Snapping a quick photo of the computer screen containing a dozen shots they’ll comb through to pick the right one for the issue, I fire the picture off in a text to Colleen.
Hayes: Good morning. *picture sent*
It takes a minute or two before the three little dots appear and then comes her response.
Colleen: Holy hell, warn a woman before you send something as lethal as that! I’m currently sweating.
Hayes: And I’m currently trying not to think about you in your office, which is proving awkward in a room full of people.
Colleen: You’re not allowed to text me things like this during the day. How am I supposed to get anything done?
Hayes: If you need, I can come to your office soon.
Colleen: Pretty sure that’s how we got ourselves into this mess in the first place.
Colleen: I’m definitely going to need a copy of this issue to keep under my pillow. You know, for lonely nights.
Hayes: And I just thought about you touching yourself to my picture. Cue inappropriate on-set boner in three, two, one …
Colleen: Is there any way you can sneak into my bedroom tonight?
For as professional as she is as a general manager and inside the ballpark, I’ve been thoroughly surprised to find out that Colleen Callahan is a shameless flirt. And she can back up those words. The woman is a knockout.
Well, not that we’ve had sex in an actual bed. But if the office was any indication, we’ll do a lot of damage with a private bedroom at our disposal.
Since we had that dinner in Baltimore, it feels like things are coming to a crossroads. Either we pursue this, or we let the spark fade out to be a distant, what-if afterthought. The night of Independence Day, I saw her on the jumbotron at the stadium. The commentators had been talking about the Callahan family, and they panned up to the owner’s suite.
Colleen was sitting there in her form-fitting, high-necked red dress, and something in me snapped. I was tired of waiting, of walking on eggshells or debating the consequences in my head. I went right up to her office and … well, we all know how things went down.
“And who the hell are you sexting?” Clark walks up behind me, trying to get a good look at the screen of my phone.
Pulling my phone away in a hurry, I lock it and put it down by my side. “Not cool, man! And who said I was—did you really use the word sexting? Are we seventeen?”
Clark shrugs. “If you’re texting pictures of your junk, naked body, or waxing on about how you plan to fuck a girl via messages, then you’re sexting. Ain’t no denying that. Plus, your face says it all; big smirk, laughing to yourself, and I think you might be blushing, Swindell. Yep, definitely texting, if not sexting, a lady. Who is she? The hottie you had in the family suite that one game?”
My mind flashes to Marlena, and I want to crack out a laugh at how far from the truth he is. But maybe I should say yes, since it would be an all-out disaster if he knew who I was really messaging right now. I think Clark is a pretty trustworthy guy, but even he would take issue with me having sex with our general manager. He would also run right to Walker, they’re closer friends than I am to either of them, and her cousin would definitely sucker punch me in the jaw.
“No. None of your business.” I swat at him, and then realize he’s only got the modesty sock on. “Jesus, can you put on a robe? You’re not even having your picture taken right now!”
Clark shrugs. “I feel most comfortable in the nude. I do my best work like this.”
His words have me rolling my eyes. “You’re a peacock, you know that?”
“And proud of it. Just think of how many women are going to be checking me out in this.”
He flexes a bicep as he walks over to the craft services table, and I shake my head at his overt cockiness.
I couldn’t care less if a thousand women are checking me out in this magazine. I only care about one in particular, and will definitely have to hand deliver her copy.
26
Colleen
The rest of July and August pass in a rush of baseball games, stolen moments with Hayes, and the dreary work of both preparing for the post-season or resorting to our backup plan of the off-season.
It’s difficult to get to September as a team, at least in one piece. Injuries usually plague a squad, with some players who won’t be able to return until next season. Then there are the head cases, usually pitchers who flame out or hitters who get into a slump.
But this team, by some chance of fate, has made it to the post-season with a majority of players healthy and hitting their stride. They’re gelling as a group, and a lot of the animosity we started the season with has faded. Yesterday, I got to throw out my plan B binder, the one that was earmarked at the beginning of the season for what would happen if we didn’t make it to the playoffs.
However, it’s just as nerve-wracking, if not more, to make it to the post-season than it is to hang up our cleats and move onto next year. Now that the Pistons are here, we want to make it to the big dance. Kick our opponent’s asses. Sweep the series and crown ourselves the champions, with big fat victory rings adorning our hands.
There’s still a lot of work that comes with the post-season, and we aren’t even technically in it yet. Playoffs don’t start for another week and a half, but the coaching staff and I have already had numerous meetings on strategies, rest time for certain players, and our attack plan when our first round opponent was picked from the wild card winner.
But tonight, I get to push all of that to the back of my head. Hayes and I only allow ourselves to sleep at each other’s houses once a week. So, technically, we get to lie in bed twice every seven days, once at his place and once at mine. We park on side streets, tiptoeing across lawns after dark and then sneaking out in the wee hours of the morning so no one is the wiser. Even if our neighbors don’t care who is coming and going—which they definitely would at some point—there is always the chance of someone staking out one of our homes. We’re public figures, he more than I, and there is an element of secrecy that must be applied to this relationship.
Relationship. That seems crazy to say, but it’s what we’re in. About a week after July Fourth, Hayes all but told me we were exclusive, even if we can’t tell anyone about it. I made no argument, since it’s what I want too, and we’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend ever since? It sounds juvenile to call us that, but he is my boyfriend in every sense of the word.
We text all day, with phone calls or FaceTime on the nights we can’t be together. We sleep in each other’s beds, and honestly, there isn’t much sleeping going on. Before that, we cook dinner together and talk about our day. When we see each other at the ballpark, I have to hide my smirk and Hayes tries not to stare at my boobs. Once or twice, we’ve found ourselves back in that supply closet, which is completely risky but completely worth it. He is the person I want to talk to whenever something good happens in my life, or whenever something bad hits my days with a case of the blues. More than anyone in my life, even Walker, it feels like Hayes understands me and I him.
This is the truest form of connection, and dare I say love, I’ve ever encountered. Aside from the secrecy, these last two months have been the best of my life.
I park around the block from Hayes’ house, under the guise of darkness, and sneak through his backyard to let myself in the set of French doors that lead out to his patio. I let myself in; he knows I’m coming, and slip my canvas sneakers off. One thing I’ve learned about Hayes in the last two months is that he’s an undercover neat freak. He won’t sit down for dinner without cleaning every pan and putting the discarded utensils in the dishwasher. He’s also anal about scuff marks on his floors and wet towels being discarded over the backs of chairs. I thought I was tidy, but he puts me to shame.