But, in that moment, only the three of us knew for sure that Charlie Avery’s career was over.
“Thank you for everything,” Raúl said, extending his hand.
“Nah, thankyou, man,” Charlie said, taking it and shaking it firmly.
The reserved parking lot that the players and front-office staff use is empty except for our cars. His Grand Wagoneer in the reserved spot in the first row, my Audi set way further back. Our job broke our hearts tonight, but it does pay well at the top.
He bypassed his car and followed me to mine, waiting patiently as I hung the jacket to my skirt suit up in the back seat and then put my things into the passenger side.
“Are you gonna be okay tonight?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he trailed off, before he leaned up against the side of my car and looked up into the sky, the stars obscured by the city lights beyond Chavez Ravine. “I was just thinking.”
“Don’t you let your gut do your thinking for you?”
It’s something he’d thrown at me more than once duringour pre-game discussions. That his gut instinct was way more reliable than my algorithm.
“Who says I’m not now?”
“Fair enough, what is your gut thinking?”
“We don’t work together anymore.”
“No, technically your contract expired after the last out tonight.”
“I was just thinking about what I always wanted to do after one of our discussions.”
“I still wouldn’t call them that. Nuclear implosions I think is probably the closest I can . . .”
But I didn’t get a chance to finish the thought, because he kissed me.
Almost.
I’d always assumed Charlie Avery was the kind of guy who didn’t ask permission, who took what he wanted because he could, just like he did out on the field.
I was wrong.
Because in an empty stadium parking lot after the worst loss of his career, with one hand at my hip, the other gently cupping the back of my head, his mouth hovering just over mine, he whispered, “Can I?”
“Yes,” I whispered back, and he smothered the sound with the press of his lips to mine, firm and insistent, his hand tangling into my hair to tilt my head to the side as he deepened the contact. His tongue nudged at my bottom lip and then flicked against mine as I opened up to him, my body following the same signals. I pressed into him, his broad chest and strong thighs easily holding me up.
He spun us around, my car a solid surface at my back while I held on to his shoulders to keep my balance and surrendered myself to it, his hot mouth and his firm hands sending my heart into a frenzy, juxtaposed with how entirely safe I felt envelopedby him. His lips never drifted from mine; his hands never explored places they weren’t welcome.
And then he was gone, pulling away, steadying me on my feet before striding away to his car, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the weight of whatever complicated cocktail of emotions were running through him, all while I tried to catch my breath.
It was just a kiss, but I’d never been so thoroughly ravished in my entire life.
Chapter 1
FRANCESCA
Two years later . . .
I speak four languages with varying degrees of fluency. English was my first, spoken at home with my parents, and I was surrounded by it in my suburban Los Angeles neighborhood growing up. Spanish was my next, a slow slog during middle and high school, with a few classmates who could speak it better than our teachers, and then way more vigorous study in college, which got me to conversational level. My third, after a few classes in college, is Japanese. I am in a constant battle with it in my Duolingo app.
The app is mostly winning.
Which is why I don’t really understand the people around me in the Tokyo Dome. At least I don’t understand their words.
