I sat in the stands of a small baseball field on the South Side of Chicago. I kept staring at Jake instead of the game. Shockingly, he’d been absorbing most of my PR lectures as best he could while he’d been out of town. His slight shift in mood had surprised me, but I didn’t mind it.

Meanwhile, I’d been working hard at the office, along with Amy, and doing my best to tame the uproar of his Friday night fight. Most of my day was spent either helping out on other accounts and sending my ideas to Steve for review, or looking at all the crap that came up about Jake and figuring out ways to counter it, which I’d then present to my stubborn client. But I had to admit that he was really listening to what I was saying. Did he follow it? Not always, but I was getting results. And Steve was finally off my back.

Today I’d released several more follow-up statements on Jake’s behalf about not condoning violence and stating that he’d acted too rashly. These had been posted on the Jaguars’ website and given to any media outlet that wanted them. Then Jake posted the statements on most of his social media platforms. That had appeased some of the masses, but not all. It helped that he’d played a squeaky clean series in Jacksonville and that his interviews had been spot on. He did a little joking, as was his way, but he was also serious about winning and had talked about how proud he was of his teammates. He didn’t comment on Grant, but he also didn’t really apologize for it either. He evaded.

With his assault charge taken care of as of this afternoon, it was fading into the background. The Bulldogs’ PR machine was keeping it tame on their end, and it wasn’t being played on ESPN every hour on the hour. It was still on TMZ’s front page, though, but for once, the trash site had worked in Jake’s favor, because their spin was that Grant had started it by attacking me. I wasn’t named, thankfully, since most of the shots and videos were of poor quality and you couldn’t make out my face, but a lot of the comments from viewers sided with Jake. Finally, things were looking up.

If only I could get Jake to let me talk up his coaching gig. He was so great at it.

It was a warm summer evening, and it made me think of softball games I played when I was a kid. There weren’t very many parents in the stands for this night game, which wasn’t entirely surprising to me since we were in a blue-collar urban area where the majority of kids came from broken homes and had parents who worked two or more jobs to make ends meet.

Jake towered over all of the little players as he stood in the first base coaching box.

It was nice to not have to be secretly watching him from the parking lot this time.

“Eye on the ball, be aggressive at the plate. Don’t overthink it,” Jake shouted to Tate and clapped.

The pitch came, and Tate hit the ball right on the sweet spot of the bat. The metal clink reverberated throughout the park. Cheers erupted in the dugout as he raced the ball to the outfield.

“Nice hit, Tate!” I shouted. I got up off the bleachers and leaned over the chain-link fence to snap a few pictures of Jake and Tate as they high-fived. Jake had to crouch down to meet the little man’s palm, and as Jake extended his hand, Tate had an ear-to-ear smile on his face. Jake was still wearing his Jaguars’ jersey from the game earlier, and both his and Tate’s jerseys had the number 24 on them.

A rush of emotion came over me as I watched Jake give Tate a pat on the shoulder and tell him to get his head back in the game. Who was the real Jake Napleton, anyway?

Was it this man who was donating his time to coach kids in an area so poor, nobody noticed (or maybe nobody cared) that a top-tier celebrity was coaching their kids? Or maybe they respected Jake so much since he was from here that they had an unspoken agreement not to make these games a paparazzi-fest.

Was the real Jake the frat boy, beer-pong champion of Chicago?

Or maybe the real Jake was the star pitcher who was on pace to have the most no-hitters of anyone since Nolan Ryan.

And then there was the other version of The Big Unit, the one that I had gotten to know briefly this past Friday.

I couldn’t piece the parts that I knew about Jake together quite yet, but I wanted to. Jake and I were beginning to understand each other. He didn’t see me as the enemy, and I no longer saw him as the cocky, bad boy of baseball. Well, mostly. He did have a temper, and it flared on occasion, but he didn’t let it get out of control. On the mound with Grant and in the bar last Friday, he’d been angry and he’d shown it. But Jake hadn’t scared me the way Grant had scared me. Jake was impulsive, yes, but after that initial reaction, he was over it. He wasn’t violent for the sake of being violent.

