Chapter Twelve

Josie

I wasn’t going to have any voice left the next day, but I didn’t care. I was screaming my heart out for the Warriors as they smashed the Cougars into the ground. Mostly thanks to Trey and his three home runs. Each time he knocked it out of the park, I went crazy and jumped to my feet, dancing in my seat. I knew the first two were for me. The third…well, that was Trey showing off—also for me. I couldn’t help but notice that right before he got into position, he’d scan the crowd, and then he’d search again as he rounded the bases.

He was looking for me. And I was both thrilled and terrified to let him find me!

There was something insanely sexy about his cock-of-the-walk routine. What had infuriated me at first, now had me squirming in my seat—in wet panties! He made the Warriors uniform look damn good. Each time the cameras zoomed in on him, I nibbled my lower lip and tried to stop the shivers of anticipation that ran up and down my spine, just knowing that in a few hours, I’d see him face to face again.

As I rushed out of my seat to make it to the press conference, I dodged some pretty nasty Cougars fans and my cheeks went hot. Apparently they hadn’t appreciated my enthusiasm during the game. Damn, I had Warriors media tags clipped to my shirt. What did they expect?

I made my way through the sea of angry fans, grumbling their frustrations to one another, trying to get to the media pit in time to get a good spot in the front. I might not have the exclusive yet, but I could be front and center and ask the right questions. It would be a little preview to tide over my impatient boss—who had already texted and emailed me several times to check my progress.

If I played my cards right, I knew I could get Trey to agree to the interview. I was already on better terms with him than ninety-nine percent of the sports media. He liked me and I was confident I could wait it out and swoop in at just the right moment.

The media were already crowded around the table where the Cougars’ team captain and coach would appear—once they got done sulking, that is—and I hurried by on my way to the visiting team locker room on the opposite end. The hallways were for staff only and I moved much quicker, flashing my media badge to anyone who looked my way. I belong here, I thought to myself, smiling and showing the plastic credentials with a new swell of pride.

It was far from my dream job, but it was a helluva lot more exciting than waiting in line at Starbucks day in and day out, catering to the bitchy high-maintenance weather girl and dodging the lewd comments of the lead anchor all the damn time. I was important. Needed. With my head held high, my shoulders thrust back, and a confident smile, I rounded the final corner.

Then immediately screeched to a halt.

“Damn it,” I growled. Everyone and their mother was gathered outside the doors. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who wanted to get Trey’s time and attention. I ran my fingers through my hair, fluffing my loose curls and licked my lips.

Chatter and buzz filled the room and the reporters all wedged in even tighter as the new arrivals came. I ended up squashed up against a heavyset man in a pit-stained polo. Thankfully—or, maybe not—he was wearing a bottle full of cologne and I couldn’t smell anything other than his expensive fragrance. I coughed and tried to scoot away, only to get trampled on by a tall woman with buxom curves, hair so bleached out it nearly looked transparent, and a floral scent that clashed horribly with the sweaty man. I ducked out of the way as she planted herself front and center, and skulked off to the other side. The air was clearer, but from my new vantage point, I could barely see the doors to the locker room. There was no way that Trey—or any of the other team members or coaches—were even going to see me.

The metal doors kicked open and the coach filed out, followed closely by Trey and Cody Wright—the other all-star of the game, having pitched three strikeouts in a row—and I frantically pushed at the people ahead of me to try and get to the front. But it was no use. The other reporters seemed used to this pushing and shoving and didn’t budge an inch.

I sighed and grabbed my phone from my pocket to record some notes. I still had to turn something in, even if I ended up regurgitating things other reporters would be asking.

The questions fired off, the volume of the hallway instantly going from a dull roar, to deafening.

“Trey, are you going for a sixth year as the home run champ?”

“Cody, tell us how you got in the zone tonight?”

“Coach, it really looked like this duo could be the magic sauce, how are you going to keep this going?”

“What can we expect to see tomorrow night against the Wasps?”

Coach Robinson raised his hands and started picking and choosing from the sea of questions.

I raised my stylus into the air, hoping to catch his eye. “Trey! Mr. Delgado! Can you—ooph!” I got elbowed by another reporter as they jockeyed for position and the wind knocked right out of me.

The man mumbled a quick apology over his shoulder before asking his question.

“We have found the winning ticket here with these two gentlemen,” Coach Robinson said, tackling the questions as they flooded in.

