Pitching for Her Love (4 page)

“So where is this place tonight?  Who is going to be there?”  I asked, and Megan was instantly swept away.

“It’s right by the park; adorable little place.  Remember where that bistro, Elliot & Franc, used to be?  It’s right next door.  And I think Amanda said Simona is in town and might come by, not with us of course, but she’ll bring a great crowd.  Otherwise it will just be the regulars,” she said, pulling a gold compact from her purse and reapplying her lipstick.

The regulars were some of the most up-and-coming and influential young people in Chicago.  Though I knew most of them by name, we really only ever interacted at the various club openings, charity events, and other social gatherings we were all invited to.  There were your standard-issue investment bankers and finance guys, some B-list actors and their entourages that followed around the city’s few socialites, and us, who they had lovingly nicknamed the Heartbreakers.

It had started as a joke, when both Amanda and I had broken up with our boyfriends in the same week and both had begun dating new guys the following Friday.  Amanda’s ex and new boyfriend had gotten into a fight outside a club opening that Saturday, which was broken up by a young personal trainer that Megan had sunk her claws into almost immediately.  All of these men had once been a part of the regular group, and now they weren’t.  It was a running joke among the regulars that no man was safe from a Heartbreaker, and since then we had decided to date outside the group only, or in my case not at all.

I was excited for tonight.  I hadn’t been out with the regulars in a while, since last weekend was consumed by work and that terrible date with Gabe or Greg or whoever.  What a colossal waste of time.  I picked up my shoes from underneath the desk and momentarily thought of Grayson when I saw remnants of the outfield on the spike of my heel.  Irritated, I brushed off the dirt and slipped my feet inside.

“Ready?” Megan asked, her smile wide and her eyes bright.  I could tell she was excited too.

“One second. I have to check my makeup,” I said, pulling my own compact from my bag, and Megan rolled her eyes.

“It’s perfect: your skin, your brows, your makeup.  It’s always perfect. Now can we go please?  Amanda is waiting and she has shoes for me!” she said.

I
n the cab on the way to
Simona Beck
, Megan finally asked the question I was shocked hadn’t been out of her mouth the moment she saw me that afternoon.

“So how was he?” she squealed.

“Grayson Hunter?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“No, the other totally gorgeous man you happened to interview today. Yes, Grayson Hunter!” she said.

“He was very nice, genuine, and gave a good interview.  I think it’s going to be a good piece.  How was yours?” I asked.  I wanted to change the subject quickly.  I was looking forward to some exquisite wine and mindless conversation over hors d’oeuvres, and right now talking about Grayson Hunter felt like exhausting work.

“Oh it was fine,” said Megan, waving a hand. “My dad was a hockey fan growing up, so I at least knew something about the sport.  Did you know he’s missing his two front teeth though?  He wears fakes!  And it was so cold in that place,” she went on, chattering about the interview and how she would reconsider the sport if they would heat the seats in the arena.  Thankfully, we arrived outside
Simona Beck
before she could ask about Grayson again.

Amanda was standing in the front glass door, tall, leggy, and gorgeous.  She had her honey blond hair twisted up into a stylish knot on top of her head, which probably took her ten seconds.  She was wearing a knee-length black pencil skirt that hugged her voluptuous hips and a sheer celery-green blouse.  On her feet were the pointiest heels I had ever seen, but she walked and swayed with ease as she came toward us.

“You look beautiful!” said Megan, tipping her head up to give Amanda a quick kiss on the cheek.  I did the same.

“Please,” said Amanda. Though she had grown up in Iowa, her voice always had a slight twinge of a European accent, as if she had acquired it during her multiple trips abroad during her years at
Simona Beck
. “I have to change before we go.”  She turned to me.

“Your eye makeup is so on point right now.  Can you do mine?  You know I’m helpless.”

At this I laughed.  Amanda was the only girl I knew who looked more beautiful without makeup than with.  Her blue eyes were clear and bright, and though she was a natural blond, they were rimmed with full sets of dark lashes.  Her brows were naturally full and only slightly darker than her hair.  Her face was soft and heart shaped, with high cheekbones and a natural flush of English rose color on the high points.

