“That’s probably why you were able to handle a starting pitcher change. Some of the best guys in the game are those who are able to separate their game from their emotions. Sometimes you just need to be both in your mind and your body but not really in your heart.”

  “Yes. There’s a time and a place for emotions on a baseball field,” I agree. “But I imagine it’s the same for you as a reporter. If you were covering a player who was injured, for instance.”

  Her eyes widen, and she grabs my arm like a lifeline. “Like earlier this year when Manuel Rosa broke his leg during a game,” she says, mentioning the Storm Chasers center fielder.

  I shudder at the memory. She does too.

  But then my eyes drift down to her hand on my biceps. That feels pretty damn good, and I log new data in my Erin file—she’s a toucher. She has an emotional side. She’s full of energy. She can barely stop moving.

  Damn it. She’s so fucking right for me.

  She doesn’t let go of my arm as she jumps back to the topic. “Confession: I kind of am a crier. I went home that night Rosa was hurt, and I was heartbroken for him. It just looked so bad. I interviewed him a few days later, and he was devastated.”

  A pang lodges in my chest. I’m lucky I haven’t had that kind of injury. “I can’t imagine. Hell, I don’t want to imagine.”

  I turn from that distressing idea, shifting the tone to something lighter. “My turn with the questions, Miss Reporter Who Never Stops Asking Questions.” I grab an imaginary mic and hold it in front of her as we walk. “You heard my story about my parents. Give me one of yours.”

  “Fine, fine,” she says with a huff. Then she straightens her shoulders, like she’s getting all serious. “Let’s see. I didn’t buy them a house. But I do give them cute thank-you cards when a story of mine goes viral.”

  I gesture for her to go on. “More. Details. Now.”

  “So demanding,” she says, bumping her shoulder to mine—though it’s more like her shoulder to my biceps. “I send them cards that my friend Frankie makes. She’s a florist, but the cards are her side hustle. They’re all fruit themed—like an illustration of bananas winking, and it says, Thanks a bunch. Or a peach smiling, and it’ll say, I a-peach-i-ate you.”

  “Certifiably adorable,” I say. “But we are not done, woman. Why do you thank them?”

  She cracks up, then clears her throat. “They didn’t want me to have any student debt, so they made sure when I went to college that it was completely paid for. I feel incredibly lucky, so I try to thank them by doing a great job. It kind of drives me every day, the fact that they worked so hard with that goal in mind.”

  My heart thumps stronger for her, filling up with more feelings, more interest. I’m both touched and a little saddened. It’s awesome that she feels this way, and it reminds me what I’m up against in my pursuit of her. She loves her work fiercely, and she’s motivated by her family. Yet her work—and my role in it—is our biggest obstacle.

  It’s also what I admire so much about her.

  “You love what you do,” I say, putting it plainly. The pure simplicity of it.

  “Mostly,” she says with a note of longing. “I want to do more with it though. I love telling stories—the kind I don’t quite get to tell.”

  “What kind?”

  She sighs deeply. “Stories that show the people behind the game. Or even just people in general. Human interest stories about the city, about sports, about icons.”

  “You want to dive into what makes someone tick,” I say.

  She flashes a blinding smile. “Exactly. Don’t get me wrong—I’m crazy about my work. Borderline obsessed. But I also think I could do more with it.”

  “Personally, I think that sounds perfect for you. This whole walk, you’ve been digging into me,” I say, jamming my fist against my chest like I’m scooping out the insides.

  “Aww, did it hurt?”

  “Only a little bit.”

  “Will you survive?” she asks with exaggerated concern.

  “It’s highly debatable,” I deadpan. Then I turn a touch more serious. “But I hope you can do the work you want someday. You’ll be the best at that too. And I mean that.”

  “Thanks. That’s what I want,” she says. “To do my best.”

  She wants to be tops at her job. Can she, though, if she gets involved with me? Is that a line she can’t cross?

  There’s only one way to know. I’m going to ask her.

  Now.

  Fucking now.

  It’s time.

  I take a breath, bracing myself. “Hey, Erin. Would you ever—”

  Her hand darts out, grabbing my arm and yanking me close.

  She drops her voice to a whisper. “That’s Hudson Tanner’s limo over there.”

  I jerk my gaze toward the sleek black vehicle idling at the light. Hudson Tanner’s the owner of my team.

  “Don’t look!” she hisses. “Rumor has it that if he runs into any of his players on the street, he will just talk and talk and talk about the last game. He likes to discuss everything that went wrong.”

  Yup. She heard right. “All too true. Grant said he got cornered by him once after a game. And since the last thing I want to do is shoot the shit with the owner about how our team belched up a victory tonight . . . there’s only one solution.”

  I grab her hand and tug her down an alley.

  We run like hell.

  And this woman, holy fuck. She’s got lungs and legs on her, keeping up a good clip till we’re well out of view.

  We slow our pace, stopping, panting from the unexpected sprint down—I scan our surroundings—Jack Kerouac Alley.

  She runs a hand through her hair, catching her breath.

