The Rookie and The Flirt

by Mel Walker

Genres: African American Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Contemporary Romance; Sports Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

Every coach has a client they should never have taken.
Every woman has a man she should never have noticed.
For Roxanne Cross, they turned out to be the same person.

Roxanne
I have a problem. I’ve been trying to land the Firebirds baseball organization as a client for my executive coaching business for forever. The Firebirds have a bigger problem – their newest player, the world’s oldest rookie, Amir Langston. He’s replaced the franchise’s most popular player in its history and is a walking PR distraction. I don’t coach ballplayers, I know better. But with the coveted contracts on the line, I break my rule.
He trots in from the ball field, carrying with him my favorite scents, sweat and freshly cut grass and I remember why I don’t coach ballplayers – he’s the reason.
Four weeks. Eleven Lessons. One notebook.
This is just a business arrangement. That’s what I tell myself because he’s exactly why the rule exists in the first place.

Amir
I’m a ball player. Put a bat in my hand and I know exactly what to do, swap it with a microphone and I’m clueless. After my latest media disaster, I’m assigned an executive presence coach. The minute she hands me the notebook called “The Rules of Flirting” I know I’m in trouble.
I’m stubborn. I don’t quit, and I’ve spent a lifetime with coaches.
She wants me to flirt to polish my image. Something about getting the world to fall in love with me. The problem. The lessons involve lots of practice … on her … and I’m a really good student.

*The Rookie and the Flirt* is a slow-burn sports romance about being seen, being worth it, and the particular courage it takes to believe both things at the same time. Book Two in the Love of the Game Series. Reads as a standalone.

Release date: November 12, 2026

Publisher: Two Rivers Publications, LLC

Print pages: 414

Sample

Prologue

 

Roxanne

Thanksgiving Weekend - Dover, Georgia

 

This is why people call me extra.

Some say it with an eye roll and a that’s Roxanne being Roxanne shoulder shrug. Others aren’t as kind, their tone dismissive. But the ones who matter, i.e., those few who know me, always say it with love and humor.

They’re the reason I’m about to do what I do.

He’s here, right where I suspected he’d be, in aisle four of the local supermarket, head tilted down, eyes focused on the task in front of him as if he’s trying to disarm a bomb. He’s not. He’s picking out wine for a dinner party.

Ten minutes ago, I was at said dinner party. A Friendsgiving celebration with my best friend Daria and her spanking new boyfriend Isiah “Crush” Crawford. Yep, that Crush. The major league All-Star baseball player.

When Isiah mentioned he’d have his new teammate Amir Langston grab the sorghum syrup Daria’s mom needed for the cobbler bake-off, I was off the couch before he finished the sentence. “I’ll go,” I volunteered.

Isiah blinked, already suspecting, “You don’t have to…”

“I want to.” Which was true. Just not for the reasons anyone in the kitchen assumed.

See, I’m a day-one baseball fan. My dad took me to my first game when I was five months old. Painted my bedroom Firebirds blue and orange and played the radio broadcasts as my nighttime lullaby.

I live, breathe, and love the Firebirds. I know their history and enough trivia facts to embarrass anyone foolish enough to challenge me at a bar. But what I don’t know is their newest rookie second baseman, Amir Langston.

The man I’m staring at in aisle four.

Curiosity and my ego feed my steps as I smooth down my simple blue sweater, and you don’t need to ask—yes, it’s Firebirds blue. I step into the aisle, my head turned toward the Merlot, but my attention is clearly on the man fourteen feet away.

I do know Amir Langston. How could I not? Everyone in Georgia is rapidly forming opinions about the man. At the end of last season, he took over a roster spot that belonged to one of the most beloved players this city has seen in a decade. And Atlanta has been slow to forgive him, punishing him for having the audacity to simply show up and do his job.

What I saw was different. I saw brilliance. The quiet, unflashy brilliance that doesn’t shout at you in the box score but is recognized by people who pay attention and appreciate the little things. But I also noticed weeks ago that a sideline reporter asked him a yes-or-no question on live television.

He took forty-three seconds to answer.

The question was whether his name was spelled correctly on the screen.

Forty. Three. Seconds.

There is slow, deliberate, and careful. Then there’s Amir Langston.

He’s standing close to the shelf, careful not to block the aisle, not wanting to be an impediment to anyone. Tall and lanky, he squeezes a bottle of red in one hand, a bottle of white in the other. Billy Joel would be proud. At his feet, four more bottles. Analysis paralysis.

I use his focus to my advantage and appreciate the technicolor image in front of me. I’ve seen Amir Langston on television; I’ve seen him on my phone while scrolling game recaps. I’ve even seen him in person on the field at a Firebirds game from the middle deck of the stadium, but I’ve never seen him like this. Never this close.

My feet ease in his direction, and I enter his periphery.

