Carefully, I make sure to not touch any keys, or I’d probably inadvertently send an email to trade half the roster in the process. I slide it onto the coffee table and then shift my weight again, trying to stay in that crouch.
“Here or bed?” I ask again, just a little louder, and that seems to break through to her subconscious.
“Bed,” she finally mumbles.
Yeah, that’s good enough for me. Pushing up off the couch, I lean in and slide an arm under her knees and guide her arms around my neck. And the way she responds to my touch, just a brush of my fingers against the skin inside her elbow is enough to guide her into place with a soft groan as she settles against my chest.
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 significantother, 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 offercloseenough. 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 . . .”
