I answer them all, every damn one.

  “So, what’s the one key thing the Cougars must do to pull off back-to-back World Series victories?” That’s been the theme of every interview for the Cougars in this postseason. Can we make it all the way again? “Is that on your mind a lot, Sullivan?”

  “Yes. But you can only play one game at a time. So that’s what I focus on—the game I’m in now.”

  She nods, seeming satisfied with that answer as she clicks off her camera. When she lowers her mic, she whispers, “Good luck tonight. I’ll be rooting for you.”

  Not gonna lie. Those words make my chest swell with pride. They send a sizzle over my skin. I sure do like that she’s a closet fan of the team too.

  I give her my best crooked grin. “I’ll keep your fangirl secret safe,” I whisper.

  “Yes, please do that,” she says.

  Sure, I want to do well for her, but I want to do well for the fans, the team, and my family too. All those factors fuel me that night, and I shut down the Scoundrels for the first four innings, then allow them one run before shutting them down again through the eighth.

  Our closing pitcher comes in and seals the victory, so the Cougars are tied up in the divisionals against the Scoundrels. Tomorrow night, we can advance to the championship series if we win, and as we leave the field, I’m sure I see a look of relief in a certain sports reporter’s eyes.

  Trouble is, the next night, our starting pitcher for game six struggles on the mound, and all our relievers can do is stop the bleeding. We still lose by a disgusting nine runs. Our chances to advance die right alongside our repeat World Series hopes.

  None of the Cougars are happy when the game ends. I trudge into the locker room, shower, and grab my phone and wallet. I say my goodbyes to the guys and take off.

  As I head toward the ballpark’s exit, I weigh my options for taking my mind off our shitty end to the baseball year. Then I spot Erin up ahead in the corridor, her backpack sliding down her shoulder, her tripod slipping out of her arms.

  I bolt over. “Let me help you.”

  She waves me off, shrugging the bag back onto her shoulder. “I’m used to doing it by myself.”

  “But I don’t mind,” I insist, reaching for the tripod to see if she’ll let me help. “I can definitely walk you to your car.”

  She seems to consider that for a moment, then nods, smiling at me. “I won’t fight you on this one.”

  She lets me have the unruly tripod, and I rest it on my shoulder like a bat. “Then I am at your service,” I say.

  And as we head toward her car, I can’t help but wish I could be at her service in other ways.

  But maybe spending more time with her off the field will help convince her that I am a risk worth taking.

  2

  Erin

  I’m pretty self-sufficient.

  I always carry my own gear. I’ve never had a camera guy. Don’t need one. That’s how it goes now with sports reporting.

  You’ve got to learn to do it all on your own.

  I’ve been doing it for the last four years, covering baseball in this city since I graduated from college with a journalism degree.

  But I definitely don’t mind a little help from number twelve on the Cougars.

  Fine, fine, it doesn’t hurt that Sullivan Fitzgerald is mega easy on the eyes. Sandy-brown hair, warm brown eyes, all California beachgoing charm, with sun-kissed skin and a smile for days.

  But Sullivan’s so much more than a looker.

  The outgoing, curious, open-minded pitcher has always seemed interested in talking.

  Talking to me.

  Interviews with him last longer than they do with other guys. We chat about motivation, emotion, feelings. And every time I’ve run into him at an event, we wind up going down the rabbit hole of baseball history.

  He’s such a student of the game, and so am I.

  Same goes for the city we love. Sometimes when I turn off the mic, we keep going, sharing quirky observations about the city by the bay.

  He’s . . . a little addictive.

  As we exit the ballpark, I jump at the chance to chat with him some more. He always seems to dig the deeper questions, and I relish the opportunity to understand a player beyond the PR-friendly answers.

  I want to understand the man after a game like tonight’s.

  I turn to face him, our gazes connecting under the lights in the parking lot. “No cameras. This is totally off the record. But . . . how are you truly feeling this evening?”