He still hasn’t noticed me when I stop beside him. I would be offended but am not surprised. I’ve seen this level of focus on his face before, on the field. Tying to run on second base, eyes glued to the plate, leaning forward on the tips of his toes, preparing for a pitch. A focus so intense, he doesn’t notice the forty thousand fans chanting, the music blaring from the stadium speakers, nor the running dancing off the base.

It’s a level of discipline I admire on a ball field. In the supermarket, not so much.

But being ignored has its advantages.

Amir is an athlete, so I’m not surprised to witness how his polo shirt clings to him, as if painted on, the corded arms, the broad shoulders, the pop of his biceps when he squeezes the bottle to twist and read it for the ninth time. I’ve been around athletes most of my adult life, and this never gets old.

Baseball players are a different breed. They give off an aww shucks, we’re just like you vibe from a distance. The look that makes you think, with a few fortunate bounces, that could be you. But when you enter their orbit, you realize you’ve stepped into a different space. Gymnasts' bodies with the height of volleyball players, the insane skills of a hockey player, the focus of a football player and the explosiveness of a basketball player, talented baseball players are sports' greatest burrito. The best bite of your life.

“Planning a dinner party?” I ask. “Or a very serious personal crisis?”

He startles, a barely there flinch, controlled quickly, the micro-reaction that tells me this man has spent years training himself not to let anything catch him off guard. He uncoils. Looks at me. Looks at the bottles. Then back at me.

“I was invited to dinner,” he says carefully. “I brought two dishes and realized I should bring wine, too. Didn’t want to bring the wrong one.”

“So, you’re bringing all of them.” My line is brilliant, and I expect applause. Instead, I’m met with silence. With anyone else, I’d be offended, not with Mister Forty-Three Seconds.

His eyes flicker from me to what he’s holding. “I narrowed it down.” He lifts the two bottles in his hands.

I look at the four bottles on the floor.

He looks at the four bottles on the floor.

“From how many?” I ask.

The pause this time is slightly longer; I stop myself from starting up the stopwatch app on my phone. “Twelve.”

I press my lips together. I am a professional. I don’t laugh. “Well,” I say with great sincerity, “whoever’s hosting will feel much … appreciated.”

Something shifts in his expression, not quite a smile, but in the neighborhood of one, the kind that arrives, then thinks better of it, and pulls back before anyone can call it a smile officially. “That’s always the goal,” he says.

“Mmm.” I tilt my head at the two bottles in his hands. “Which is your favorite?”

He looks down at them as if the answer might reveal itself under sufficient scrutiny. “Neither; it’s not about what I want.”

His answer simultaneously catches me off guard and makes perfect sense. “So, you’re not the sharing type?” If he’s going to throw me for a loop, I’ll return the favor. My question has the desired effect. Confusion. He’s two seconds from admitting…

“Sorry, I’m not tracking.”

And there it is. My opening. I reach for the bottles, taking both. I place them on the shelf in front of me, and when Amir makes a move to collect and return them to their proper location, I step in front of him.

“You ever have a slice of cheesecake from Mary Beth’s in Atlanta?” His headshake isn’t a surprise. Amir is a rookie and probably eats most of his meals in the clubhouse. “Life changing. A treat well worth the extra hour in the gym. Whenever I go, I grab an extra slice or two and share with people I want to impress.”

“And…”

“Let’s just say I’ve made so many converts these days that Mary Beth gives me the employee discount.”

For the first time since I’ve stepped into his world, he gives me his complete attention. Warm green-brown eyes, thick brandy lips partially hidden by the scruff of his mustache and a perfectly groomed goatee. “So, you’re saying…”

“You look smart enough to connect the dots,” I tease him,and point to the shelves. The next move is his.

He’s handsome in a way that doesn’t announce itself. Sharp jaw, careful yet warm eyes. Kindness oozes out of his every pore. I really shouldn’t toy with this man. He’s not prepared for someone like me. I flirt and tease people for a living. I’ve been accused of coming on too strong, too loud, too… me.

Extra.

I purse my lips and wait for his response. In person, Amir’s intensity that reads as stiffness on camera feels different. It feels like purposeful concentration. Like a man who takes everything seriously because nothing feels small to him.

 He pushes his hands into the rear pockets of his black jeans. He’s frozen in place… again.

“Out with it,” I probe.

“I don’t drink alcohol. I’m an athlete.” He pauses, and I wait to see if he’ll call himself the world’s oldest rookie. That’s what the trolls on the internet call him. A slight associated with his age, twenty-seven. An advanced age for a baseball player breaking into the major leagues. They paint the moniker as an albatross, but I see it as a banner announcing the level of determination and commitment few people, especially men, possess. “I respect the game.”

His words are delivered clearly, as if he’s standing in front of the Sunday pulpit.

