Page 1 of Elevator Pitch

Chapter 1

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 fanwoman. 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.