  He lifts one brow high. “Is this where you want me to tell you how utterly heartbroken I am?”

  Funny, but he doesn’t sound devastated. Perhaps he’s covering it up, but he sounds . . . balanced. “Sometimes you seem like you want to talk about it,” I say, hoping I’m reading him right.

  He slows his pace. “Actually, I’m glad you asked.”

  “Whew,” I breathe out hard, teasing a little, but mostly making sure I didn’t cross a line. “Thought you were going to recommend a banishment from the press room.”

  He scoffs, shaking his head. “Never. Hardly anyone ever asks something that actually digs a little deeper into feelings.”

  That’s interesting, but maybe this question is also an opportunity to feed a certain restless hunger I’ve been experiencing lately. I’m not sure what it is, or where it’s coming from, but this last season, I’ve been wanting to dig deeper at work—to indulge in a five-course meal now and then, rather than living off the bite-size stories I have to churn out daily.

  “I truly want to know,” I tell Sullivan. His eyes swing to mine like he’s measuring my answer in them, making sure I mean it. Many pro athletes, understandably, don’t open up much with reporters. The media is often the enemy. Best to put him at ease. “I want to know for me though. Off the record. As . . . friends,” I say, testing out that word. It feels right with him, like we’ve become amiable with each other this season.

  His casual smile reassures me, or perhaps both of us, that we understand each other. “As friends, then, Erin, the answer is . . . of course I wish we’d won. I wanted it desperately. Always do. Every game. Every time I’m on the mound. It’s a kind of madness and has been with me since I can remember. But a good madness, I like to think.”

  “The madness that motivates you to do the work?” I ask, following the thread.

  “Exactly. To put in the hours every single day. The madness gives me focus.” It comes out as a growl, straight from his heart. “I can feel it in my bones with every pitch. If I ever lost that feeling, it’d probably be a sign to quit.”

  “Don’t quit,” I tease.

  “Ha. No worries there. I definitely felt that intensity when I pitched last night. Tonight, too, in the dugout. But it’s not just about chalking up the W. I want the win for my team. I want to pull together for them and to play the sport as best I can.” He takes a pause, dialing down the ferocity. “But the secret is, if I truly give everything I have, I can handle it when we don’t win,” he says as we walk down the next row in the lot.

  I gobble up his words, savoring every morsel. “Giving it your all means you can live with whatever the outcome is.”

  “Yes. Exactly. When I’ve played my absolute best, I can leave the emotions behind and move on. That’s why I feel fine. Though, truth be told,” he says, letting his eyes take a quick tour of my frame before coming up to meet mine, “I also feel pretty good right this second.”

  Another spark ignites inside me from his sultry gaze. But this one fans my body rather than my mind.

  “Glad you feel good,” I say, though I’m not sure what to do with his flirtiness. I like it so very much, yet it’s risky.

  I collect myself, taking a deep breath, then we continue to my car. “So, if you had won tonight, you’d be celebrating with the team. When you don’t win, what happens? Do you go home in a funk?”

  Asking questions is easier than figuring out the risk of flirting with a player I cover.

  He levels a steely stare my way, all over-the-top. “Are you ready for the scoop?”

  I laugh. “So ready.”

  “And we’re off the record?” he confirms as we reach my car.

  “I pinky swear.” I lift my little finger, and he sets down the tripod to wrap his around mine, making me laugh. But my laughter stops quickly as a tingle has the audacity to slide down my chest, just from our fingers touching.

  What the hell, body? Pinky swears aren’t supposed to feel this good.

  Yes, Sullivan’s attractive.

  Yes, I’ve always liked talking to him.

  But I’m not supposed to feel anything remotely sparky for a man I report on for a living.

  We unwrap our fingers, and I try to focus on talking rather than on feeling. “Are you going to tell me now?”

  “I like to walk through the city. To wander around San Francisco or wherever I am.”