I so want to debate with him that very few athletes take this position. Keith Hernandez, the former Mets player, once drank a beer in the middle of the tenth inning of a World Series game after making the second out in a game he thought was over. It wasn’t. But I don’t have time for a debate, not with Amy Crawford waiting for her special ingredient for the bake-off.

“Mountain Dew is one aisle over…”

“That stuff…” I lift a finger to halt his incoming speech, which I’m sure will demonize its sugar and caffeine content. I’d agree, but that’s not the point.

“Don’t care. Bring them whatever you like. Let them learn something about you.”

“It’s never about me,” he mumbles the words toward the bottles as if it’s a mantra. If this conversation weren’t already consuming more time than I ever imagined, I’d wrap him in a warm hug and dive into the minefield of his statement.

“Maybe today is the day you finally decide that it is. Pleasure meeting you.” I spin on my heels, curious to see his reaction. If history is a barometer, I should be able to complete my shopping, walk to my car, and drive away before he mounts a response.

“I’m Amir,” he says to my back. I freeze but don’t turn, not when a silly grin is plastered on my face. Usually, my poker-face game is strong. But his unique cadence has discombobulated me.

I’ve gotten him to extend himself. It’s just his first name, yet it feels like a gift. I want more. “Just Amir?” I toss over my shoulder. I already know his last name. I know his batting average. I know who he hit his first major league home run against. But he doesn’t know that.

“Just Amir.” He removes the singsong I applied when he repeats my words back to me.

Interesting.

I turn to face him. He’s Amir Langston, starting second baseman for a major league baseball team, yet he doesn’t toss that in my face. It’s what I would expect from every man who carries those credentials, using them to impress a pretty girl. And yes, I did just call myself pretty, because… hello.

I tilt my head and examine him. He’s staring at me. His mouth does that thing, an almost smile. Either, he’s not a people person, or he’s bashful.

Or, oh my gosh, could it be?

He’s both.

I’ll have so much fun with this.

“Hmm,” I murmur, buying myself time and forcing him further out of his comfort zone. He looks at me for a moment as if he’s recalibrating. Like he came in for a simple errand and is now in a conversation that requires more processing power than he allocated. I let him gawk. Things have become ridiculously interesting.

I wait for him to ask for my name. My phone number. For anything. When he doesn’t, I fill the void because patience isn’t a trait I possess. I should walk away, but I can’t help myself. “Since I’ve solved your issues with wine, I’m looking for something too.”

I expect relief to spread across his face, but what I witness is best described as intensity. “And what’s that?” I force the corner of my lips to stop their ascent and have to do the last thing I want to do—look away. I usually operate at one hundred miles an hour; his pace is the opposite. It throws off my balance in a way that surprises me.

I let the question breathe for a moment.

“Something sweet,” I say toward the misplaced bottles on the shelf in front of me. “But not in an obvious way. Not the kind of sweet that announces itself the second you open it.” I reach out and turn a bottle slightly on the shelf, as if I’m examining the label, as if I’m talking about wine. “I want something with a little depth to it. Something that doesn’t look like much from the outside but surprises you. Something that takes time to appreciate.” I glance at him sideways. “Something that stays with you.”

Silence.

The specific silence of a man who has just processed a sentence and is no longer entirely certain what we’re talking about. And that’s what makes it so gosh-darn rewarding. I could stay in this aisle with him for hours like this, a revelation that fascinates me.

I watch it happen in real time, the almost imperceptible shift, the slight adjustment of his posture, something moving behind those careful eyes.

He clears his throat. “That’s a very specific ask.”

“I know what I like,” I say simply. He’s uncomfortable. I would chalk this up as a victory, but I’ve seen him sitting in a dugout next to teammates who should be like brothers with a similar look on his face.

Another pause. He looks at the shelf. Then at me. Then at the shelf again, as if it might offer a lifeline. “For wine?” He’s fishing. Dangling a plastic lure, hoping I’d take a nibble.

I smile at him, warm, unhurried, giving him absolutely nothing. He has to know I’m flirting with him? I’m not that subtle. But something in the way he asks makes me question it. “Sure. If that’s where you want to start.”

He shrugs.

He has no answer to this. Which is, honestly, the correct answer. He’s not a wine person. In truth, neither am I. I use it as a prop as part of the social norms in the world I’m forced to navigate.

“Well…” he starts and stops. “A nameless woman once told me to grab your favorite and share it with the world. Tell me what it is, and I’ll share it with my dinner companions, too.”

Without knowing it, he gives me an opportunity I hadn’t thought of. “Mmm,” I step in front of him to stare at the selection. I feel his presence hovering behind me. The opposite of heavy or cold—more comforting and warm.

“So, you want to know all my secrets, just Amir?” I turn in time to catch the flash of wonder in his eyes as if I’ve called him out for being too forward. My giggle and headshake let him know he’s not crossed a line. “Here’s what I’ll tell you, the one thing that I know.” I take a half step toward him as if I’m giving him the final Jeopardy answer.