“Would both of you stop!” Megan exclaimed, pushing past Amanda and heading into the store. “I’m the short, ugly one.  If anyone needs a makeover it’s me.”

With this she burst into another tirade on the deadly mistake of childhood gymnastics, and Amanda and I exchanged a glance over her head.

“Quiet down. You’ve done your gymnastics complaining for the day. Amanda, do you have this in anything bigger than an eight?” I asked holding up a cobalt-blue boat neck dress.

“I think so,” Amanda said, taking the dress, her brow furrowed and lips twisted to the side in thought. “Let me check.”

She disappeared into the back and I turned toward Megan, who was holding an embellished black and gold mini dress up to her in the mirror.  She was pouting a little bit.  Amanda and I had very similar body types and looked very different from Megan, who had a small, boyish figure.  No hips or chest to speak of, but toned legs and sculpted arms.

“That’s pretty,” I said.

“Probably would look better on you,” she grumbled and set it back down on the display shelf.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “That would never fit over my butt!”

At this, Megan cracked a smile, and we began to laugh and look at shoes.  When Amanda came back, she had the blue dress in my size and had changed into a muted, rust-colored tank top and black jeans with ankle booties.  It was the kind of outfit that looked so chic on Amanda but would have looked like garbage on anyone else, including the mannequin who wore it in the front of the store.

Amanda convinced Megan to put on the black and gold dress while I slipped into the back and dressed in the blue one.  By the time shoes and bags were decided on we were running late, but that was expected.

“I called a car,” said Amanda, leaning in toward one of the many mirrors in the store and applying the lipstick I had loaned her for the evening.  She had talked me into applying just a little mascara and some color on her lips.

Megan walked up to us in her six-inch heels, still barely eye level with Amanda or myself, running her delicate hands through her long, deep red hair.

“Do you think anyone has more fun than we do?” she asked.

“No one,” I said.

T
he night of the wine bar opening was still on my mind Thursday morning as I sat in front of my computer, trying once again to write my “Sexiest Men in Sports” piece.  After a summer of club openings and outdoor events, it had been nice to finally do something a little more sophisticated.  Maybe sophisticated wasn’t the right word. I don’t think there had ever been more wine consumed on the planet, but it felt fancy with the delicate crystal goblets and warm, inviting ambiance.

Simona Beck had indeed shown up, and with her had come a swarm of photographers.  She had been gracious, joining us for a half glass of Malbec and sharing a few words with Amanda before disappearing out the back.  The paparazzi managed to snag a few shots of us among the regulars, and one particularly flattering shot of Megan and me made it into one of the tabloids.

“Look how tall I look!” she had exclaimed when she saw it, thankfully not mentioning her stunted height for another six hours.

Bernie, however, had not been impressed, and she had pushed up our deadline by a week.  I glanced over at Megan, and her fingers were flying across the keyboard, the glasses she occasionally wore perched on her delicate nose and her round eyes wide and focused.  I found myself writing a sentence and then deleting it, and then finally getting a paragraph, rereading it, and deciding it was terrible.  It was a vicious cycle and time was running out. I knew I needed to put something down or Bernie would send me back to the world of freelance work and drugstore makeup.

I opened the email Peter had sent me of the shots that were chosen for the piece on Grayson Hunter, four in total.  I double clicked on the first one and it opened, full size, on my screen.  I felt myself flush as I looked over the photograph, which was perfect.  Grayson was looking away from the camera, his eyes somewhat squinted in laughter at something someone was saying.  His mouth was open and I could hear his laugh from memory, three rows of dimples framing a wide smile of perfect teeth.  The sunlight from that day shone off his bronzed shoulders and chest. A backward cap kept his slightly tousled hair in place, and his stomach rippled with sculpted abs.

“Oooh, looks like someone has seen the error of their ways,” came Megan’s voice over my shoulder, and I jumped, gasping in surprise.  I minimized the picture.

“You scared me!” I said.

“He is so hot. I don’t blame you,” she said and winked.

“It’s not that!  I just—” I started, but couldn’t finish.  I just what?  I had never had an issue like this with an article before.  Maybe it was that Grayson felt more like a real person than anyone I had ever interviewed.  Maybe he felt more like a real person than anyone I knew in real life too.