The next kid up to bat struck out, and before I knew it, the game was over. On cue, the kids rushed off the field and into their respective dugouts. I cracked up at hearing the chant that Jake’s kids cried: “Pi-zza! Pi-zza!”

Win or lose, there was usually pizza. Why couldn’t real life be more like that?

A few minutes later, a guy walked toward the field from the parking lot, carrying a huge red hot-bag.

The kids cheered as he came into their sightline. But before pizza, Jake had the boys tidy up and gather some of the equipment into the dugout. Then one of those boys, along with a man who looked like his dad, took two huge equipment bags to their car. I’d noticed how some of the equipment looked new, and there was a lot of it. The jerseys, I’d also noted, were official Little League uniforms. This sport was not cheap. Game uniforms easily cost a hundred bucks. Then the equipment, balls, bats, cleats, hats, gloves—it all added up fast. I wondered if they’d been donated, or if Jake was the sole donor.

Jake and the few parents or guardians that had shown up for the game helped set up in the dugout and made the boys stand in an orderly line before they rushed the pizzas and water bottles. The kids scattered around the field, and Jake even invited the opposing team to eat some pizza.

I snapped a few more candid photos as the kids and Jake scarfed down pieces like they hadn’t eaten for days. From the looks of some of them, and the way they attacked their food, I realized that it was quite possible that some hadn’t eaten in a while, and I found that incredibly sad.

I went through my iPhone’s Photo Stream. These would make some damn good Instagram pictures. If only Jake would be okay with me putting these up on his social media accounts or releasing them to some media outlets with a quick caption.

Jake walked over to the chain-link fence where I was standing. “You ever not working?” he asked, sighing.

I took a page from his playbook and deflected. “I saw a kid and his dad take all the equipment to their car,” I said. “What’s that about?”

“Yeah, that was Jackson and his old man.” He gave me a cagey look while I patiently waited for him to continue. “Okay. Don’t blow this out of proportion, cuz it’s not a big deal…” he began, wary. “But I have the kids rotate taking the team’s equipment home for a month. It’s their responsibility to clean and maintain while they have it, then bring it to practices and games. They make a big deal out of who gets chosen. Makes ‘em feel important. Plus they get a kick out of having the equipment with them. They can practice with it.”

“A lot of it’s new,” I remarked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

“And their uniforms?”

He shrugged, so casually. “A lot of families can’t afford it. But a lot of families have pride and do what they can. I fill in the gaps if they let me. Besides, can’t play ball without the necessary tools, right?”

“Right,” I said, amazed and surprised again by this man. I raised my phone and took a picture of his face, maybe a portrait of him for myself. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either. Just relaxed, a little.

“You know, I specifically volunteer here so that I don’t have to deal with the paparazzi,” he said with his trademark smirk. He turned his baseball cap backwards and wiped the sweat off his face with the collar of his undershirt. Jake had a constant five o’clock shadow, and I had to admit, he fit into this setting really well. I snapped another picture. He scowled then laughed.

“Don’t tell me that’s your only reason?” I teased, putting my phone away. For now. “Avoiding the paparazzi?”

“Nah. It’s fun, and it makes me feel good. Reminds me of when I was a kid, and I kinda like revisiting it. It’s a normal thing to do, you know?” He got serious again as he looked back on the field, then back to me as Tate trotted toward us. “But seriously, Andrea, I don’t want paparazzi to ruin the game for these kids. I care about them a lot, and I don’t want my world bleeding into theirs any more than it already has.”

“Hey Coach, what’s pa-pa-par-az-zi?” Tate asked, peeping his head over the fence.

“Uh, paparazzi are a bunch of people who like taking pictures of celebrities and famous people.”

Tate looked puzzled. “Like famous people that are on the news?”

