“You’re Daisy Darling Hawthorne?”

  I extend my hand. “Yes,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. W— Trisha,” I correct myself. “I am a huge fan of your work.”

  Trisha Wells raises a sharp brow, her eyes darting from my face to my shoes and back again. My cheeks burn beneath her gaze. Rose and I settled on comfort and professional this morning. Black slacks, a blue top, and a casual jacket that can easily be removed if needed. And flats. Glorious flats.

  Finally, Trisha smiles and shakes my hand. “You are just as darling as your name suggests you should be,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “How old are you?”

  “Uh…” I think for a second. “Twenty-two?”

  “You’re kidding.” She gawks at me. “What product do you use?”

  “Whiskey, mostly.”

  Trisha throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, honey…” She wipes her eyes with the tip of her pinky. “I like you.”

  “Thanks.”

  She spins on her stiletto heels and walks into the busy office. I linger for a moment, confused, until the secretary behind the desk bobs his head, urging me to follow her from the lobby. I kick up my stride to catch up with Trisha, miming him a thank you as I pass by the bright florescent sign above his desk.

  Sports Illuminated.

  Trisha leads me through a jungle of busy cubicles. Several people lurch out of her path as we go. She’s heavily respected around here. Or deeply feared. Either way, I’m sure it’s earned.

  “The magazine is this busy on a Sunday?” I ask behind her.

  “Not always, but when Home Run Hunter is up to bat, so are we,” she says, her voice easily carrying over all the others.

  Wow. All this is for Hunter?

  No pressure, buddy.

  “First pitch is in ninety, so we don’t have time to dawdle,” Trisha says. “Right this way, please.”

  We reach a corner office with double doors and she throws them open. I squint at the sudden influx of sunlight through the exposed floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a large leather camera bag on the desk next to a small stack of paperwork.

  “Here’s your gear, Daisy,” Trisha says. “Don’t break it.”

  I step forward, eager to peek inside. As Trisha picks up the paperwork, I unsnap the bag and open it, my eyes widening at logos I’ve only seen on my most insane dream wishlists. A DSLR camera. Four different lenses to choose from. The pouches are full of memory cards, each stamped with little letters that read Property of SI.

  “I assume you know how to use them?” she asks, studying the shock on my face.

  “Oh, of course!” I say, partially lying as I reach for the camera.

  Trisha slaps my hand with the papers.

  “Sign these first,” she says.

  I go through the papers one-by-one, signing and filling out what I can. Tax forms. Equipment release. Liability. Travel reimbursements.

  “Non-disclosure agreement?” I read aloud.

  Trisha nods. “Very standard. This is a place of journalism,” she says. “Sometimes we deal with sensitive information, confidential informants and the like.”

  “Informants?” I ask, cracking a smile. “Concerning what? Jock straps?”

  She chuckles. “And the like.”

  I nod as I sign it. “Fair enough.”

  “This article will mainly focus on Mr. Novak, but feel free to catch some candids of the team whenever you can. If you must include me in a shot, only shoot from my left side, please.”

  “No problem,” I say as I turn to the next page.

  It’s a check. A large check. Addressed to me.

  “Is something wrong, Daisy?” Trisha asks.

  “Uh… no.” I pick up the check. “Ms. Wells—”

  “Trisha.”

  “Trisha, what is this?”

  “It was my understanding you had relocation expenses, yes?” she says.

  I swallow. “Yes. This would be very helpful with… that.”

  “Do you require more? Because I could have a chat with accounting.”

  “No, no.” I breathe a laugh. “It’s more than enough. Thank you.”

  “I love Boston,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “But there’s something about Chicago…” Her bright eyes reflect light from the windows. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  I sign the last few forms and give them back to her. “Anything else?” I ask.

  “Aren’t we the eager beaver?” she quips.

  “No, I’m just…” I roll my shoulders back, professionally. “I’m excited about the game today, that’s all.”