  Damn, she looks good in the starlight.

  So incredibly good that I’m dying to tell her that she’s been the object of my daydreams for a while now.

  Everything about the last hour has clarified what I want.

  I want to pursue a relationship with Erin.

  Starting tonight.

  4

  Erin

  The temptation is strong.

  The desire to step over the line thrums in my chest, taunts my better judgment.

  Kiss him.

  I’m pretty good at reading people. It’s part of the job—listening, paying attention. I’ve been doing that all night, and I know one thing. Players don’t hang out with reporters this long. It’s just not typical.

  Men do. Men who are interested in women. And women who are interested in men do the same.

  They go for late-night strolls. They hang out after midnight. They tempt fate.

  I want Sullivan Fitzgerald. But can I truly take that kind of chance, dating an athlete? How would that look to my network? To the public? While I wouldn’t be the first reporter to date a sports star, I’m not sure it’s the best move at age twenty-five, still growing and learning.

  I don’t want future employers to say I dated my way up.

  I don’t want athletes on other teams to decline to talk to me.

  And I’m not sure I’m ready to take the risk of this going wrong.

  If a romance with Sullivan doesn’t work out, it would be messy. I follow the team. I travel with the team. I’m the one covering their schedule, reporting on the trades, interviewing the players before and after games. It’s exhausting and wonderful, energizing and tiring, and it’s part of who I am.

  Work is all-encompassing. Getting ahead is the focus.

  But right now, my body is the focus, and my lust is the epicenter of me. It’s telling me to get closer, maybe even a little closer still, and to ask for a kiss.

  Because, my God, his lips.

  They look so soft and pillowy and lush. Sullivan has a fantastic mouth, one I can’t stop looking at, and deep brown eyes I could get lost in. Eyes that gaze at me like he wants to crowd me against the wall and kiss me deeply into the night.

  He licks the corner of his lips, like that’s why he pulled me into this alley—to kiss in the moonlight. I want to so badly. Want him so badly.

  Sullivan swallows roughly. “Erin,” he begins, all husky and sexy.

  “Yes?” My voice feels like it’s hanging on a thread of desire.

  “This might sound . . . out of the blue,” he says. That confidence he carries onto the mound is gone. He’s pure vulnerability now, and it’s so enticing. “I would love to take you out again.”

  Oh God.

  There it is.

  The ask.

  My chest aches with longing.

  “I want to. I truly do,” I say, and for a spell, his eyes glimmer with excitement, with all sorts of possibilities. I have to squash those. I can’t give in. Even though when I look at him, I can feel the sizzle, the connection, but the raw danger too.

  Don’t date an athlete on your beat.

  In my four years as a reporter, I’ve followed that unwritten guideline faithfully. Hell, I’ve pretty much followed a no-dating guideline, though unintentionally.

  I shove my hands into my pockets so I’m not tempted to grab him, to feel his big frame against mine.

  I need to be careful, to remember my parents paying for my school, the opportunities I have in front of me. I shouldn’t squander them because of this intense attraction.

  “You do?” he asks, snagging on my last words. “Because I do, so much. I want to get to know you better. Spend time with you.”

  Dear God, he makes that sound amazing—the chance to pursue this attraction that’s physical and mental and emotional.

  Trouble is, I can’t. “I want all that too, Sullivan. But it’s too much of a risk to my career,” I say, sounding desperate—feeling a little desperate too. “I’d have to disclose it at work with HR, and then I worry that players and management would talk about me and treat me differently.”

  And work truly is everything to me. It’s why I haven’t invested much energy in men before. Hell, it’s why I’m still a virgin.

  His shoulders sag for a moment, but his expression is resolute. He nods crisply. “I understand completely. I don’t want that burden to fall on you.”

  I heave a sigh, wishing there were another option.

  Wishing I could take this risk.

  But this thing flickering between us is too new.

  Too fragile.

  “Thank you for understanding,” I say, fixing on a smile to lighten the mood. “But I would truly like to be friends with you. I don’t mean let’s just be friends. I mean, I think you and I could actually be friends. Real friends.”

  My hands feel clammy. Nerves twist, waiting for his reaction to my offer.

  Maybe he doesn’t want friendship.

  Maybe he’ll move on right now, find another woman to pursue. Pickings aren’t slim for a guy like him—a major leaguer with a fat contract, a ring, a heart of gold.

  A face for movie posters.

  I feel like I’m waiting an eternity for an answer. Maybe because this question feels as risky, in its own way, as saying I want to date you.

  Because I’m saying, I like you. Are you interested enough to just hang out with me?

  A second later, Sullivan smiles, a crooked grin that reaches his eyes. “I’m good with that, Erin,” he says, and I breathe again, relieved and excited. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s ridiculous that society judges women so harshly and lets athletes get away with all kinds of shit. But how about this? Let me show you the murals I wanted to give you a tour of.”

  “How did you know . . .” I stop myself, remembering, and I grin. “I told you at the charity event.”

  He winks. “I listen, Erin. I definitely listen.”

