Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
When the final pitch is thrown and Holden strikes out, my heart plummets.
I have to say something. I have to do something, even if it’s to send one simple note.
Rafe: Are you doing okay? I’m thinking of you. You played great.
Many hours later, he responds.
Gunnar: Thanks for checking in. Not going to lie. I’m fucking sad. But there’s always next year. And this just gives us another chance to go all the way. Besides, I just made plans to take Jamie and Charlie and my mom on a trip soon, and I’m seeing them for Mom’s birthday, too, after the campaign kickoff. I already can’t wait to see them. It’ll give me something to focus on besides this sucky loss. How are you?
I stare at that question. How am I?
I am torn. I am pulled. And I miss you terribly.
Rafe: I’ve been better.
It’s true enough.
Over the next week, the lie I told by the river eats away at my conscience, gnawing at me as I go from meeting to meeting. I need to come clean.
A week later, I make plans to get on a plane to New York.
I promised I’d always be honest with him, and I haven’t been honest about this. I have to fix that.
And I have to fix it as soon as possible.
43
I’M SO OVER YOU
Gunnar
With a contented sigh, I raise a glass at The Spotted Zebra, toasting toward Zane and Declan. “I hate to say I told you so,” I begin, lifting my bourbon, neat, high.
Declan rolls his eyes. “You don’t hate saying that at all. You love it. No—you relish it.”
Zane keeps quiet. He knows the truth—that I wish I’d been wrong.
I wish I’d lost the bet.
I wish I had a boyfriend.
Okay, fine. I’m delighted that Declan and Zane are each donating one hundred thousand dollars to the charities of my choice. I picked a couple of local animal rescues that help senior dogs find homes, and I chose a homeless shelter because my mom is passionate about volunteer work with the homeless.
“May dogs and people find homes,” I say, then I clink my tumbler to theirs and I knock back some bourbon that burns my chest.
“I was so sure you’d be locked up,” Declan says, shaking his head.
Yeah, for a while there, I was pretty sure too. But here I am. Single AF at the end of the season, and my buds are making good on the bet.
Win some, lose some.
We drink, play a round of pool, and shoot the shit about next season.
“I can’t wait for spring training to start, and for another shot at the World Series,” I say, taking a shot at the eight ball. I sink it and win the game.
It’s a victory, but it’s not the one I want.
I go home alone, where my suitcase waits by the door because I leave first thing tomorrow morning for Rafe’s kickoff event in New York.
The next night, I give Charlie a video tour of the plush luxury suite where Rafe’s company put me up at The Luxe on Park Avenue. Standing in the middle of a suite that’s probably bigger than most New York apartments, I pan the phone screen to the right then to the left.
Charlie gawks back at me over FaceTime. “Dude, does your room actually have two king-size beds?”
I grin at the ridiculousness of this place. “Yes. Apparently, fancy people need two beds,” I say, then shrug. “Who knew?”
“You can wake up every hour and switch,” he suggests.
I flop down on one mattress, pop up, and jump to the other one. “Yep, great idea,” I say.
“Take me to the john,” Charlie says. “I bet it’s one of those crazy rich people’s bathrooms,” he says.
Like Rafe has at his home.
Rafe’s rainfall shower made me want to spend the whole night there with him. He made me want to spend the night there with him.
But forget the shower images. I’ve spent the last month or so swatting images of Rafe out of my mind. The bedroom ones, but also all the other ones. Our breakfast at the Ferry Building. Our dinner at his place. Our conversation at The West House. The phone calls we had. Dirty dancing with him.
How is it possible that I fell for the guy in a few damn weeks?
Entirely possible. He opened up to me and demanded honesty in return. I gave it to him and fell for the fucker.
Once again, I try to stay in the moment as I show Charlie the luxurious bathroom with a sunken tub and shower the size of a bedroom. He whistles in appreciation, then I return to the living room and sink down on a plush ruby-red couch.
“Dude, I want to grow up to be an underwear model,” he says.
“Hey! I’m a ballplayer who happens to model underwear.”
He scoffs. “Semantics. Anyway, this company loves you.”