“Your new favorite treat is in this aisle somewhere.” He glances over my shoulder, totally missing the pretty five-foot-eight clue. Really, dude? “Let me help you out.”

I step to his side, our shoulders nearly touching as we glance down the aisle at the choices. “Something few would describe as sweet. Comes in loud, but once it settles, it’s smooth and comforting, nothing like you’d expect. One taste and you’ll question how you survived this long without it.”

He squeezes the back of his neck as if I’m asking him to solve the impossible Kobayashi Maru Starfleet Academy challenge. Yep, I’m a Trekkie too.

Come on. There’s kindness, and then there’s blindness.

“I gotta run. I’ll leave you to your scavenger hunt.” There’s only so much a girl’s ego can take. But then his breath hitches. A soft whisper of air escapes between his lips. Something in his face, just for a moment, goes somewhere private. A small softening, there and gone before I can name it. He won’t let whatever thoughts churning in his head escape.

“Okay…” I point to the pile of bottles at his feet. “Good luck finding what you’re looking for. Don’t overthink it. At the pace you’re moving, it’ll be long gone, and you’ll still be standing here in aisle four when they announce the store closing.”

The corner of his eye twitches with the mention of the close. He twists his wrist, and I notice the fitness watch. Not the fancy one I’d expect a major league ballplayer to own, but the most basic six versions ago type that AARP gifts its members. His eyes turn into saucers, as he must read the time. Panic invades, and he drops a knee to the floor to collect the bottles.

I can’t help myself. I lift my hand an inch from my mouth peering down at him, “oh so we’re doing this already. Did you even pick out a ring?”

My joke lands as intended. A grenade that knocks him for a loop. The confusion on his face transforms to the cutest hint of embarrassment as he realizes what his position conveys to me. He wants to speak but has no clue what to say, so he doesn’t say a thing. His short head shake speaking volumes.

He shifts into a speed I thought he only reserved for racing from first to third base. “Enjoy your dinner, Just Amir.”

He juggles the bottles in his arms, and I can see him debating whether to shake my hand. He wisely chooses not to. “I have to…” He lifts a chin, pointing toward the exit.

“…go. Same.” I take a step, then pause as he walks backwards, eyes on me, a look that lingers one beat longer than intended. I offer him a departing smirk with my final words. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

He nods again—easy, unsuspecting, the response of a man who has no particular reason to think that’s anything other than a standard parting line.

Which is exactly what I want him to think.

I walk in the opposite direction, toward the syrup aisle, but not before I perform a victorious spin and steal one final glance at the most interesting ballplayer I’ve ever encountered.

Here’s what I do know. In approximately ten minutes, Amir Langston will pull up to Isiah Crawford’s childhood home carrying far too many bottles of wine needed for a small dinner party; that’s exactly who he is, a man who won’t show up to anything halfway, and he’ll find me standing on that porch.

I think about the expression on his face when he puts it all together. The micro-flinch he’ll try to control. The forty-three seconds it might take him to find his footing.

I take only five seconds to find what I’m looking for in Aisle 6. I take the self-checkout kiosk and spot Amir helping the clerk bag his purchases. She’s chatting a mile a minute, and he’s focused on the task at hand as if he’ll be graded.

A chuckle escapes my lips as I exit the store and realize I’ve never looked forward to a Friendsgiving dinner more in my entire life.

****

Chapter One

Roxanne

March – Spring Training, Florida

 

 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumble to myself as I twist the wheel of my rental car in front of the majestic McMansion that I’ll be slumming at for the next two weeks. I’m in Florida, Fort Meadows, more specifically, a sleepy small town whose best attribute is that it’s near six golf courses and less than a mile from the Meadows Arena, the Spring Training home of the Firebirds.

Like an overanxious eight-year-old waiting for their parents to wake so they can head to Disneyland, my good friend Daria is waiting on the porch. Bouncing on her toes, a smile as broad as the time she caught her first foul ball at a ball game. Her loud-as-heck screech reminds me she’s missed me nearly as much as I’ve missed her.

She rushes forward and wraps her arms around me before I’m completely out of the car. “You made it.” She smells of jasmine and joy. A combination she’s been pulling off ever since she and Isiah became an item last year.

“How long were you waiting out here?” I return the hug, twice as tight. It’s been nearly a month since I’ve last seen Daria IRL. She’s not only the girlfriend of the world’s most recognizable ballplayer but also works as a highly in-demand baseball analyst. She’s been in Florida since the first week of February for Spring Training.

“Just since your plane landed.”

“You tracked my plane? You really did miss me.” I press my palms to my chin, tilt my head, bend my knees, and strike a silly pose.

