Page 39

. . .

November

Offseason

[Vee]

“Hold the elevator.”

My heels clack against the tile floor of the Autumn Hotel’s lobby as I race for the elevator. I can’t wait to take off these shoes and the constricting panties beneath my dress.

A masculine hand grips the closing door, triggering it to re-open, and I skip into the lift. Collapsing against the back wall, I tip up my head and let out a sharp, singular laugh.

I made it .

With my heart racing from the sprint, I’m breathless when I say, “Eleven, please.”

The doors close and I lower my head, giving a cursory glance at my elevator mate and dismissing him. Then I do a double take.

Holy cow! I mean, Holy. Speckled. Cow. Baseball legend Ross Davis is standing in the elevator with me, staring at his phone.

Baseball cap slung low over his eyes. Three-quarter zip shirt.

Dress slacks. Not going to lie. I totally objectify his backside in those pants that curve around his firm ass and outline muscular thighs.

With my back to the interior wall, I plaster myself even tighter to the panel. The gold-colored rail lining the space jabs into my lower spine. My gaze drifts to the shiny chrome bank of floor numbers, finding eleven is the only button glowing.

That isn’t as consequential as the fact I’m standing— alone —with not only a present icon in baseball but someone I have the biggest sport-celebrity crush on.

Some people have book boyfriends. I have a baseball boyfriend.

Ross Davis was the pitcher for the Chicago Anchors when they won the World Championship eight years ago. As a die-hard fan of the royal blue and red, he stood out in the league because of his age. He was thirty-nine back then, making him forty-seven now.

However, I’d recognize him anywhere. Hidden beneath the ball cap on his head is the buzz-cut of salt-and-pepper hair but the beard on his jaw is what distinguishes him.

Silver, gray, and white in an artful blend on a man with a fuller face.

He’s very tall up close with mile-wide shoulders and a solid stance.

Ross Davis as a fantasy in my head is nothing compared to Ross Davis in the flesh. My hands grow clammy, my mouth sticky like caramel corn. My heart rate is slightly more erratic than usual.

When he left the Anchors, he took a year off before becoming manager of the Philadelphia Flash. Neither of us are near our home states as we stand in this elevator in downtown Houston on the final night of the current championship series. The last game of the season for his team.

I’m here for a writers’ conference.

And again, I’m the only person in the elevator with him.

I should say something. Then again, I shouldn’t say anything.

The game was rough. He’s clearly focused on his phone.

He probably doesn’t want to be interrupted.

Definitely does not want to be fangirled over.

Although, since I’m forty-five, I guess I might be called a fan woman .

However, I’m not a ball chaser. The women who toss themselves at baseball players for their fame and status.

Not to mention, any overzealous attention from me might make me look like a stalker.

But I’m absolutely crushing on him.

Suddenly, the elevator jolts. The lights flicker. A grinding sound kathunks , and the lift abruptly stops.

With my fingers clutching the railing behind me, I glance at Ross, who lifts his head, and squints at the electronic square that blinked through the once-ascending numbers.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath. He presses the number eleven, but we are obviously not moving. Next, he jabs at the emergency call button. Nothing happens. We wait in silence. He triple-jabs the offensive button. Poke-poke-poke . Still, nothing.

“Maybe you should use your phone.”

His shoulders stiffen, head lifting higher, before twisting only his upper body to face me. With the device in his hand, he stares at me like he’d forgotten someone else was present.

His eyes narrow before he gazes down at his phone and rapidly types out a message.

With his head bowed, he shakes it side to side. “No service.”

The elevator jolts. My knees buckle and I clutch the railing harder. We seem to rise a few feet and then abruptly halt, rocking the lift .

Dear God, I’m going to die. In an elevator. With Ross Davis .

There could be worse ways to go but plummeting to my death still wasn’t on my bingo card. As we rapidly descend to the end of our lives, I’m going to scream like I’m watching a horror flick, pee myself, and then die in a pool of urine at the feet of Ross Davis.

Graphic. I get it. My overactive imagination is what makes me a great writer.

And the thought of peeing sparks the urge.

No . Just no, no, no . My weak bladder is not allowed to kick in right now.