  “Big baseball fan?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Trisha.”

  “Yes, Trisha.”

  “I could tell,” she says, tilting her head as she watches me. “Your portfolio was comprehensive, but your work on the diamond had a little something… extra. You truly love this sport.”

  “I do.”

  She smiles. “Then, let’s go. We’ll grab your badge from Keith on our way out. He should have it ready by now.”

  “Keith?”

  “The secretary,” she says as she marches toward the door with my paperwork in hand.

  I grab the camera bag and follow her to the doorway. “Right. Keith,” I say, committing it to memory.

  “Don’t sleep with him.”

  I stop beneath her sharp eyes. “Oh. I wasn’t going to—”

  “Good.” She leans in and lowers her voice, adding with a regretful sigh, “It ain’t worth it.”

  “Oh,” I whisper. “Got it.”

  She continues forward, beelining a trail through the cubicles all the way back to the front desk.

  “Have these filed by the time we return,” Trisha tells Keith.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, taking them with a smile.

  I notice she makes no effort to correct him calling her that.

  He sets the papers aside, then turns to me. “Ms. Hawthorne, your badge,” he says, offering me a card attached to a lanyard.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking it.

  Daisy Hawthorne

  STAFF

  I blink at it in my hand, my heart nearly stopping as I take it all in.

  This can’t be real…

  “Wonderful!” Trisha says. “And we’re off.”

  By the time I have the badge around my neck, she’s already halfway to the elevators.

  “Pick it up, newbie,” Keith says. “Bus is leaving.”

  I twitch to life, miming a thank you again as I take off to catch up with her.

  CHAPTER 15

  DAISY

  Definitely not real.

  The stadium surges with life, even more than yesterday. Or perhaps I’m just seeing it from a different perspective as Trisha and I wait for the team in the dugout. Coach Carl wouldn’t let us in the locker room — a fact that Trisha clearly isn’t happy about, though I doubt it’s her journalist drive fueling that urge.

  I raise my camera, snatching a photo of the packed stadium from the grass. It’s hard to believe that it’s only been twenty-four hours since I got hit by that baseball, which turned out to be Hunter’s first home run of the game. Part of me thinks I’m going to wake up at any moment in that hospital bed with a splitting headache. Maybe the last day never happened at all.

  But this is real.

  My hand absently touches my stomach.

  It’s all very real.

  “Oh, they’re coming!” Trisha says from the shade. “Daisy, hurry.”

  The team shuffles into the dugout one-by-one, prompting cries from those in the crowd who notice. I spot Hunter, his head down, shadows falling over his face as the early afternoon sun strikes his baseball cap.

  I exhale slowly. First time I’ve ever seen him this close in his uniform.

  Go, Bearhawks.

  “Home Run Hunter!” Trisha bolts through the dugout to meet him. I take wider strides to keep up. “The man himself.”

  Hunter throws on a smile. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Wells.”

  I raise the camera and adjust the focus on his chiseled face before snapping my very first picture of him. He reacts to the shutter sound, glancing at me over Trisha’s shoulder.

  His smile grows. “Hey, Daisy,” he says.

  “Hey, Hunter,” I say.

  Trisha clears her throat and motions for me to move to her left side. “So, Hunter,” she says, hooking her arm around his. “Are you as eager to get started as I am?”

  I pause, watching to see if Hunter will slip free of her, but he stays in place. My finger clicks a few successive photos of the two of them, each one drawing his eyes my way. He fires a wink at me. I smile behind the camera.

  “Yes, Ms. Wells,” he answers her.

  “Oh, please, honey,” she coos. “Call me Trisha. We’re going to be very close by the end of this season. Might as well get on first-name terms right now.”

  “Okay, Trisha.”

  I linger behind them, snapping a few shots of the other players during their pre-game warm-up rituals.

  “By the way,” I hear her say, “everything you say to me is on the record unless you tell me otherwise beforehand.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Hunter says.

