In It to Win It Book 2

Noah

Six Months Later

“Head down and remember the rules.”

I pop my gum under my teeth. “No eye contact, no talking, no breathing. Got it.”

“I’m bein’ serious, Noah. This ain’t the minors no mo’ and the last thing I feel like doing is holding a presser in the parking lot ’cause you wanna stop to talk to the kids.”

I glance up at my agent. Cocksure with the efficiency of a former pro wide receiver, he hands his phone to the pretty assistant that hasn’t said a word to me since I got in the armored SUV a minute ago.

I snort internally. Armored SUV. Like I’m the fucking POTUS or something. The park is so close to the hotel, I could walk there.

Walking in public. Yet another thing to add to the list of relinquished freedoms.

You ever have those moments where it’s disgustingly inappropriate to laugh at a situation and that alone makes it all the more funny?

That’s how I feel talking to Lysander Smalls about ‘entry and exit protocol’ right now.

I shouldn’t be so difficult. He’s a great agent and a ‘Bama State Alum, which only boosts his cred with me. I don’t trust easy and lord knows I’m twice as difficult.

But none of that matters to me right now. Because in five hours, I become the first woman to start in a major league game.

My stomach lining is so fucked with nerves, I’m about as raw as a sex worker with a five dollar special.

“I could really use an orgasm right now. Or a shot of horse tranquilizer, I’m not picky,” I say in lieu of bursting into hysterics.

Lys doesn’t crack a smile. In fact, the man rarely sports an emotion outside of irritation and indifference. But his large, linebacker shoulders relax a fraction. “Would it make you feel better if I told you, you’re not even the worst I’ve seen?”

The only thing that would make me feel better right now is a joint, but since I’m drug tested so often I’m surprised they haven’t exsanguinated me yet, butterflies on crack it is.

I don’t have to look out the window to know how many people line the perimeter of the ballpark. I can hear them.

Part of me wishes I’d taken his advice and put in the ear plugs, but the only thing worse than the screaming Statesmen fans on the other side of my door is being left with nothing but my own thoughts.

When the noise of the crowd dims after entering the parking garage, my brain runs through my pitiful mission statement for the day.

You already know everyone from spring training. You’re not an imposter. You deserve to be here. Breathe.

Though no matter how many times I say it, the mantra does nothing to quell the threat of my oatmeal making a reappearance.

Lysander’s gaze cuts to me when the SUV rolls to a stop.

“I guess it’s too late to call in sick, huh?”

His eyes soften. “You know I think of you as my little sis, right?”

“Except you’re like . . . old enough to be my dad, so . . .”

“Hey.” He rests a hand on my wrist. “You got this.”

I make a half-hazard attempt at a snort. “I know. One foot in front of the other, like I practiced. Though I don’t know why I couldn’t have just worn sneakers. Pretty sure Louboutin makes those too. Less opportunity for injury.”

“I was talking about the game.”

“Oh, right.”

“Remember—”

“Head down.”

His mouth twitches at the corners—the closest thing to a grin I’ve seen since I signed with him a year ago. “I was going to say, watch Brummer. Seventy-five percent of those hits are line drives straight down the second baseline.”

“We talked about this, Lys. No topping from the bottom.” I look up to see the Statesmen general manager and the owner walking toward us and exhale.

The nerves ratchet several notches. I’m a sweaty mess in this ridiculous dress I can hardly breathe in. My lips feel like a cracked canyon.

But none of that matters, because in five hours, I become the first woman to start in a major league game. Ever.

My door opens and I stand, ready for the world’s most important job interview of all time.

If it was hard to make it to the top, it’ll be impossible to stay.

I guess it’s a good thing I’m no stranger to impossible.

***

The gleaming wood beneath my fingertips is as erotic an experience as it is religious, and the only fully materialized thought I’m capable of in this moment is, Holy fucking hell.

Something about being in here alone, void of medical personnel, players, and clubhouse staff makes it every bit the personal conference with triumph I’d always thought it would be.

I barely hear the rush of blood pounding in my ears or the muffled click of my stupid heels that feel like knives on my feet along the carpet.

As wedded to ritual as a postseason pitcher with a rosary, I hold my breath as my curious fingers migrate toward the nameplate.

My nameplate.

Only this time, I’m not an island resting amidst the chaos of revolving doors of men, misogyny, and egos.

I am quite literally playing with the big boys now, and that’s a near-orgasmic revelation. A nauseating one every time I think about it.

As of this morning, it became official. For the foreseeable future—thanks to a poorly-placed one-hundred-two-mile-per-hour pitch to three of his carpus bones—I’m second baseman for the Atlanta Statesmen.

The thought makes my stomach lurch with both excitement and regret.

It’s one thing to be called up after a player is hurt. It’s another when that player is Michael Foster Jr.

Coincidentally, my new locker buddy.

Dread seeps into my bones like exhaustion as a horrendous thought filters through. What happens when he finally does come off the injured list?

My hands tremble slightly. I shake them out.

Don’t think about that. You’re the one they called up. You’re the one playing today. Act like it.

Except I can’t. Because the idea that two months from now I might go from sitting a ruler’s distance from my favorite active baseball player back to changing in barricaded restroom stalls is depressing as fuck.

How do you even think those kinds of thoughts? Hey, sorry, I’m hoping you never take your job back. Can I get your autograph?

