Page 7 of Elevator Pitch

The video captures me turning toward my then teenage daughter and jumping up and down as she holds the poster beyond my reach. She’s six inches taller than me.

“She was grounded for a month after that stunt,” I mutter, knowing not only was the poster humiliating, but the timing was insensitive.

“How many children do you have?” His voice lowers.

My attention returns to him. “Two girls.” Although I’m aware of his marital status and family dynamics I still ask, “You?”

He scoffs and hikes himself upright, scooting to the edge of the bed. “Two boys. But I bet you knew that, too.”

I sit up as well, but don’t move from the middle of the mattress. With his back to me, I hold my breath, assuming he’s about to leave. To my shock, he pours himself another drink.

For some reason, the need to defend myself and my daughter arises although that video was innocent enough. “My girls love baseball, and they’d been pushing me to date, but I wasn’t ready.” I swallow around the lump in my throat, around a word still difficult to say after all this time, but one Ross might relate to as well.

“I’m a widow.”

Ross shifts, lifting a bent knee to rest on the mattress while his other leg hangs off the side, foot braced on the floor. He eyes me suspiciously, but I’m quick to remind myself he asked to enter my room, not the other way around.

“Me too. Widower. But you probably know that about me, too.”

“I only know what the media shared.” Shame fills my tone. The confession feels intrusive and wrong. “Your boys are adorable.” Your wife was, too.

“Show me your social media,” I add, still a bit defensive. “It’s going to tell me exactly what I’m spitting back at you.”

Maybe I follow him, but that doesn’t single me out as a stalker. The point of a public profile is to put yourself out there. Making your status or stature or sensitivities accessible.

“I also know you date Chandler Bressler.” Where the heck is she tonight?

“Dated. We broke up.” He lifts his glass and swallows the entire pour once again.

I’m not interested in watching him get drunk, nor do I intend to be a rebound for him. Safe in believing I wouldn’t be, I’m still not willing to be part of his pity party.

Nevertheless, I say, “I’m sorry.” They each have high profile lifestyles, albeit she’s fifteen years younger than him. He’s another forty-something man chasing after a much younger woman, and I wonder what the issue is. Sure, she’s beautiful, and has youth on her side, but is he trying to reclaim a part of himself by being with her? The question leaves me a little disappointed.

“Don’t you have other people waiting on you?” What is he doing here with me? “Other coaches? Players, maybe, whom you can drown your sorrows with?”

“Am I drowning?” He glances up, eyes flaring the brightest blue I’ve ever seen.

“You look like a man who can hardly tread water.”

Silence falls between us before he huffs and reaches for the bottle.

I scoot forward and catch his forearm. “If you want to drink your night away, I can’t stop you, but I don’t think alcohol is the answer.”

He glances at my slim, short fingers on his forearm. “Want to know a secret?”

I release his arm, and he watches my hand retreat.

“I needed that win.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs and sets down the empty glass, shifting to prop himself against the headboard. His head tips back. His eyes momentarily close. “They’re going to fire me.”

“The Flash?”

He doesn’t look at me. “Failure to perform.”

“How did you fail?”