“Right.” I smiled down at him.

“My cousin got on the news the other night,” Tate said, a little quizzically. “He got shot in the arm. But he’s not famous.”

I stared at him, shocked at how casually he had said that. “Oh my God! Is he okay?”

“Yeah. He’s fine.” Tate shrugged. “It happens a lot here.”

I looked at Jake, his expression grim. “These kids are so desensitized to violence, it’s just as normal as the rain,” he said. “It’s always been that way around here. Now that I’ve been away from it for so long, I’d forgotten how accepting I was about it at Tate’s age.”

“That’s horrible…” I whispered. “What can we do?”

He shook his head, his eyes sweeping around to take in the field and the boys laughing and having a fun time. I think I knew what he was thinking, that some of these boys wouldn’t make it to adulthood, or would end up like Fred. He looked back at me. “I wish I knew the answer to that, Andrea. I think everybody wishes they knew the answer to that. But the truth is, I wish I could do something about it myself.”

“Jake,” I said softly, threading my fingers through the chain-link fence. “You already are. Don’t you see that?” I looked down at Tate and the field of happy boys and their smiling family members.

He averted his gaze, not accepting the truth for some reason. “This is…such a small gesture. Changes nothing, not really.”

“You’re wrong.”

“If you say so…”

“Think about Hank, about how he took his time with you…about all the people that had a part in your life that meant something to you, however small.”

He blinked a few times and didn’t answer for several long minutes. “Maybe you have a point…”

I wasn’t sure he totally believed me, but there was a look in his eyes that I found encouraging. “You’re Jake Napleton, star pitcher of the Chicago Jaguars,” I reminded him, watching his quiet profile. “That means something to the public, to the media. You know how powerful that can be. An image says a lot. Perception is about what you put out there, or don’t. People pay attention to you, whether you like it or not. You could redirect that to something positive, like shedding light on the lives of the people in this area. Start a meaningful conversation.”

Jake just sighed. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“Yeah,” I said, agreeing. “It is. But you’re not afraid of anything…are you?”

He gave a ghost of a smile at my challenge, but it was a genuine one, and it made my breath catch a little. I liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkled just a little bit, how soft and intense they were as he gazed at me. How does one look, one simple smile, make me feel like I’m close to him without touching him? Like our connection…was something more?

“Coach, is your girlfriend going to come to all of our games now?” Tate asked, breaking our moment.

Jake was clearly not expecting that question from an eight-year old, and for once in his cocky life, he hesitated, seemingly unsure how to respond.

Tate walked around to my side of the chain-link fence. “I like it when you come to games.” He gave me something I was totally not ready for, or expecting: a hug. He ran back as fast as possible as though worried I’d give him cooties. “Well?” he demanded, looking up at Jake. I did too.

“Well...Andrea’s…” Jake started, haltingly, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing down at Tate’s expectant face. “Um…we’re definitely good friends, and she is a girl, so…”

I smiled. Good friends. I liked that, actually, but I swear, he was blushing. I’d noticed that when he had trouble finding his words around me, he avoided looking at me.

“You don’t like her?” Tate fired back, frowning. “I like her!”

“Well, no. Er, yes, but...” Jake’s eyes darted to mine for a second, maybe for help, but I didn’t bother jumping in. Jake could save himself, I was sure.

I cocked my head, smiling even bigger as Jake continued to struggle with his answer, and I reveled at something amazing—at how great he was with a bunch of high-energy eight-year olds. He clearly loved kids. Why spend so much time with them if you didn’t? And he was so patient with each of the boys, and they all looked up to him. Jake may not want to be a role model to anybody, but it was too late, he already was to these boys.

Had I finally found the playboy’s weak spot? Kids?

My heart fluttered, considering the idea that the sexiest man alive might also make a good father someday. As soon as the thought hit my brain, however, I instantly shook it off, thinking about how much of a crazy woman I was being. For God’s sake, I was wondering what kind of a dad Jake would make, and we hadn’t even fully slept with each other yet. The fact that I was thinking about Jake as the father of my kids was a huge stretch at this point. But an interesting thought.