  That’s a fantastic image. The pro athlete becomes the nomad at night. “You walk it off,” I say, letting that little detail about him whirl around my brain. “That sounds cathartic.”

  “It actually helps me stay kind of balanced about the good madness.”

  “And it’s why you can handle things when you don’t win. You have your strategies.” I nod my understanding, then click open the trunk to stow my gear. When I’m done, I turn back to him. “So, will you walk tonight?”

  “I will,” he says as the stars flicker in the night sky. “Do you want to join me?”

  Something about his invitation feels a little risky. But it’s only risky if I cross a line.

  And I won’t. I simply won’t. A walk is just a walk.

  I’m enjoying this new insight into players—into him—so why shouldn’t I head out into this city we both love and educate myself some more?

  “I would love to,” I reply.

  We leave my car behind and go.

  3

  Sullivan

  This is my chance—time with this intriguing woman. A chance to get to know my friend a little better.

  I even have a hunch what she might like.

  “First stop. North Beach.”

  That’s what I tell Erin when we exit the parking lot, strolling in front of the ballpark, the crowds having thinned out for the night.

  With a curve on her lips, she arches a brow. “North Beach? Let me guess. You’re a Joe DiMaggio fan? Is that why we’re heading there?”

  Ah, she is good. The one-time Yankees star did hail from that neighborhood. “Yes, but I’m not taking you to his usual stomping grounds.” I know all of them, from the church where he married his first wife to the ballparks he sponsored over the years. But Erin’s obsessed with the city’s history, and a few weeks ago at a charity event, she mentioned she’d never seen some of the murals in the North Beach neighborhood. That’s where I want to take her tonight, since, well, I’m hoping she likes a guy who listens. “I have something else in mind. How do you feel about surprises?”

  With a twinkle in her blue eyes, she nods. “I’m pretty good with them. I feel like my entire job is a surprise. So, whatever you have in mind, Mister Walk It Off, I am good with it,” she says, adding a bring-it-on lift of her chin.

  Oh man, that doesn’t help alleviate my crush on her. Her can-do attitude fans the flames.

  It’s another thing I like about her. She’s open-minded and spontaneous—she rolls with the punches.

  Maybe tonight will surprise us both.

  Perhaps the travels through the city will help her see what we have in common. That I’m a guy worth considering, even if I’m a risk for her.

  I could be a risk worth taking. I’m not interested in playing the field. I’m interested in finding the right woman for me.

  Someone who wants the same things I do—passion, connection, intimacy.

  I swear, there’s something flickering between us, and I want to convince her to take a chance with me.

  “And to answer your question, I’m obviously a fan of Joe DiMaggio, but I’m taking you someplace else in North Beach. Someplace completely unrelated to baseball.”

  “Well, I’m excited for your tour. And did you know DiMaggio is one of what I call the Originals?” she asks, tossing that out there with a sassy wink—one that says she wants to play the game of Stump Each Other.

  Since I’m a competitive guy, I’m down for that. “I’ll bite. By Originals, do you mean he was the first hundred-thousand-dollar man?” The New York Yankee was the first baseball player to earn that milestone salary back in 1949.

  She whistles in appreciation as we turn the corner, heading to the vibrant nearby hood. “I’m duly impressed. But that’s not what I mean,” she says. “By Originals, I mean he was one of the first pro athletes to buy a home for his parents. In 1939, he bought them a house in the Marina.”

  “Ah, was he the one who started that trend?” I ask. It has kind of become a thing in professional sports. Lots of guys buy their parents a new home when they hit certain milestones.

  “Maybe he was. He bought it for them after he won his fourth World Series,” she says, rattling off details about DiMaggio’s gift to his parents.

  Hmm. Interesting that Erin sounds so enthused about this act of generosity. Maybe this is a clue to her heart.

  “You’ve got to give back. I actually paid off the mortgage for my parents in San Diego a couple of years ago.” I might as well let her know I’m a generous guy too. Maybe that’ll help smooth my way past this sorta work, sorta friendship zone.

