Page 21 of Elevator Pitch

He’s right. I need to get my head in the game. We finally have a win and I have work to do.

+ + +

We’re about to lose the final game of a three-game series with Arizona.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Kip mutters, staring out at the nine players on the field. Each talented. Each experienced. Somehow out of sync with one another, though.

Ford Sylver is captain of these guys and he’s been off since I met him last fall. A certain pressure comes with years in the league, especially for married guys. Couple that with being a single dad with little kids, and the toll is showing on Ford, especially since his ex is dating a fellow team member.

I’m not at liberty to share my true opinion of our shortstop.

I don’t know each of the guys on the team well yet, but one of the things I pride myself on is being a mentor for my men. The father they didn’t have or the substitute many of them need. A person to remind them to keep their dicks covered and their heads clear.

The three Ds: Devotion. Drive. Determination.

However, I seem to lack those things myself today. We are about to lose another series, and I’m stumped.

And not for the first time this game, I tip my head out of the dugout in hopes to find a certain someone sitting in the eighth row. Or anywhere else in this stadium.

“Who are you looking for?” Kip mutters out the side of his mouth.

Snapping my attention back to the game, I stare out at the field. The pitcher for Arizona is a beast, and if Gee Scott doesn’t fix his swing, he’s going to strike out. Game over.

When that moment happens, the team hangs their heads while Gee returns to the dugout, swearing under his breath. Only the clatter of cleats fills the dugout as the guys disappear into the locker room.

I take a step up to the field, taking one more survey around the stadium. Unfortunately, I’m not sly or stealthy like I think, and Kip catches me.

“We need to talk.”

Fuck.

+ + +

“And you think she’s the answer?” Kip stares at me. His questioning eyes caught between you’re fucking kidding and you’re kidding, right? A joke or an inquisition.

I swipe my ball cap off my head and scratch my scalp. Replacing the hat, I stare back at Kip standing on the other side of the desk in my office.

“I don’t know.” I’ve just explained how I met Verona Huxley. And my thoughts about the connectedness between us. “But think about it. I get the call from Chicago, the same day I get let go from the Flash, and both things happened the day after I slept with her.”

“Coincidence,” Kip groans.

Happy chance, perhaps?

“Then she shows up earlier this week and we win our first game.” My voice rises, cracking on the absurdity, but the possibility cannot be denied. “She’s my lucky charm.”

“You don’t know anything about her.” Kip watches me.

He’s right. I only know her name, or what I assume is her name, and what she does for a living, if writing books is even true. Either way, I can’t ignore that her presence changes things for me.

The job. The win.

“You’re taking baseball superstitions to a whole new level,” Kip chides, crossing his arms. “You don’t know how to find her. If she’s even still in Arizona. If she’s actually from Chicago.” His voice rises in frustration with every if.

He’s right again, but I refuse to believe Verona lied to me. Maybe the name is a pseudonym. Maybe her presence in Arizona is a fluke. Maybe I’m just nuts.

“It’s worth a shot.” I shrug. “If you don’t swing . . .”

Kip is already shaking his head while completing the statement. “You’ll miss one hundred percent of the time.” He continues watching me, assessing me. “What are you thinking?” His voice lowers, leery with uncertainty.