She smacks my shoulder. “You don’t know the half of it. I’ve been surrounded by baseball players for a month. Yesterday, I heard a twenty-minute argument about whether a hot dog counts as a sandwich. Come.” She pulls me into another hug. “Mmm, I forgot what it feels like to hug someone who doesn’t smell like sweat. At this point, seeing someone with a skincare routine feels like a religious experience.”

I let her imbibe, secretly enjoying this out-of-the-ordinary neediness. Once she has her fill, I wave my arms toward the enormous house. “You said we’d be slumming it in an Airbnb like we do every year. What’s all this?”

Daria takes my hand and leads me toward the two-story house that must take up half an acre. “My man is new to the Firebirds and wants to make an impression. He wanted a place to invite teammates where they could kick back and hang. This place has an arcade, a theater room, a poker room, and an outdoor barbecue that a pit master would be envious of.”

Daria skips ahead. She’s wearing denim shorts and a tank top, her dark hair in a ponytail bouncing with each step.

“Oh my,” I screech as we step into the space. An open master room with a wrap-around couch that can seat twenty and a giant screen television that looks like it belongs on the wall at NASA.

“Boys and their toys, huh?” Daria snickers next to me, leading me through the massive room. She gives me the tour. All eight thousand square feet. The home, and I use the term loosely, has eight bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a sunroom, a meditation/yoga room, and takes nearly fifteen minutes to walk. We end up on chaise lounge chairs by the pool.

“You’ve come a long way from the Motel 6 we once shared when we came to Spring Training back in college.” Daria and I have a history. A long, happy history. Ten years of Spring Training trips. The two of us, along with our friend Aaliyah, spending one week every March taking in the sport we all love.

“We all have,” Daria clarifies. “I’m glad you could make it.”

I stare at the gentle waves created by the slight breeze in the pool and avoid her eyes. “I wasn’t sure if we were…” I nearly didn’t make it this year. Not because I didn’t want to, but things are different. She’s with Isiah. And because… “It won’t be the same without Aaliyah.”

“I know.” A familiar sadness creeps into Daria’s voice. I know it well. Aaliyah is the third leg in our friendship triangle and another college teammate from our softball days. These days she’s a renowned sports psychologist with several prominent athletes as clients, including Daria’s boyfriend Crush Crawford.

Aaliyah is one of the most disciplined professionals I know, and she refuses to mix her business and her social life. As long as Isiah “Crush” Crawford remains a patient of hers, she won’t be joining our girl's trip or dinners or parties or anyplace Isiah will be present.

It won’t be the same without Aaliyah, which is why I put off this trip as long as possible. The Firebirds break training camp in a little over a week and head back to Atlanta to kick off the season. But Daria refused to give weight to any of my objections. Not giving up until she chipped away at my resistance, and I booked this trip.

“We have just under two hours until the Media Day event kicks off. Do you want to go for a swim? We also have a Jacuzzi and a water massage chair.”

“I brought you a treat from Mary Beth’s,” I tease her with dessert, even though it’s the middle of the day.

“You don’t play fair.” She rises, and I follow.

“Grab the Moscato. I want to hear everything about you and your Crush.” She’s heard every version of her boyfriend’s baseball nickname so much, so it barely registers. “But first, I want to hear about the reason you used to drag me down here.”

She turns with a sinister smirk on her face. She knows exactly what I’m talking about. I run an independent executive coaching business, a niche one. I work exclusively with front-office executives in professional sports organizations. I help individuals navigate the complex world of image management and messaging. It’s a field that has exploded with social media.

“Nat Parker?” She dangles the name that got me on the plane to Florida. Nat is the general manager of the Firebirds. In charge of the entire operation of the organization. She and Nat have an interesting history together. Daria worked for Nat, a few levels down from him, but close enough to be on his radar. When she was stonewalled in her position by misogynist co-workers, she went around her boss and sent Nat a message directly. Not just any message, but an analytical prediction of a weakness in the organization, which her superiors ignored. When her prediction came to fruition, Nat gave her a meeting and a promotion. She took the promotion and continued to run into the glass ceiling, and like LeBron, she packed up and took her talents elsewhere. When she opened up her one-woman shop, Nat signed on as her first and biggest client.

Nat is the reason I got on the plane.

My practice is growing, thriving actually. But it doesn’t have the sparkle and name recognition of an organization such as the Firebirds. That’s not entirely true; I coach several executives in the professional women’s basketball league. A handful on the women’s tennis circuit. Each of my clients, however, possesses one common trait: their gender.

I’m proud of the work we’ve been able to do, but am tired of the sideways glance, the tilt of the head, the awkward pause, when I meet with prospective clients and I rattle off the organizations I’ve worked with. They never say it, but it’s there. Where are your male clients? Are you not good enough?

Yes, the questions are sexist, yet when I’m behind closed doors alone, I often have the same thoughts.