  She leans in a little closer, and I lose track of her voice as it drifts into his ear. Finally, he steps out of her grasp and offers her a kind smile as he excuses himself to go stretch.

  “Daisy!”

  I twitch at her sudden bark. Trisha flags me closer.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “How well do you know him?” she asks me, peeking at me over her pink frames.

  “Uh.” I chuckle. “Somewhere between not very well and kind of. Why?”

  “Just hoping you can fill in blanks for me if needed. These guys get a little hushed when it comes to the good details — the things readers really want to know about. His handsome face will sell magazines, but I need an angle. Angles make subscribers.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You’re in the big leagues now, honey,” she says. “It’s expected.”

  “Okay.”

  “Seriously. I will fire you.”

  I nod as she peels her sunglasses off.

  “Now, I need to go discuss with the coach exactly what all-access means,” she says, primed for a fight. “I’ll return in a moment.”

  “Good luck,” I say as she disappears into the back of the dugout.

  “How are you feeling?”

  My lips curl at the sound of his voice behind me. I raise my camera as I turn around, snapping an awkward close-up as he hovers over me.

  “Better,” I say, letting the camera hang around my neck. “Head is far less throbby today.”

  “No bruises?” he asks, his eyes studying my hairline.

  “Oh, there are bruises.” I discreetly shift my hair to the side to show him. He cringes. “Luckily, the hair naturally covers most of it.”

  “Good.” Hunter smiles at my badge. “So, you have credentials now.”

  “I do.”

  “They suit you.”

  I chuckle, looking down. “As do your… stunningly white pants.”

  He laughs. “Just give it an hour. It’ll be nothing but grass and pit stains over here.”

  “Are you trying to turn me on?”

  “It is working?”

  “Perhaps.” I glance over my shoulder as Trisha’s voice carries from the locker room, her discussion with the coach in full swing. “So, she’s certainly got her eye on you,” I say to Hunter.

  “I can tell.” He shakes his head. “I’m not interested.”

  “Really?” I ask, trying not to look so excited about it.

  He lowers his voice. “She kind of reminds me of my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Yeah. She’s from Georgia, so she’s got that southern belle accent going on, too. She also used to dye her hair like that when I was a kid, so…”

  I laugh. “Good news for me, then.”

  He clears his throat. “So, about what we talked about last night.”

  “Yeah?” I say, standing a little taller.

  “Your room is ready for you,” he says. “You can… come by whenever you’re ready.”

  “Oh. Thanks. I, uh… I’ll pack up my stuff after the game and… come by tonight. If that works for you.”

  He nods. “It works.”

  “Okay, then. Tonight it is.” Warmth rushes through my fingers and toes. “Speaking of mothers… you haven’t told yours about any of this yet, have you?”

  “Me? No.”

  “I’ve only told Rose,” I say. “And John, I guess, by extension, but I begged her to secrecy and she’s got him wrapped around her pinky, so I doubt they’ll blab.”

  “I haven’t told anybody,” Hunter says. “Well, except Dennis.”

  “Dennis?”

  “I’m Dennis.”

  I flinch, somehow not noticing the man sitting awkwardly close to us in the dugout. He regards me with a wide clown-like grin, his black hair slicked back beneath his hat.

  “Daisy, Dennis. Dennis, Daisy,” Hunter introduces us.

  “Your secret is safe with me, Daisy Hawthorne,” Dennis says, holding his hand over his heart. “You have my word.”

  “Um…” My eyes flick between them. “Thank you.”

  Hunter touches my elbow, gently guiding me to a quieter section of the dugout. “He’s cool,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

  “I won’t,” I say. “If you trust him, then I’m sure he’s cool.”

  “He’s kind of like my Rose around here.”

  “Everybody needs a Rose.”

  Hunter smiles. For a moment, I catch his gaze falling to my lips, and part of me wishes that he’d just do it. Kiss me here, now, in front of his entire team. A sold-out stadium.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  A nosy reporter.

