Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
He makes a little motion with his hand. I roll my eyes and try to take my shirt off with as little fuss as possible.
It doesn’t help that he whistles.
I turn around, so my arousal isn’t totally obvious. If that’s possible. Then I finish changing, putting on the uniform pants, and leaving my jeans on the table. When I’m done, I get a cup of orange juice from the catering spread on the other side of the studio, and that cools me off.
So does the presence of the photographer. A Black woman with a swirl of tattoos and a heavy professional camera walks into the studio; she tells us her name is Sadie. The photoshoot is the kind I’ve done a hundred times before. We’re in uniform, told to look charming at the camera. Chris looks charismatic. I probably look like I’m trying to fry the camera lens with my mind.
“Now stand back-to-back,” Sadie says. I turn, focusing on a blank spot on the far wall. And not on the feel of Chris’s back against mine.
We’re standing close, though she encourages us closer, to narrow the thin humming strip of air between us.
“Act like you like each other,” she says drily, since she obviously knows the score.
“We don’t,” I say, just as Chris says, “We do.”
Maritza’s instructions flash in my head. Play nice. I sigh. And inch closer.
Chris moves his hand behind his back and like that, our palms brush briefly, just enough to scrape the band of his championship ring against my fingers like he’s making a point.
“Is that a fake ring?” I whisper. The team won’t hand out the real ones until the beginning of this season.
“Why?” Chris’s voice is a purr against my back. “You wanna try it on?”
A deliberate goad, and I won’t let him have the last word, but firing off a comeback to that one is gonna be tough—a ring is only what I want most in the world. So I say nothing, just borrow a page from his playbook. Touch. I brush the tip of my finger along his, and a low, barely audible gasp escapes him. I just grin, pleased that I turned the tables for once.
And maybe turned him on too.
Fair play and all.
The move works on other levels since the photographer calls out, “Great, that’s great. Way to bring the energy, Josh.”
She takes us through more poses. Chris in his batting stance looking teasingly at the camera. Me miming like I’m snagging a throw from a catcher.
And of course, she wants us to reenact The Slide.
Because that was the other part of Maritza’s instructions. I have to put on my best public relations smile and pretend like losing the World Series was no big deal. Because it’s all good, clean fun. A game. Even if it means reliving one of the worst moments of my career.
The photographer is ready for this do-over. In a corner of the studio, there’s a base set up, an infielder’s glove for me to use as a prop. During the game, the slide itself took no more than a few seconds. Now, Sadie tells Chris to mimic his slide into my ankle.
Chris drops down, slowly, to his knees, and he flashes a smile up at me that’s a reminder of how we last parted. How I spent the night I lost the World Series alone, half wishing I’d had the guts to say yes to him.
“Now get onto your side,” she instructs, and Chris does, but not before gazing up at me with those blue eyes. And licking his lips.
“Like this?” he asks innocently, already draping himself not-so-innocently on the floor. His pants pull tight. His jersey hugs his chest. This guy can make anything arousing, including a reenacted slide.
He’s unfairly sexy.
“Good, good,” Sadie says. “Now Josh, tag him like you normally would.”
The glove feels strange on my hand. I cannot for the life of me remember where I tried to tag Chris that night. On his calf? His knee? His back?
I brush the fingers of my glove along his outer thigh. Most players drop weight during the season and recover in the off-season. Chris has put it back on in muscle, and his legs test the confines of his gray uniform pants. They look good on him. Better if they were on my apartment floor.
“Little higher,” he whispers, and shifts slightly, so I’m practically leaning over him, my glove against his ass.
But not quite, since of course I didn’t get the tag down.
“Nice,” she says. “Closer if you can. Josh, lean over him more. You want the impression of movement without actually moving.”
“That’s not realistic,” I protest. The photographer shoots me a look. Right. This is about convincing the public I’m not a sore loser.
I lower myself farther so that my glove is almost to his waist, and we’re touching, his calf pressed to my thigh. The heat from his body radiates into the already-warm space. Chris must have shaved this morning, but there’s the faint tinge of stubble along his jaw. It’d be slightly rough if I reached out and ran my hand down his face. Or if he rubbed his cheek against my thighs.