That’s where Nat comes in. He and the Firebirds would put to rest this nonsense, once and for all. “You said you’d get me five minutes with him,” I remind Daria of the bait she laid at my feet to get me on the plane to Florida. I’ve been pitching the Firebirds through email blasts regularly. And they do what every targeted large organization does when receiving unsolicited proposals—they ignore them.

She pulls down two glasses from the cabinet, along with the Moscato, and pours. “What I said is if you come to Media Day, I can put you in front of him. Whether that’s five seconds, five minutes, or five hours is up to you.”

That’s exactly what she said. In my head, the thought of anyone meeting me for five seconds without wanting to spend more time as inconceivable. “And you said he’s a straight shooter. Open to the idea of executive coaching?” Not everyone understands the field or the value it brings. I have a ten-minute presentation explaining the hidden costs and drain on resources and how the lack of training in this area can distract a business from its mission six ways to Sunday. Once I show the numbers and lay on the charm, they typically reach for their pen and ask where to sign.

“Yeah, Nat gets it. He’s all about efficiency and maintaining focus. But he’s also a deal maker, as every general manager is. Don’t be surprised if he tosses you a curveball along the way.”

I pantomime swinging a baseball bat. “I’ve never had trouble with the curve.”

She rolls her eyes, like so many other times. And just like that, we’re back in a familiar rhythm: my words filled with a boastful confidence, and she is giving me grief as only a best friend can. I’ve missed this.

I’ve always known she’d end up with someone special; she’s too amazing not to. But we’ve always pictured that we’d be doing this together. All three of us, Aaliyah included. Triple dating, couples' vacations, the whole enchilada.

I know if I say anything, Daria with her universe provides outlook would tell me my Mister Right is just around the corner. He’s not. And I’m fine with it, for now. I have a business to run, an empire to build.

Speaking of. “I’ve identified four potential front office executives who are in desperate need of my services. Based on their public social media posts alone, two of them are a HR distraction waiting to happen.” I don’t say the obvious aloud, all four are men.

Daria snickers. She probably suspects who I’ve targeted. Having worked in the back offices of the Firebirds and their minor league counterpart organization, she has firsthand experience.

I, however, didn’t pick her brain for any insider information. Choosing a distance and a non-biased approach to my research. It wasn’t hard. And four is just the tip of the iceberg.

Daria reaches back into the cabinet and pulls down two dessert plates. It’s an Airbnb, so the dishes are the finest generic all-white plates that can be purchased in bulk at a warehouse club. “What are those for?”

She points to the bag I’m carrying with the Mary Beth Pastries logo. I shake my head. “They’re in to-go boxes. I’ve got plastic utensils. We’re eating straight from the boxes.”

She giggles—she knows me. “Someday, you’ll slow down and take time to enjoy the little things.”

Because I’m me, I don’t remove the boxes from the bag but rip the bag as if it’s a Christmas present. “Today isn’t that day.”

I place her box in front of her, and she nods at mine. “Thank you for not bringing one for Isiah.”

I laugh, carrying my drink and treat back to the pool area. “Your man isn’t the only athlete who has a strict training regimen of no snacks, no fun.” My mind races to his teammate, Amir Langston, and his no-alcohol policy. Amir will be at the Media Day event for the Firebirds today as well.

It’ll be the first time the two of us are in the same room since I shocked him with my presence at Isiah’s Friendsgiving dinner last November. His reaction still tickles my funny bone to this day.

We plop down onto the lounge chairs, and I watch Daria dig her fork into the sweet treat. I steal a sip of the equally sweet drink and feel the satisfaction of a warmth spread through my chest.

This was the right move. To come here. To be here.

I lower the guards I always carry. Being a woman business owner in the spaces I exist means I’m always being observed, watched. Everything I do, I say, I don’t say, on display and dissected. It’s the reality in which I live. It’s the price I pay. I’m not complaining, okay, maybe just a little. But I have no other choice. So, I’m always on guard, except in certain spaces. Daria is one of the few people I trust myself to be completely me around.

We chat about everything and nothing at the same time, the way two people with a long history only can.

And before we know it, it’s time to get ready.

Time to put back the guardrails that I use to prevent the rest of the world from seeing all of me. The walls I use to force them to see the version of me I need them to see.

I’ve been this way for so long, it slips on like a second skin. This version of me is still me, an authentic but curated version of me I’ve had to create to survive in the professional world. A world dominated by men with fragile egos, and corporate policies that penalize people for speaking unfiltered truths.

I tell myself it’s a game. And like all games, I’ve gotten better at it over time. And like every game I’ve ever played, once I learn the rules, I immediately push the boundaries.

Why? Because I’m me, and I don’t like playing by someone else’s rules.

 

 

Chapter Two

Amir

 

This is my Waterloo.