Yeah. I was melting. And I couldn’t even blame the sun since it was almost 8 p.m. Maybe I’d just blame it on the moon anyway. A rush of warmth flooded me as Jake left me for a few minutes to talk to each of the boys and their parents before heading back to me. He grinned, and his face radiated happiness as our eyes locked. Just like when he’d first seen me at Marseille Club. Pure joy.

I couldn’t deny it. Jake had pulled me into his hot orbit, and I had to have him. I had to have all of him.

“Diggs. So are you down to meet up at Charlie’s Bar at like nine? I just have to take this little squirt home and I’ll head over.” He noogied the kid as he spoke. Tate squealed and I laughed, the happiest I’d been in a while. They reminded me of my how my brothers would play around, and I missed that. Just playing around, no harm, no foul.

“Sounds good!” I said, grinning. “I just have to stop at home and change real quick.”

“Andrea. It’s a casual, honest-to-God place, not like the f—not like the darn Marseille Club.”

Jake choosing not to swear so as not to corrupt a kid? It was settled, kids were his Achilles heel.

Tate stood right next to Jake, practicing his baseball swing with no bat in his hands. “Hey Tate,” Jake said. “I need a big strong guy to help with the cleanup. You got it?”

“Yeah!” Tate did a strong man pose, kissed his tiny little eight-year old biceps, and then sprinted to the dugout as fast as he possibly could. Jake and I both couldn’t help but crack up.

“Works every time,” Jake said, taking a step closer to me so our bodies were just touching through the fence. “Like I was saying, Charlie’s Bar keeps it real. It’s run by…you guessed it, a guy named Charlie.” He leaned his face in, inches from my ear. “And I, for one, think you look damn sexy in your jeans and white T-shirt.”

His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, then gradually lowered themselves down my face before landing on my necklace and the cross pendant that rested just above my breasts. I felt as though his eyes had the power to jumpstart my heart into the hundred-beats-a-minute range. So unfair.

“It’s starting to get a little chilly,” I said. “I wanted to stop and get a jacket.”

“I have the perfect solution for you,” Jake said and began to unbutton his black-and-green jersey. “Wear this.”

I exhaled. In middle school, Grant had given me his favorite lucky jersey. Back then, he hadn’t been bad, but he morphed into the man I rediscovered in college. It hadn’t been fate that we’d both ended up at Tennessee State. Just bad luck. “Uh,” I hedged, feeling weird about such a harmless gesture. “I’m not wearing your used jersey.”

“Used?” He gave me a surprised look. “I hardly moved. And I’m a light sweater even so.”

I paused and stared at him. The shirt was already halfway unbuttoned. Jake wore a white T-shirt underneath that had a hard time containing his big chest muscles and biceps.

Somehow, I wanted the way I started with Jake to be different with than it had been with Grant, and that damn jersey was an omen. Stupid, but superstitions were part of the ball game. “I’m okay.” I smiled at him. “I don’t a need a shirt to keep me warm…”

I just need you…

“As you wish,” he said, shrugging. He smiled evilly. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget the rubbers this time.”

“Coach, what about rubbers?” Tate was right behind him, and we hadn’t even noticed.

Jake’s face was hilarious. He wasn’t used to getting caught off guard, which Tate seemed to continuously do. “Oh, I, uh, wanted to ask if you got the pitching rubber off the mound?”

I bit back a laugh as Tate gave him a confused look. “Nah, Coach, we leave that here. The rubber is connected to the dirt. It doesn’t come out.”

“Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking…”

“You’re crazy, Coach,” Tate said, patting Jake on the arm gingerly like he was losing it. “I like you, but you crazy sometimes.”

Crazy but likeable. That was as succinct a summary of Jake as I had heard from anyone.

Maybe Tate should be the one handling Jake’s social media campaign.