I. Do. Not. Need. To. Pee.

The mental command only stirs more urgency. My palms sweat on the railing. I can smell the tainted mixture of metal and perspiration. Or maybe that’s me, as my pits are beginning to moisten as if I hadn’t already been a little damp from my race to the elevator.

My pajamas, a lush bed, and a good romance novel were calling my name.

Trapped in an elevator would make a great meet-cute, but this was not romantic.

Peeing myself in front of Ross Davis is not the fluff of fantasies.

Lifting a hand, I fan my face, which has no effect but I’m internally telling myself it helps.

“Are you alright?” Ross asks, finally acknowledging my presence.

“Is it hot in here?” Mother of baseball, this can’t be happening .

On top of the sudden need to pee, panic is setting in, triggering a hot flash.

Not that the scorching-curse can be called forth.

The devilish hormones inside me have a mind of their own and they’ve chosen this moment to strike, adding to my discomfort.

Starting at my shins, heat rises up my body like the vines of the ivy wall in the iconic Chicago Anchor stadium.

My skin goes up in flames. Steam is probably wafting off my flesh.

Ross stares at me as I frantically wave one hand in front of my face while clinging to the railing with my other hand.

The restrictive, uncomfortable, possibly size-too-small spandex I’m wearing is making everything worse.

My stomach is tight, pressing down on my bladder.

Once I shed these control-top panties, I plan to never wear them again.

I bend a little at the knees, clenching my thighs together.

Any second now, the full-on I’ve-got-to-potty dance will commence.

Momentarily, the hot flash is distracting me.

I’m certain the additional heat turns my face Anchor red.

“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

Now that he’s mentioned it . . . “Maybe a little bit.” Are the walls getting closer in here? Is the oxygen lessening?

“Fuck.” He tips back his head and glares at the ceiling for a second before tugging off his baseball cap and rubbing his thick hand over his head.

I have never in my life had a thing for tattooed or nearly bald men until this man.

And with that silvery beard and the winning smile I’ve seen him give a crowd of cameras, he’s panty-melting.

Only I don’t need my panties to melt. I need them to stay intact.

“It will probably only be a few minutes.”

“Yep.” I dig my teeth into my lower lip as I continue the hand-fanning, knee-bending, thigh-clenching dance.

“Rough game tonight,” I add, then mentally curse myself. Now isn’t the time for small talk. In fact, it might be best if he goes back to ignoring my existence and I peacefully die a slow death unacknowledged by him.

“You a baseball fan?” He resettles the cap on his head.

“Go Anchors,” I muster.

“Shit,” he mutters, lowering his head again. He played for our team for six seasons before that record breaking one. We were sad to see him go when he’d announced his retirement after a personal tragedy. He was a worthy coach, though. Players adored him. Front offices respected him.

He lifts his head again, tipping it back to stare at the ceiling. “I miss Chicago.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grasp for something more intelligent to say. “What do you miss?”

His shoulders lift as he inhales deeply. He removes his cap again, scrubs over his head, and replaces the covering once more. “I miss the fans.”

“For baseball,” I interject, dropping my gaze to the Philadelphia logo on his shirt. Of course, he means baseball. Isn’t that the topic?

He tilts his head, confusion scored in his expression. “Yeah.”

“What else do you miss?” Maybe small talk won’t be so bad.

Keep him chatting. Then maybe he’ll ignore the perspiration dampening my neck and the excessive wetness at my pits as I fight through the hot flash, the need to pee, and the onset of my height-phobia which involves additional sweating on my palms and feet.

“Walks along the lakefront in the summer. Hell, even the frigid temps of winter. Although my bones appreciate springtime in Florida.” The Flash’s spring training takes place in the sunshine state.

“Summer in the city is the best.” Still not the most conversational statement but the truth. Chicago has this strange dichotomy of beachfront town and major metropolis divided by a famous highway, still affectionately called Lake Shore Drive.

“Ever done the polar plunge, though?” Ross shivers.

The idea of throwing myself into the frigid winter lake isn’t helping with my need-to-pee emergency.

I cross my legs and bounce once. Ross notices.

His brows cinch tight. He rubs his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, circling his lush-looking lips before drawing them together along the thick edge of his chin.

His eyes are blue which I’ve only ever seen on a screen.

Up close, they are the same royal shade as my beloved baseball team.

“Hello?” A scratchy voice projects through the emergency call speaker.