For different people, it manifests itself in different ways. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, down by a run, bases loaded. Others freak out. Me? I'm calm enough to win a game of Jenga played on a sandy beach.

Why? Because I’m a professional ballplayer who has trained all his life for moments like that. But this…

A room filled with media. Cameras in every direction, room stuffed with social media influencers, kids younger than me with a follower count that rivals our sport’s biggest stars. If you were challenged to create my worst nightmare, it would look exactly like this.

“Welcome to the Firebirds’ Media Day.”

My attention snaps to the podium. Our general manager, Nat Parker, finally kicks off the event . I spent fifty-nine minutes of the cocktail hour in the corner, nursing tonic water with a slice of lime and admiring the two watercolor paintings of the stadium. Back to the crowd, no one recognized me as a player on the team. No one disturbed me. Just the way I like it.

But I can no longer hide. I’m sitting on the dais. Yes, I secured the last seat on the right after searching YouTube videos from the last three media days and confirming that they always start with the player interviews from the left. With any luck, they’ll run out of time before it ever reaches me.

I fiddle with my baseball cap sitting on the table in front of me. Our public relations intern reminded us prior to taking our seats to remove our caps so the cameras would have unobstructed views. She called me out specifically on sunglasses, too. Even the interns are onto me and my propensity to fade into the background.

I’m not built for this kind of spotlight. Never have been. Stick a glove in my hand and point me to a field, and I’m happy as a pig in mud. Put a microphone in front of me and suddenly, I’m a house cat at a dog park.

“You all know how this goes,” Nat reminds everyone of the format. Nat is a gifted general manager and just as skilled at the podium. I assume he’d been training all his life for days like this. His ever-present, serene smile causes everyone in the room not named Amir to relax. Nat is in his early forties, African American, with short hair, clean shaven, and dressed like a disciple of Pat Riley. Meaning he wears designer suits, imported shoes, and could easily walk straight from this room to the velvet rope of a Miami nightclub without missing a beat.

Every media contact in the room has been given a team public relations book with everything from our height to the brand of toothpaste we use. Between that and the analytic fanatics dissecting every element of our game, few baseball secrets remain. Which is why I’m shaking in my boots.

Over the last few years, the Q&A sections of Media Day have become a one-upmanship showcase for influencers seeking clickbait—prying questions that clearly swerve into the personal.

“Play nice, or you may find your credentials deactivated prior to an important game.” I’m not the only one with this concern, Nat warns them. I’ve only been in the majors a few weeks at the end of last season, but Nat’s reputation precedes him. Uber professional, backs his players to a fault but demands they be upfront with him and don’t make the team look bad. His tolerance for misbehavior is low, and that isn’t restricted to just players. “This is Spring Training. A time for optimism and a new hope. Let’s keep that spirit going at least until we start the season and lose a game or two.”

Nat’s remarks gets the chuckle he’s seeking, but I still pick up on the tension in the room. This is a pivotal season for the Firebirds. Last season didn’t go well, and the fans are restless. They traded away their most popular player in Gavin Harper. The kind of player families cross state lines to witness in person, even when the rest of the team is nothing to look at.

His absence, a void that needed to be filled by some poor, unsuspecting sucker who had no clue what he might step into. That’s where I came in. The rookie no one had ever heard of to replace the team's most popular player. Yeah, it’s worked out as well as you’d expect.

I was promoted from the low minors. A two-league jump which caught not only the fans by surprise but shocked me. I hadn’t realized anyone at the major league level knew of my existence. I’m typically six levels below even under the radar.

I wasn’t a replacement for Harper, but that’s not how the fans took it.

Trading Harper was a bold move on Nat’s part, just one of several. It has put a bullseye on our team and on him personally. Luckily for everyone, Georgia’s native son and the sport’s biggest star in Isiah “Crush” Crawford, signed with the Firebirds in the off-season. He came bearing gifts, a steep hometown discount. His signing shifted the narrative immediately.

And for that, I’m personally grateful. Isiah is like a comet across the night sky. Irresistible to turn away from, providing space for the rest of us to find our footing. Some of us need it more than others.

“Why don’t we kick things off with the person you’re all here to meet? The latest addition. The All-Star. Isiah “Crush” Crawford.”

The room fills with thunderous applause. Even the bartenders and wait staff clap with that goofy grin that must’ve been plastered on my face the first time I met him. He has that effect on people. He’s not just the sport’s biggest star, but he’s also one of its kindest. He invited us, his new teammates, to his family’s Friendsgiving dinner last fall after signing. A sort of let’s get to know each other off the field prior to the start of training camp. Who does that? He does because that’s the kind of man he is. Yeah, I might be fanboying but looking around the room, I’m not the only one.

I search the room for his girlfriend, Daria Holloway. The reason Isiah signed a hometown discount contract. Walked away from at least an additional thirty million dollars to be in the same city as her.

