott and Caleb Williams.

There’s a lot of raw talent to mold and seasoned talent to support us.

Still, the need for Vee has become almost an obsession. I just want to try. One more night.

Which says more about me and my desperation than her. She’s just as cute as ever, wet stains on her shirt, pert nipples and all. Nice to see she reacts to me just a little as I’m the one who woke up next to her with raging morning wood last November.

Thankfully, she hadn’t addressed the elephant in the room, and I’m not saying I’m large like an anaconda, but she couldn’t have not noticed what she’d done to me with the way I was pressed up against her, taking a moment to grind against her firm ass tucked tight to my front. Vee had featured in my dreams that night.

Not to mention, that momentary action was the most my dick had seen in almost a year.

I hate that Vee saw images of me with Chandler. Hate that she assumed we were still together when I’d told her the truth. We separated during the playoffs last season. I would have broken things off anyway, after the season. She wanted me to call her my girlfriend. Something I wasn’t willing to do.