Even still, I can’t help the stretch of my lips and the consequential lump in my throat as my gaze passes over the crisp white Jersey hanging from the cubby.

Atlanta in bright red script outlined in navy blue. I turn it. ALLEN blocked across the top, subheading the number thirteen.

Though most would consider me a Boston girl through and through, my dad had been from Atlanta. He’d met my mom playing in the minors in the Boston farm system.

After just two major league appearances with the Lumberjacks and six more seasons in Triple A, he’d decided to call it quits for good to be around for my sisters, but he’d grown up watching the Statesmen. Grown up loving this team. This game.

I was an accident six years after he’d retired, and subsequently, became his favorite child. Mom refuses to admit it, but it’s the truth. My father was my best friend and the reason I got into baseball in the first place.

Two weeks shy of my twelfth birthday, it was nothing more than a hobby to me. A means to fill the boring summer days with productivity as my academic responsibilities had ceased.

I’d had dreams of becoming an aeronautical engineer. I was obsessed with the inner workings of planes, cars, boats—anything that moved. And my love of all things space had compounded that obsession.

After Dad’s funeral, baseball became the medium I used to talk to him, to keep his memory alive, and ultimately, his dream.

“You would flip your shit, old man,” I murmur into the silence.

I glance behind me to make sure no one else is here. Knowing I have a couple of hours until this clubhouse is crawling with players and employees, my curiosity gets the better of me.

I tiptoe over to Michael Foster Jr.’s—yes, you have to say his whole name, he’s a whole name kind of player—locker and hold my hands to keep from touching anything.

Surely it’s not a crime to just look.

The cubby is mostly empty. His jersey hangs from the hook at the top like all of the others do, but a small photograph is taped to the back of the rectangular cubicle.

I take a step closer to see the photo, bracing my hands on the sides for balance.

At close distance, it appears to be of a woman in her early forties with a stunning mass of curls and a dimpled smile. She has her arm wrapped around a girl no older than ten in a wheelchair.

Both of them are wearing glasses, smiling for the photographer the way you do when it’s someone you love behind the camera.

It’s the only picture in the vacant space.

I don’t miss that there doesn’t seem to be a single one of his father.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I nearly exit my skin, standing abruptly, almost clipping my forehead on one of the shelves.

Humiliation rolls through me at once when I whip around to face the owner of that deep, irritated voice.

I gulp, tilting my head back to meet the angry gaze of none other than Michael Foster Jr. himself.

Fuck.

Before I can open my mouth to explain myself, he points toward his cubby.

“Who let you up here? Reporters aren’t allowed in the clubhouse until after the game or during tour hours.”

Frozen in place by my earlier chagrin, I barely register his words. But then I do, and frown.

But it’s not even the excuse-the-fuck-out-of-me-sir frown, but the pouty, disappointed kind that’ll probably set the feminists back a generation.

Nothing comes out of my mouth.

Until—oh God—it does.

“Actually, I don’t think I could survive sports reporting. I’m more of a numbers girl. I suppose I could try my hand as an analyst, though, if this plan goes tits up.”

I thrust my hand forward, too quickly and awkwardly to be cool. “I’m Noah. Is it hot in here?”

His thick, arched brows furrow at first, but I notice the spark of recognition in those tawny brown eyes immediately. They dart to the cubby with my name on it and back to me. He at least has the decency to look apologetic.

He clears his throat. “Shit. My bad. You, um, look . . . different.”

“Oh. Yeah, I don’t usually wear my hair straight.” My hand instinctively grabs a random lock of it.

Fuck, why am I an idiot all of the sudden?

“Why are you in my locker?” he asks, not sounding any less irritated now that he knows I’m not partaking in any unethical snooping in the name of exploitation.

I balk like a seventh grader on the mound, dropping my hand. “Searching for my voodoo doll. Can never be too careful these days.”

The problem with there being no witnesses to this encounter? No one to save me from myself, apparently.

Michael Foster Jr. raises a brow at me like I’m a few points shy of an acceptable IQ, but before I can stammer out something more embarrassing than I already have, he completes a slow, scrutinizing scan of my body.

Though it’s more clinical than anything. Assessing.

I don’t know if I’m scared, turned on, nervous, or some lightheaded combination of them all. This feels surreal.

Not the blackout, did-that-even-happen surreal of seeing your name in agate for the first time, or you know, being told you’re finally playing in a major league game. But rather a more normal experience.

The kind I’ve very carefully kept myself from having for twenty-five years.

The feminine kind.

Stop it. Stop it right now, Noah.

“Oh, come on,” I start, filling the awkward silence. “If I were a ten-year-old kid right now, you would totally understand my snooping. Which can hardly be considered snooping because you don’t even have anything to snoop through.

“Not that I was planning on touching anything, but you know . . . ” I wave my hand in circles before settling on honesty. “I was . . . curious.”

This earns me another Is this chick for real? look, and Michael Foster Jr. crosses his arms over his chest.

Against every instinct I have, I fight not to notice the attention that simple action draws to his biceps.

“Well, Curious, it looks like they gave you your own.” He jerks his chin toward it and I realize I’m still blocking his way.

“Shit, right. Sorry.”

But instead of going to my own locker, I make the smarter decision.

I run out of the clubhouse instead.