  I do love a listener.

  5

  Sullivan

  I’ve been friend-zoned.

  Not my first choice, but not totally unexpected either.

  I can handle it.

  The friend zone is like coming into the seventh inning against a tough left-handed batter.

  Sometimes you strike him out; sometimes he homers off you. But you take your chances.

  This is an opportunity, so I seize it.

  Under the streetlamps of this city, I take her on a walking tour of some of the newest murals in North Beach, showing her a recent addition in this alley that celebrates some of the city’s Asian heritage with illustrations and inscriptions. She devours them, reciting the words, then we move to the wall of the Vesuvio Café, debating the poem written on the bricks and its closing line: It’s time for another martini.

  “Words to live by,” I say.

  “Definitely.”

  We check out a few more, and when the clock strikes two, my stomach growls.

  She pats it, and oh, yes, I like her hand on my stomach. A lot. I wish she’d keep it there, yank up my shirt, trace my skin with her tongue.

  Someday . . .

  “Pancakes?” I ask.

  “There is only ever one answer to that question,” she says, and we find a twenty-four-hour diner and tuck into our meal.

  When we’re done, she lets out a yawn the size of a container ship.

  “Bedtime for you,” I say, then call a Lyft to take us back to the ballpark.

  On the ride, she yawns again, her eyelids fluttering. “I should warn you—I’m a little bit in love with sleep.”

  That settles it. “I’m going to drive you home, then,” I tell her.

  “You don’t have to,” she says on another yawn.

  But this isn’t about obligation. “I want to,” I insist, and with good reason. She looks ready to crash, and I don’t want that to be literal.

  When we reach her car in the lot, I hold out my hand for her keys. “Shotgun for you, Erin.”

  She raises her hands in surrender. “I won’t protest.”

  I drive her home, then grab her gear and walk her to the front door of her building.

  She perks up a bit, giving me a soft, wistful sigh. “Tonight was amazing.”

  I couldn’t agree more. It was amazing and enlightening. It solidified what had been just speculation. There is something brewing between us, and I want a chance to prove I’m worth the risk.

  But that starts with listening to her. Respecting her wants and wishes. Being friendly. “What are you doing next week? Since we’re friends, I was thinking we could hang out as friends. Maybe check out some more hidden gems in the city?”

  She smiles brightly. “I would love to do that.”

  I give her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  Well, sort of chaste. I do linger, inhaling the faint traces of coconut on her skin, maybe from her lotion.

  I draw a long inhale, then whisper, “Good night.”

  She shivers, then steps back. “See you next week.”

  6

  Erin

  The Off-Season

  * * *

  My heart shimmies as I read the text message from Sullivan the next Saturday morning.

  Sullivan: Agree/disagree—you’re never too old for a slide.

  * * *

  Erin: All the way agree.

  * * *

  Sullivan: I thought you might feel that way.

  * * *

  Erin: And why’s that?

  * * *

  Sullivan: You’ve got a “Sure, I’ll go skydiving” attitude.

  * * *

  Erin: Um, hate to break it to you, but I’ve never gone skydiving.

  * * *

  Sullivan: But I bet you’d consider it. I bet you’ve gone hang gliding, rock climbing, and white-water rafting.

  * * *

  Erin: Are you reading my high school journals? Yes, all three.

  * * *

  Sullivan: There. I’m right. Anyway, I’ll pick you up at six p.m. tonight. A twilight friend date.

  I settle into my couch, setting down my phone. He really meant it when he accepted my friend offer. He actually wants—gasp—to be friends. And I can’t stop smiling as I work on a piece to pitch to my network.

  When evening rolls around, I close my laptop, shower, put on makeup, and get ready to . . . well, ride on my ass down a slide.

  Whatever he has in mind, I’m going to like it.

  I don’t mind his emerald-green McLaren.

  Not one bit.

  Especially since he blasts hip-hop music. “Loved this playlist when I was a rookie,” he says. “Still do.”

  “Some things never change,” I muse, then tap the dash. “Like good tunes.”

  As he cruises into the Noe Valley neighborhood, he offers a fist for knocking and I accept.

  We’re buddies, and I like it.

  A few minutes later, we arrive at the Seward Street Slides, and he parks the car.

  “Yes! I was hoping we were going adult sliding here,” I say, pumping a fist.

  “I even brought the cardboard,” he says, grabbing the thick pieces of a box from the trunk.

  “We’re going down the butt ramp,” I say.

  “Warning—I might scream like a dude going down a slide.”

  I nod approvingly. “Points for not saying scream like a girl.”

  He scoffs. “As if I’d say that. Not a sexist pig, Erin.”

  I bump my shoulder to his. “I know, and I like it.”

  “Good. You should,” he says, kind of sexy and rumbly. Or maybe that’s just how everything he says sounds to me—like I want to take off my clothes and roll around in it.

  Or I would, if we were something other than just friends.

  We traipse through the park, heading to the slides—two long, steep concrete chutes down a hillside.

  “A hidden gem in San Francisco,” he says when we reach the top.