Page 30 of For The Ring

My bedroom is only a few steps away and, bad knees or not, I can still do this just fine, easing her down to the mattress.

For a moment and then another, she holds tight, pulling me down toward her and I hold firm, stock still until her arms slide away and fall.

Letting out a sigh of . . . well, not relief exactly, but something near it, I stand back.

While the Pacific spanning the windows just beyond the cliff face is pretty good, it’s easily beaten by Francesca Sullivan in my bed, her long blonde hair spilling across my pillow, her soft curves tempting my hands to explore every peak and valley until she’s writhing with the torture of it, her fingers curling into my sheets, her voice echoing up into the ceiling.

She lets out a little groan and I frown down at her before reaching over and, without my hands drifting to anywhere she hasn’t said they’re welcome, I gently unbutton her suit jacket because there’s no way that’s comfortable to sleep in, and then I pull the covers over her while she burrows into the pillow immediately.

Good, that’s better than the couch. She’ll get some rest and I’ll order us some food while she sleeps even as I slowly go mad at the idea that, when I go to bed tonight, it’ll smell of her.

I might never wash my sheets again.

Gross, but potentially worth it.

Quietly, I dig through my closet and find another t-shirt, old and soft, purple and gold, for the Lakers, and fold it neatly before placing it on the nightstand for her when she wakes up.

There isn’t much to do except wait, so I busy myself with a little bit of research. Making sure everything is saved, I settle onto the couch and flick through her files on Nakamura.

There isn’t a ton known about his personal life.

All of his biographies just talk about how he’s close with his family, his parents and four brothers, all of whom play baseball competitively.

He’s the oldest and, so far, the most successful.

He’s not married and I don’t see any evidence of a significant other, which isn’t all that strange for pro athletes in Japan.

They tend to really protect their privacy.

Half the time no one even knows their biggest stars are dating anyone until they announce their wedding.

The background is what you’d expect for a prodigy. Constant training, domination at a young age, an Olympic silver medal, a World Baseball Classic trophy and two Japan Series championships.

Now he wants to play at the highest level, against the best competition in the world, with the best players in the world.

And we have a shot at him.

If we can talk him into taking less money, somehow.

Because we won’t be the highest bid. The depth of our ownership group’s pockets isn’t the question.

Every owner in Major League Baseball has enough money to do whatever they want.

It’s convincing them to cough it up in service to winning that’s the issue.

Most of them like the idea of owning a team.

Very few care enough to do what it takes to win it all.

The Steinbrenners with the Yankees. Steven Cohen with the Mets, the Guggenheim group with the Dodgers and John Henry with the Red Sox.

And that’s basically it.

But Frankie seems to think that Hannah Vinch might be able to make the offer close enough. We just need an X-factor. Her pitch will go a long way. I really believe that, but it might not be enough.

Huffing out a heavy breath, I stand, replacing her laptop on the table and stretch out. Still some time left to kill.

The weather is great, warm with a light breeze coming in off the water, so I make my way through the back patio doors and head straight for the pool, chucking off my t-shirt before diving in and barely coming up for air before I start my laps.

It’s one of the last forms of exercise I have that doesn’t absolutely murder my joints.

The repetitive motion is soothing and mindless, clearing away everything clattering around in there.

A new career. A new city. Stew. Frankie.

Nakamura. Those kids in Arizona who looked at me like I was some kind of deity come down from on high to make their major league dreams come true.

All of it gone. Just my body slicing through the water to the wall and then back again, long and slow strokes to keep my heart rate even and my out-of-shape ass from pulling something or losing my breath.

Finally, with my chest heaving and my muscles tingling, setting off little bells in my head to call it quits, I push as hard as I can through that last lap before surfacing, gasping for air, but feeling like I used to after scoring from first . . . back in the early days of my career.

Flicking my hair back out of my eyes and wiping the water away, I look up and see Frankie standing at the edge of the pool, framed by the ocean and looking for all the world like she belongs on a California beach.

Her hair is down, her skirt suit is gone, replaced by the t-shirt I left her tucked haphazardly into denim shorts that are maybe my new favorite thing I’ve ever seen her wear.

Old and worn, shredded edges hitting at just above mid-thigh, her long legs look like they go on forever.

The view doesn’t last long. She eases down to the pavers lining the patio and dunks her bare feet into the water.

“How long was I out?” she asks, not looking at me, but out at the ocean.

