Along the way, my agent calls to let me know the Dragons finally hired a new manager.
“Perfect timing. Opening Day is only . . . tomorrow.”
“Better late than never,” he says, then gives me details on the guy. He has a good resumé, and I met him once. He made quite an impact.
Something that had been weighing on me just turned into something awesome. “Excellent choice,” I say to Josh.
As I head into the Legion of Honor with my buds, I tell them all about the new manager.
“Sounds like the baseball buddha,” Crosby says.
I'm grateful to have made good friends in town, and to be playing for a team that’s looking up. I'm determined to do everything I can to keep up the hard work. Nothing can get in my way.
Except, once I head into the event, a familiar silhouette walks into my line of vision.
Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Full lips that I know so well. Lips I explored late one night nearly two years ago. Is it really her? My what-if woman? The one I haven't been able to stop thinking about. I take a step closer. She turns to me. Eyes lock. Skin tingles. It's her. In the flesh. In person. In the same damn town once again. This feels like the start of a second chance.
The woman I’ve never been able to get out of my head.
Another Epilogue
Crosby
A year later
It’s been a hell of a year, and I can’t complain.
I didn’t even need lucky socks to make this fantastic season happen.
I still wear my chipmunks, only they’re not the be-all and end-all anymore. They’re just fun, something I enjoy.
Chipmunk socks, flamingo socks, donkey-wearing-glasses (aka the “smart-ass”) socks . . . Nadia gives me a new pair every month. I give her gifts too.
Every time we go to an event, I give her a new wrap.
Other occasions call for lacy lingerie.
And sometimes she opens a box of shoes from me, since I’m pretty damn good at picking out sexy-as-fuck heels for my woman to wear.
Like, say, when I bend her over the bed, the couch, or the table.
Life is good. We make ample use of her toys, her furniture, and all my tuxes—because we have lots of events to attend.
We’re one of those well-known couples. The billionaire team owner and her all-star boyfriend. I don’t mind playing second fiddle to this power broker. I happen to find power in a woman an aphrodisiac.
Other men might be intimidated by the size of her . . . wallet.
Other men are not me.
Besides, I know what I do to her in the bedroom—and out of it. She lets me take care of her in every way, and that’s all I want.
Tonight, I don the chipmunks with my tux for the awards ceremony where Nadia’s general manager will be honored. Nadia couldn’t be prouder. Kim has accomplished a ton in the past year—logging a terrific season, snagging wonderful players, and winning back tons of old fans while gaining new ones.
I drop my phone into my jacket pocket and head to the front door of her place, picking up her purse for her as she scurries to join me.
I stop in the doorway, then smack my forehead, like I forgot something.
“We can’t leave without me giving you the gift I picked up for you for the awards event,” I tell her, all bossy.
She’s frazzled, rushing, wanting to get out of here. “Okay. But can I open it in the car?”
I shake my head. “Nope. You’ve got to open it now because you’re going to want to wear it to the event.”
She laughs. “You’re right,” she says, glancing at her bare shoulders. “It’s cold in San Francisco, and you always give me the best wraps.”
“I do indeed.”
But I don’t have a wrap for her tonight.
Instead, in her doorway, the same place where I kissed her ravenously the night we set the rules, I drop down to one knee, take her hand in mine, and speak from the heart. “Nadia, do you remember that night a year ago when we went to the Sports Network Awards?”
She blinks, whispering, “I do.” Her voice trembles, and I love that sound, love the way she wears her emotions so visibly.
“That was the night we really came together,” I say, vulnerability in my tone. But certainty too. “That night we started to acknowledge everything that was happening between the two of us,” I say, my chest filling with warmth, with clarity. “That was the night we admitted we felt something for each other, and we didn’t stop. We didn’t let things like rules or guidelines get in the way. We made our own rules every single day.”
With a smile that could light up the city, she squeezes my hand. “We sure did make our own rules.”
I draw a steadying breath. “I want to keep making up rules and breaking them with you. I want to keep loving you and making you happy. I want you to be my plus-one, my partner, my friend, my lover, and my wife. Will you marry me?”
With tears already streaming down her gorgeous face, she falls to her knees, wraps her arms around me, and says, “Yes. I have been so ready to marry you for a long, long time.”
“Good,” I say, glowing, joy filling every cell as I take out the box from my pocket, flip it open, and enjoy the hell out of the way she gawks.
It’s quite a ring.
It’s big, bright, and contains all kinds of carats.
It fits her.
She’s a woman of the city. When she goes to meetings, to conferences, to dinners, doing her badass thing, I want everyone to know she’s taken in a big way.
The way I’m taken too.
With her.
I slide the ring on her finger, and she stares at it, awestruck. “So now I’ll be plus-oneing with my groom? Is that the romantic comedy that Hollywood is going to make about us?”
“They are,” I say. “And
