Page 27 of Elevator Pitch

I didn’t want to be some hairbrained experiment for Ross Davis.

Chapter 8

[Vee]

“I’ll think about it,” I eventually tell Ross, which in mom-speak, typically means a silent hell no.

There are a number of reasons why I don’t like his idea, top of which is being a woman who sneaks into, and then out of, his hotel room, like we’re having a clandestine affair. I am assuming he wouldn’t want anyone to know about our arrangement since he thought it was best we did not share what happened that night in Houston with anyone else.

There’s also that pesky thing called his girlfriend to consider.

Everything in me screams to call Cassandra and immediately tell her about this bizarre proposal, but something holds me back.

That something being the sudden inspiration to write. Within ten minutes of returning to my rented condo, I’ve shed the flummoxed emotions of Ross’s suggestion, and found a hint of creativity.

Just the beginnings of a story. Roughly twelve-hundred words to set a scene. Nothing profound or earth-shattering, but the sentences start to flow. The page was no longer blank. By the time I’d finished my thoughts, I’d filled one and a half sheets in a word document.

Word by word. One sentence at a time until a paragraph forms. Then a page. Then a chapter. Basic writing steps in their most rudimentary form.

The spark to create felt good. I needed a flame, but a flicker was still something. A flash of hope.

Maybe I need Ross Davis as much as he claims to need me. Or at the very least, I need that spring training stadium as plot ideas sparked during the game.

As the scene I’m concentrating on nears the end, and my characters are no longer telling me where they want to go next, other thoughts creep into my head, like Ross’s ridiculous proposition and my own curiosity.

With my phone in my hand, I pull up Ross’s number. His direct number as he clarified earlier. My finger hovers over the new contact before I switch to the texting app and I press the writing icon.

Was I really considering his proposal? Should I do this? Could I sleep with Ross Davis again? He isn’t propositioning me for sex. That would be preposterous, right? I huff aloud to the empty room as if the vacant space can hear my thoughts.

At the very least, though, I had logistical questions and I type out a text, then press send.

How would this work?

His response is instantaneous, as if he’d been waiting for my reply.

Is this a yes?

Me: This is me asking for details.

Ross: Maybe we should have that drink after all?

Aren’t we past the formality? He’d already proposed I sleep with him.

No question about sex. There won’t be any.

No emotion implied. There wasn’t a place for them.

This was just your average request from a man to a relative female stranger to spend the night with him in a bed. Sleeping. Mentally insert all the sarcasm.

But as an avid Anchors fan, shouldn’t I do what I can to help my favorite baseball team be successful?

News articles are written about all kinds of people—superfans—and their strange game day traditions. Like the guy who washes his dog every Tuesday during a home game for the win. Or the woman who eats tacos for breakfast on Saturdays for the win. Or the elderly fan who dunks his donut three times into his coffee during the fourth inning for the win.

Lucky shirts. Lucky socks. Lucky hats.

Processes. Beliefs. Faith.

If I, an ordinary person not playing on the team, do this or that then my beloved team will win.