  As we walk through the San Francisco night, she beams at me. “How did they react? I want all the details,” she says, rubbing her palms together.

  My mind flashes back to that day, the memory flickering in Technicolor. “When I landed my first big contract after my third year, I went home to San Diego in the off-season. The first day I was there, I headed to the bank. My financial advisor worked out all the details behind the scenes to pay off the mortgage with the company that held it for the bank. So, I just went in and signed and paid . . . then I took them out to dinner to their favorite Italian restaurant. I had a gift inside a box with a ribbon around it. I took it out over cannoli.”

  Under the streetlamps, her irises sparkle, like every detail feeds her appetite for more. “And then what?”

  I recall the curious look in their eyes, my pride that I’d been able to do this for them—the sense of accomplishment. “I handed them the box. Mom opened it with nervous but eager fingers and found the title to the house in it. I told them they owned their home free and clear. And then I said thank you,” I say, a hitch in my own voice at the memory. “Mom got up from the table and threw her arms around me, wrapping me in the biggest hug. She cried. Dad did too.”

  Erin flings her hand to her heart. “That’s beautiful,” she says, caught up in the emotion too. “Was it something you’d always wanted to do?”

  “It was a dream, but a far-off one that I wasn’t sure was possible. At first, when I was in the minors, I just wanted to make it to the show. And I wasn’t even sure if I’d make the roster my first spring training in Arizona. I definitely had some wobbly games.”

  “Everyone does though. That’s normal.”

  “True, but you’re only allowed so many.” I shake my head, relieved that I worked past mine. “I didn’t do it alone. Grant helped a ton. When I had a couple bad games, he did extra practice with me, then rounded up some of the other guys the next morning too. Crosby was there. Declan too, when he played for us. They helped me get my feet back under me . . . and the rest is history.”

  “See? These are the kinds of stories I want to tell someday. It’s beyond the stats. It’s a great tale of teamwork.”

  I nudge her arm with my elbow. “And I thought this night was off the record. Now I learn you’re just trying to get my best stories out of me,” I tease as we near Columbus Avenue, the street that cuts through the heart of North Beach.

  She gives me a deliberately evil grin. “Are there more? Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

  I lean my head back, laughing. “Apparently, all you have to do is take me for a walk and I spill my secrets.”

  “I want all your secrets, Sullivan,” she says. “We’ll walk all night long if that’s what it takes.”

  Is that a hint of flirt in her voice?

  I don’t have time to decide. “So, your parents. The house,” she prompts. “Was it a dream of yours?”

  I scrub a hand along my nape, thinking back. “It was definitely my goal to make their lives easier. My parents worked hard when I was growing up, running a nonprofit that provided counseling services for those who couldn’t afford it, and I knew I could make a difference for them. Hell, they made a difference for me. They took me to all my games, all my practices. My mom sat in the bleachers with her computer, reviewing programs and donations during my games. So, it was fitting that I should give back to them.”

  Erin sighs happily and shoots me a swoony smile. “You’re too sweet.” She takes a deep breath. “Now, moment of truth. Did you cry too, when you gave them the title?”

  A fair question, and I wouldn’t be ashamed if I had. But telling the truth has gotten me this far with Erin—spending more time with her, out of the pressroom, away from the field. Best to stick with that.

  “I’m not a crier,” I say. “Unless my football team loses. That shit makes me sad. And I’m sad a lot because I’m from San Diego. So now I root for the Hawks.”

  “Smart move, switching to a team that wins,” she says.

  I tap my temple. “Brilliant, I know.” Then, I shrug. “Honestly, I’m not a crier. Probably because I’m in my head most of the time.”

  She hums, like she’s processing that tidbit. “You know, that makes a lot of sense. You need to be more cerebral than emotional to do your job.”

  We turn onto Columbus, walking past a café that reeks of garlic and pesto. “You’ve hit the nail on the head,” I say, appreciating the way she understands my role on the mound.