“Someone’s got a crush!” said Megan, and before I could protest, she walked off toward the break room to refill her coffee cup.  I stewed angrily at my desk.  It wasn’t a crush, I didn’t think anyway. I just thought he was a good person, a very good person, and one that I thought was worthy of more than 500 words on why he was one of the sexiest men in sports.  I thought of the way he treated Stan, a man who worked for him, with such respect and consideration, the way he cared about the kids he mentored and the charities he ran.  It made me feel bad for judging him as a simple baseball player, because he wasn’t.  He was an excellent human being.

Who happened to like women with curves, of which I had plenty.  This had been weighing on my mind as well.  I kept trying to convince myself that this wasn’t the reason I was interested in him, if I was interested in him at all, which I didn’t think I was.

I was jarred from this constant stream of nonsense that had been floating around in my head for the past two days when the phone rang.  I jumped for the second time in as many minutes and picked it up.

“Grace Taylor,” I said.

“Hello again, Miss Taylor,” a warm, friendly, and familiar voice said to me.  My eyes widened, and I looked around before suddenly remembering that no one could hear his voice but me.

“Mr. Hunter?” I asked.  Megan was walking back down the row of cubicles, and I tried desperately to avoid eye contact and will the color in my face to recede.

“I know I told you to call me Grayson,” he said, and I heard the warm ring of laughter in his voice.

“Yes, you did,” I said and then got quieter as Megan returned to her seat. “It’s just that I’m not used to the men I interview calling me up out of the blue.  You startled me a bit.”

“Well I’m sorry for that, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you since we parted ways,” he said.

My heart was thumping in my chest.  I stole a glance toward Megan, who was once again typing furiously on her computer.  My mouth was suddenly dry, and I seemed to lose my command of the English language.

“What’s that?” I managed to get out.

“Well I’m heading out of town next week for an away series in Baltimore, but I was hoping you were free Saturday night.  There’s a new Cirque du Soleil show opening and Stan was kind enough to get some front row seats for me,” he said as casually as if he were ordering coffee.

I paused.  In fact, I paused for so long that I believe he thought I had hung up.

“Grace?” he asked.

“I’m still here,” I said.  Megan was looking at me now, one eyebrow raised.  Now I wasn’t worried about the color in my face, because I could feel it all draining as her eyes and smile widened maniacally and I had to ask Grayson if I could put him on hold before she began to shriek.  Fortunately, he said that was fine.

“That was him, wasn’t it?!” Megan asked, using her tiny legs to roll herself toward my desk.  I regained all the composure I could.

“Who?” I asked, and she hit my shoulder.

“Stop that!  It was Grayson Hunter, wasn’t it?!” Her voice lowered to a whispered hiss as she said his name, as if anyone else hearing it would break a spell we had over us.

“Yes, it was Mr. Hunter in fact,” I said.  Megan pointed to the blinking red light.

“Why is he on hold?” Her smile was excited; she was practically bouncing in her chair.

“He has actually asked me on a date for Saturday night and I haven’t decided what to say,” I said, attempting to mimic Grayson’s coffee-ordering tone.

It didn’t work.  Megan, instead of shrieking, stared at me in utter terror.

“What do you mean?  That sentence doesn’t make any sense,” she said.

“I don’t know if I want to date him,” I said again, more flatly than before.

That’s when the shriek came.  Several people passing by the cubicles turned to look, but those sitting next to us had grown used to the very loud sounds that came out of this very small person.

“Grace,” she said more calmly, “I love you, but I don’t think you understand what you are saying no to.  He is literally the hottest man in Chicago.  Literally.  That is not an exaggeration.  You absolutely cannot say no to the hottest man in Chicago.  Do you know how many women would
die
to be in your position?”

I shrugged, giving what I hoped was a sympathetic smile.

“I’m just not that into dating at all right now,” I said. “You remember last weekend?”

“Oh what?  That idiot my sister knows?  You can’t compare.  Not at all,” she said, and then she grasped both my hands in hers. “Grace, do it for me.  Please, I promise that I will never talk about gymnastics again if you just
please
go on this date.”