  Trisha returns, suddenly by our side. “You’re with me, honey,” she says to Hunter as she curls her arm around his. “I want to get in a few questions before the anthem.”

  She leads him away from me. As they pass the other players, a few offer him high-fives. I snap some photos of him from the back, catching looks of admiration and loyalty from his teammates. He’s obviously well-respected among them, and who could blame them?

  A few of those looks of admiration turn to winks of approval at the sight of Trisha practically drooling on him, but I try not to let that get to me. Hunter told me was in. All-in. He looked me in the eye and said it. I don’t have to worry about Trisha Wells digging her perfectly painted claws into him, but my gut still twists a bit as he walks with her.

  The crowd goes wild, filled with cries of Home Run Hunter. He gives them a few waves and they swoon. My stomach flips, but I don’t feel sick. It’s pride deep inside. He’s a big deal. He could have any woman in this stadium he wants, but he’s with me.

  “Cocoa butter.”

  I pause, finding Dennis lingering beside me. “I’m sorry?” I ask.

  “For the stretch marks,” he says. “My mother swore by the stuff. Gotta keep things moisturized.”

  “Oh.” I force a smile. “Thank you.”

  He winks. “You’re welcome.”

  I step out of the dugout, invisibly navigating to the side to fill this memory card with candid moments while keeping a close ear on Trisha.

  “I want to spend today getting to know you, Hunter. Just a little off-the-record chatter. My best work comes when I feel like I have a real connection with the subject.”

  “Sounds good,” he says.

  “So, let’s get the most cliché question out of the way first. Boxers or briefs?”

  I chortle. “Briefs.”

  Trisha’s sharp eyes dart in my direction. Must have said that a bit too loudly.

  “Just a wild guess,” I say before hiding behind my camera.

  “Yeah, actually,” Hunter says, laughing with his eyes. “I’m a briefs kind of guy.”

  “Excellent.” Trisha turns her attention back to him. “Are you single?”

  He pauses with his mouth open. “Uh…”

  “Oh, here we go!” She rubs her palms together. “You sound unsure.”

  “No, not unsure, just—”

  “So, there is a girl?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Will you be leaving this heartbroken young Northie behind next year when you inevitably go pro?”

  My stomach flips again, this time tightening up as I wait for his response.

  “No,” he answers.

  “Well, she obviously hasn’t been too much of a distraction for you this season,” Trisha notes. “I doubt you’d be so good at baseball if you were constantly thinking about her instead.”

  “I think about her a lot, actually.”

  “Is this a sensitive topic for you, Hunter?” Trisha studies him harder. “You seem tense.”

  “No, it’s just… complicated.”

  I cringe. Complicated is catnip to women like Trisha.

  “Oh?” She smirks. “Trouble in paradise. How delightful.”

  “Well—”

  “Is she the one that got away?”

  “No. Well…” His glance finally falls on me, but he doesn’t let it linger for too long. “She’s the one that was hard to forget. I’ll say that much.”

  Blood rushes to my face. I can’t help but wonder how true that is or if he’s just playing up the angle for Trisha’s benefit.

  Trisha chews on her lip for a moment. “Does this girl have a name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “No.”

  She grins. “Oh, that’s all right, honey. I’ve got the rest of the season to pry that out of you, and believe me — what Trisha wants, Trisha usually gets.”

  I hide behind my camera again, wondering how true that is, too.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Wells,” Dennis says, hopping out of the dugout. “The coach has requested Mr. Novak’s presence. The game is about to begin.”

  “Of course!” she says, relinquishing Hunter’s arm. “Go, Bearhawks!”

  Hunter happily detaches and takes wide strides into the dugout.

  Dennis lingers behind. “You know, I’ve known Hunter for a long time now,” he says to Trisha. “I’d be happy to sit down with you sometime, tell some good stories — maybe over a cup of coffee, or… breakfast.”