I tried to get around the rude reporter, even going so far as to wave my hand up over his head, but it was pointless. I was stuck in a gridlock, unable to move or get my questions answered. After ten minutes of questions, Coach announced the team had to get ready to fly out to Seattle. There wasn’t any more time. He thanked everyone and they took off. By the time the crowd broke loose, I caught sight of Trey as he was walking in the other direction, his attention focused on a quiet conversation with his coach.

“Damn it,” I growled, stuffing my phone back into my pocket.

Mr. Jones was going to kill me.

* * * *

“Yes, sir, I know…I was trying—”

“Trying? Josie, what the hell is trying? Now, not only do we not have the interview, but we don’t even have coverage of this amazing, everyone-won’t-shut-up-about-it game!”

My cheeks flushed and I stormed back across the hotel room. I wanted to point out that maybe this is why he should have sent a proper sports reporter on the road with the team, instead of me, but figured that argument wouldn’t win me any points. Not that I could get much deeper in the shit pile…

“I talked to him off camera,” I added, hoping to spin the conversation.

“Was it on the record?”

I winced. “No…not exactly.”

“Then it’s worthless to me!” Mr. Jones roared.

I dropped down onto my bed. My hotel accommodations in Seattle were slightly nicer than in Denver, but I was still not living at The Plaza. After a red eye flight and a pre-dawn check in, all I wanted to do was curl up under the hopefully bedbug free comforter and crash out. My mind had raced all the way from Denver to Seattle and prevented much more than a cat nap on the flight. At the airport, I’d hung around, hoping to catch Trey, but I didn’t know what time their flight was arriving and after half an hour, I left for my hotel.

“I’ll get something. After the Seattle game. I promise.”

“You better, Josie. I really thought you could do this. I had to pitch it to the station owners to get the budget approved…there’s a lot on the line here.”

I sighed and pressed my eyes closed against the throbbing pulse in the back of my head. “I understand, sir. I won’t let you down.”

Mr. Jones clicked off the call and I tossed my phone down on the bed beside me. No interview. No post game segment. And no sign of Trey.

“Maybe Daddy was right,” I whispered, flopping back against the stack of flat pillows. “Maybe this is just a wild goose chase. Maybe what I want doesn’t even exist.”

I had the day off. The game wasn’t until the following afternoon. A Saturday double-header. I had no idea where the Warriors were staying, and I wasn’t about to call Jones again. Why couldn’t he keep me updated? I couldn’t stumble into every hotel bar and hope to run into Trey again.

I laughed at the idea. “Then he’d really think I was stalking him…”

I pushed off the bed, tucked my phone away in the bedside drawer, and shucked out of my jeans and tee shirt. I showered, toweled off, and fell into bed once the blackout shades were drawn. One thing was clear, I was worthless to the world until I had some sleep.

Hours later, a soft knocking sound drew me out of my heavy sleep. Luckily, I was so exhausted, my subconscious gave me a night off from fantasizing about Trey. But as soon as my eyes opened, he popped into my mind.

“That’s irritating,” I mumbled to myself before pushing up out of bed. I threw on my cotton robe and went to the door.

After a quick check in the peephole, I opened the door and greeted the concierge on the other side. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I have a delivery for you.”

“A delivery?” I repeated, my brows furrowed together.

He nodded and presented me with a small, white box. “Yes, ma’am. Here you are.”

“Thank…you…” I said, taking it from him. “Oh, um, let me get my purse…”

The concierge flushed at my offer of a tip and waved his hand. “No need, ma’am, it’s all taken care of.”

“Oh! Okay. Well, thank you, again.”

He gave a small nod and started off toward the elevators. As soon as he was out of sight, I went back inside my room and let the door shut behind me. I sat down on the bed and popped the lid off the glossy box. I flung a hand up to cover my mouth when I saw the contents. A little giggle burst out anyway and I shook my head.

Inside, a busted up baseball lay surrounded by white tissue paper.

A note accompanied the battered ball:

Hey sexy lady, this one’s for you.

Wow. That was sweet—and bold. Sexy lady, hah! It was such a sweet gesture, it started to pick away at the assumptions I’d been holding onto since Trey Delgado first crossed my radar. Maybe there was more to him than the media portrayed.

But if that were true…it changed everything.

I smashed the lid back on the box and tucked it into the drawer with my phone. No, it didn’t change anything. Trey was nothing more than a story and that’s how it had to stay. I couldn’t let myself get tripped up by stories of the house in Florida that he bought for his parents, or the sweet way he’d insisted on walking me to my hotel, the vivid dreams of what it would be like to spend the night with him—or even the damn baseball.

I would not be the stupid fangirl that’d fall for some hopelessly out of reach famous baseball player and throw her entire life away to chase some stupid fairy tale.

Or would I?