“Not long. Maybe an hour. You needed it.”

“Did you, uh . . .”

“Carry you? Yeah, sorry, but you looked like you could use some real sleep in a bed and not just a quick nap on the couch.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear,” she says, finally looking at me, exasperated.

“That’s not . . .”

“I know,” she says, with a sigh, and then stares out at the ocean again.

“Do you miss it?”

“What?”

“Home.”

“A little, sometimes. But there wasn’t anything left here for me.”

“No, me neither.”

“Well, if we lose Nakamura to the Dodgers, you could always sell him this place.”

“You like the house.”

“What’s not to like?”

“The traffic to the stadium.”

“I did always wonder why you chose to live all the way out here. I figured you surfed or something. Or you liked long drives to clear your head before and after the game.”

“You thought about that?”

“I’m an analyst. I think about everything, Charlie. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“Sullivan, I think maybe I could know you for the rest of my life and I’ll never have you all figured out.”

“Probably not,” she agrees, and smiles brightly at me, like keeping me confused as hell makes her happy.

That’s fine by me. “Thanks, though, seriously, for just letting me sleep. When I got the call about Nakamura I booked my flight and didn’t sleep at all on the plane.

I . . . you’re right, I needed that, especially if we’re going to do this right.

The hotel rooms should be ready by now. Do you want one or .

. .” she trails off, gesturing back to the house.

“I’ll stay at the hotel,” I finish for her, heaving myself up and out of the pool and grabbing a towel from the basket near the edge of the patio. “Who else is flying out?”

“Not Stew, though he wanted to,” she says, standing up as well and I toss her one to dry off her legs, trying and failing completely not to watch as runs the terrycloth over her damp skin.

“A couple of guys from media relations, Javy’s on a flight later today, plus you and me.

I don’t want to overwhelm him with new faces.

I figure we keep it simple, make real connections with him as the people he’ll be working with once he gets to Spring Training and then once we break camp.

I had a jersey made up with the number 18 on it for him to have, the number they give their aces in Japan. ”

“Nice touch,” I say, taking the towel as she offers it back to me and dumping it into the empty basket for the cleaning crew.

“Gift giving is a massive part of Japanese culture; I’d be remiss if I didn’t have something for him.

I’m sure the other organizations have done the same.

It’s going to be about trying to differentiate from everyone else, especially since we’ll be able to make a competitive offer, but I doubt it’ll be the highest one,” she says, following me as we head back into the house.

“Do you think . . .” I trail off, wandering into the kitchen, knowing there’ll be a fully stocked fridge and at least a few decent options for lunch.

“What?” she asks, leaning against the countertop and I match her pose, opposite her against the large island that separates the kitchen from the living room. “I’m open to ideas.”

“What if I called up Hannah Vinch and asked to extend the budget?”

Frankie furrows her brow. “Why would she agree to that?”

“Well, I’ve been known to have a certain effect on women of a certain age.”

Her laughter is instant, but then she stops when she sees my face. “You’re serious?”

“What could it hurt?”

“First, I’ve had enough of your negotiation skills for one life time,” she says, and though there’s still humor in her tone, I can see a little bit of real offense in her eyes.

I cringe. “And second?”

“Hannah Vinch is gay, Charlie.”

“She is?”

“Very much. Married to her wife for twenty years. They have two kids.”

“So that wouldn’t work.”

“It would not. We have a couple of days. We’ll come up with something that won’t require you to, what was it . . . have an effect on women of a certain age?”

“Shut up,” I say, shaking my head at her with a grin, embarrassed, but mostly just glad I said something to her before trying it and truly humiliating myself in front of our boss.

“Make me,” she shoots back, her grin matching mine and I lift an eyebrow at the challenge, thinking of one particularly effective way I could make that happen.

The silence stretches out between us and, the longer it goes on, the more I want to make good on the images flashing through my head, remembering with crystal clarity what it’s like to kiss her thoroughly, to make her body meld into mine, to trace the fullness of her mouth with my tongue and feel every nerve ending in my body respond to her.

“Maybe we should,” she finally breaks, “maybe we should skip lunch and just go to the hotel. We can have everything set up when the rest of the team arrives and we can get started right away.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s a good idea,” I hear myself agreeing out loud, when I don’t actually agree at all. I want her and I know she wants me, and I don’t know how much longer we’re going to get away with pretending that isn’t true.