Page 51 of Elevator Pitch

Chapter 16

[Vee]

I can’t bring myself to wear the opposing team’s colors as Cassandra suggests in order to disguise myself in the crowd.

“What kind of blasphemy would that be?” The thought of doing such a thing appalls me, especially as the opponent for the afternoon game is Chicago’s crosstown rival, the Agitators, whose colors are black, white, and dark green to match the Tyrannosaurus Rex of their mascot.

After hanging up with Cassandra, I don my favorite team’s signature colors of royal blue and bright red, buy a baseball cap at the stadium store, and wear sunglasses as the day is vibrantly sunny. Not that I really need the getup or the mystique of a disguise.

I’m confident Ross Davis isn’t looking for me.

I sit in the outfield, officially the lawn seats, and force myself not to look directly at the dugout. Like glancing in that direction might burn my retinas despite the UV-protection over my eyes.

Instead, I focus on Ford Sylver’s backside as he stands in centerfield in his sinfully snug baseball pants and mentally objectify him. I also concentrate on the other men acting as my muses, especially Bolan Adler, a new-to-the-team catcher, although his age suggests he’s been around baseball for a while.

Without Hannah present, my resident in-the-know about baseball players, I don’t have more of a story on him, so I make up my own, adding to the bits and pieces I’d already collected about several of his fellow teammates.

For their privacy and protection, all names will be changed and any situations that might look similar to real life circumstances will be amended or flipped. So far, I don’t think I’d done anyone damage turning them into fictitious characters. In fact, my characters are becoming far removed from their real player muses.

As the Anchors are headed for a win during the eighth inning, I decide I’ve had enough sunshine and the one margarita I splurged on is giving me a headache, so I pack up my things and head back to the rental prepared to write for the remainder of the day.

Fresh air brought fresh thoughts, and back at the condo after the game, I am settling into a good writing rhythm when a knock comes to my door.

I ordered takeout from a local barbeque place that had some of the best brisket I’d ever tasted. Although Chicago isn’t a mecca for barbeque lovers, in my opinion, some of the best BBQ can be found in my fair city. After talking with Cassandra earlier in the day, I’d also been missing home. I only have a week left in Arizona, but I am ready to return to my apartment, with all its familiar comforts and proximity to my girls.

As I cross the room for the front door, my mouth waters. Opening the door on a rush, I stare wide-eyed at the man who is evidently not the delivery person.

“Ross?”

He brushes past me like a man on the run and I spin, hand still on the doorknob, staring after him.

“I can’t take it,” he snaps, tugging his ballcap from his head. He looks like he came here straight from the game. “We lost again.”

“What?” I snap, almost as horrified as him. “But you were winning when I left and—”

The sharp way his head whips upward has me holding my tongue.

Ross takes two steps closer to me. “You were at the game?” His eyes narrow, like he’s trying to bring me into focus. “I didn’t see you.”

Was he looking? Probably not.

Guiltily, I lower my head. “I sat on the lawn today.” Why was I hiding? Like Cee-Cee said, I didn’t deserve to be ignored and that’s what Ross had done. He’d been a coward. Instead of facing me, or speaking to me, he simply ghosted me.

With my hand clutching the edge of the open door, I lift my head higher and glare back at him. “I guess our arrangement is null and void. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Loss of the game. But more succinctly, his loss of me.

“Now, I’m expecting dinner any second, so . . .” I wave my hand like I’m sweeping out the dust onto the front stoop of this place.

“Vee,” he pleas as another man says, “Verona Huxley?”

I turn in the direction of the delivery person and take the bag he offers me. “Thank you.”

The aroma of barbequed brisket hits me despite the food being encased in the plastic bag and takeaway container. I just want to eat my dinner in solitude while I wallow in self-pity and try to make fictional men romantic. A daunting task when nothing in my life speaks of romance.

Ross pauses, watching me, glancing at the bag in my hand and the open door. Then he steps closer to me and places his hand beneath mine, like he’ll pull the door shut behind him as he leaves.

I step back giving him space.