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But then it happens—I notice the gorgeous woman I helped out of her car.

She’s with another woman, the same friend she arrived with, standing at a high table a short ways away, those loose curls floating around her shoulders that sparkle with metallic sequins.

My thoughts hit a tripwire. My feet continue to shuffle but my brain hasn’t moved on.

As we approach, I peer around Tripp to get another look.

Her long blonde hair caught my attention, but her dark hooded eyes are deep and soulful and captivating, and .

. . and she’s watching me. I’m staring directly at her and she notices.

Her grin stretches across her face. I freeze.

And then I wink.

Tripp slows and of fucking course he catches me making a damn fool of myself. He snickers. “Fucking hell, Murph, did you just wink? ”

“The fuck did I just do?” I murmur out the side of my mouth as I ease around him and into position on the far side of Bear. The point I can watch her from. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability, and of course Tripp can’t let it go .

“If you’re asking me, I say you just made a fool of yourself.

Barrett looks around the table, brows lowered like he can’t figure out the problem.

“Don’t worry about it. I do it all the time.”

Tripp slaps him upside the head. And please God, is there any way to kill this conversation right fucking now?

Apparently not, as Samson removes his nose from his inside jacket pocket and chimes in with, “Don’t worry about it. If the woman follows baseball at all, she’ll show up at our table before she leaves.”

Bear waggles his eyebrows. “They always do.”

This is true. Events such as this bleed Botox and lip fillers, and overly aggressive women on the hunt for a new last name. And though my girl from out on the portico didn’t seem on the prowl, what do I even know about her? The woman is hot, but do I even care about that if she’s only a groupie?

It’s a Tuesday night and we’re all wearing tuxes, but if she’s looking to score big, she’s going to have to keep looking—somewhere I’m not.

I strip off my jacket and roll up my shirt sleeves in an attempt to blend in as much as my six-foot-five stature will allow. Tonight, it must be nice to be Barrett.

A server stops by with a tray of some kind of hors d’oeuvre that does not look like anything on our diet plans, and since we’re with Tripp—the big boss for the evening—he asks if we’d like to order drinks too.

I’m sticking with OJ because fuck, workout is gonna come early tomorrow and I haven’t been a twenty something in a whole lot of years.

Barrett orders a mimosa flight like we’re at the fucking brunch we traded up from.

He good-naturedly endures the expected-slash-mandatory amount of shit we pile on, but he stands firm.

Dude’s made the show and he drinks nothing but Champagne. You gotta admire the balls.

Judd Samson thinks he’s cute and sends a few dad jokes in my direction.

He must have them pre-loaded on his phone because he delivers them rapid-fire.

A few of them are actually funny, and they avoid commenting about Natalie directly, so I let him spout off.

Someone will clue him in that every party doesn’t need a clown. Doesn’t need to be me.

But then he orders a Glenlivet neat like he’s some geezer in a pub, wearing an ascot and puffing on a Cohiba. The kid’s barely twenty-one. I just close my eyes and look away.

The server comes back with our drinks, and slides them from his tray to the table before moving away.

Samson puts his glass to his lips, and then proceeds to cough up a lung.

I manage to kick Tripp under the table without getting my foot tangled in the tablecloth and signal him to lock that shit down.

He gets me immediately and turns to Judd with an exasperated scowl.

“Samson, can you keep the dumbfuckery to a minimum, just for today? You puke any of that up and you’re gonna find yourself back to pitching in the short season.” Then he turns to me and murmurs the same complaint I’ve heard every season for the past seven years. “Jesus, them newbies are idiots.”

Just baby idiots. I waggle my head because I have to agree. They still have a lot to learn about baseball and managing the life. It’s my experience that those who play well and let the celebrity go to their heads have a good chance of growing into full-size idiots.

Tripp shakes his head. “Remind me of this conversation if I ever start talking about kids. Now, walk with me before someone sees me standing still.”

“Kids? Where’d that come from?” I pick up my glass about the same time his phone goes off again.

He pulls it out of his jacket with a snarl. “Fucking thing doesn’t stop.”

I give him a little shove. “It’s your night. Go be the guy.”

He takes off, but doesn’t really seem mad about it .

I’d positioned myself strategically so I could keep part of my attention on the beauty at the next table, hoping to get a read on her intentions.

She’s like a freaking wild pitch, coming from out of nowhere and upending my normally orderly thoughts.

She and her friend seem to be having quite the conversation, too, based on their body language.

And with each change in nuance, I become more and more intrigued.

What are they discussing so seriously? While we’ve been noshing on carbs and pork fat—which the rookies ordered and we will regret tomorrow—my girl’s gone from seeming sad and frustrated to chuckling and wolfing down mini tacos while slamming her second whatever the fuck pink concoction that is.

And now her friend’s peeking around to our table, and they’re motioning to each other with their hands, and .

. . oh hell, I know that gesture. They’re talking about sex. My stomach bottoms out.

Intrigued doesn’t begin to cover the way I feel now.

The loud buzz of conversation echoes all around us, but the discussion at the next table has my rapt attention and I’m fully alert, paying zero mind to the zingers being hurled around our own table like third out attempts from short to first. Samson tosses another joke my way and my temper spikes at the intrusion.

I absentmindedly catch his ridiculousness and lob back a quipped response, but I’ve lost all interest in the antics going on here.

I tear my gaze back to the girls. Just give me a minute to come up with an excuse to visit their table and . . . and . . . Fuck! She’s not there anymore. She’s gone! I whip my head around to find her.

The noise level at my table rises and I’m vaguely aware of a barrage of questions coming from the guys.

Those questions are easy enough to ignore.

One word breaks through my concentration, though, and that’s cameras .

Not only is Cheyenne on duty, but the press follows us every-fucking- where, and even when we catch a moment that seems like privacy, overeager podcasters and influencers are there with their cell phones.

I resume my place—and my chill—before I’m a TMZ clip tomorrow, captioned by an ambitious staff writer with a pithy comment undoubtedly meant to draw a response. Something like What did the old guy lose this time?

With my gut twisted in a knot I have a hard time understanding—and certainly don’t want to explain—I peer around for a sign of her.

I don’t see her at the exit, or at the nearest bar.

I turn the other way and catch a glimpse of sparkling navy blue.

She’s walking toward a short hallway across the room, where the restrooms are located.

Something about the idea of meeting this girl seems destined.

This time, when I turn from the table to follow her, I’m focused, and going with my gut.

The area is isolated. Quiet. No wannabe sports journalist lying in wait. I can work with that.

READ: Curveball by Ruthie Hendrick