She’s definitely the swap teams, change address to a different state type of woman. There she is, hands pressed to her chest, eyelashes batting like a cartoon character. Love looks good on her.

She’s incredible. The smartest person I’ve met in the industry and the reason I’m here in a major league uniform. She knew all my minor league statistics, my workout routines, and which days of the week I performed better. Yeah, she’s one of those wunderkinds who can recite the back of a baseball card from memory. She personally plucked me from the minors to the majors, risking her own career. I later found out she was trying to prove a point. That the thing we search the furthest to find, oftentimes is hiding in plain sight.

Already proven, just not recognized. Ignored. Story of my life.

Thankfully, I had no clue of this at the time. I came up and did what I’ve always done. Kept my head down, my mouth shut, and gave it everything I had. It was only a few weeks at the end of the season, and I had enough success statistically speaking on the field. Off the field remains a challenge.

Isiah begins with a joke. He’s late-night talk show host smooth. As comfortable in this room as on the baseball diamond. The room serenades him with chuckles and smiles. He’s one of a kind. Tall, muscular, with the hint of a three-day-old beard that’s perfectly groomed, a magnetic smile, and the presence of a movie star. There’s a reason he’s been on the cover of more magazines than anyone else in our sport.

They told us to prepare a two-to-three-minute introductory speech filled with what we’re excited about for the upcoming season. I have six versions, all approved by ChatGPT and hope I don’t have to use any of them.

After sharing how humbled he feels with all the love he’s received for joining his hometown team, Isiah pivots to the question of the day. His response starts with what I’m learning is his style, acknowledgment of others. “I couldn’t speak about this upcoming season without first giving a special shout out to the smartest baseball analyst in the world and the person I humbly get to call… my girl.” Isiah waves a hand in Daria’s direction, and the line receives the requisite oohs and ahhs. It’s what he says next that catches everyone by surprise, me included.

“As good as that is, there’s one thing I’m actually more excited about this season.” He twists and looks in my direction. I turn and peer over my shoulder, only to find the watercolor painting on the wall. “That’s turning the double play with Amir Langston.”

He says my name, and my entire body freezes up. Dripping from a shower, stepped out the door in Antarctica frozen. “I’ve only had the pleasure of playing next to Amir these past few weeks here at Spring Training, but he’s made quite the impression. Always prepared, knows every batter as if he personally scouted them, and the smoothest turn I’ve ever witnessed. A thing of beauty.”

Isiah beams at me with a pride I’ve yet to earn. We’ve yet to play one official game together. Technically, because of the limited number of games I played at the end of last season, I’m still considered a rookie. A newbie. Isiah is a six-time All-Star who has played alongside the top players in the game. I tell myself he’s just being kind.

He thinks he’s bestowing a gift on me, but I receive it as the anchor it truly is. I don’t need to look to know every eye in the room is on me. Cameras recording every gesture, every movement. Am I showing enough appreciation? Am I showing too much? Am I expected to wave, nod my head, or blow a kiss back at him? What am I supposed to do?

So, I do nothing. You can’t be called out for doing something wrong if you don’t do anything. Yeah, it’s a warped perspective, but it lets me sleep at night. It’s become my default position. The one our fans are so used to that they’ve begun to call me the mannequin. Please take a question from the audience.

He does, and I twist my neck slightly to watch the crowd. Half of them are still focused on me and my non-reaction. I spot Daria whose focus has returned to her boyfriend. And that’s when I catch a glance of who’s next to her. The hairs on my arm standing on alert.

Roxanne Cross. The woman from aisle four. My breath catches as my gaze meets hers. She’s staring directly at me, eyes pinched into tiny slits. A serious scowl on her face. Is that a look of anger or disgust? At me? Why?

Even if she were standing in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to decipher her. My mind races back to the first time we met at the supermarket in Dover, Georgia on Thanksgiving weekend. She was well aware, as I found out after the fact, she knew who I was the entire time as she toyed with me over my wine selection.

How she regaledthe entire dinner party with the tale of her outwitting me and the shock on my face with which I pulled up to Isiah’s mother’s house to find her on the porch.

Roxanne grabs opposite elbows and pushes her shoulders back, wiggling them to make sure I take note. Is she giving me instructions?

I don’t follow. Last time I followed her lead, I left the store with seven bottles of wine and her advice to share my favorite drink. I ignored that last bit that night and ignore her posture instructions tonight.

She’s not the type to be easily deterred. She presses her thumb underneath her chin, lifting it. Her not-so-subtle message, for me to stop staring at the tabletop and straighten my face. Why does she notice? Why does she care? Yet I follow this instruction.

Bad move.

Immediately, she assumes I’m her puppet, and she wiggles her shoulders again for me to push them back. All I hear in my head is my father yelling at me to stand up straight.

When I don’t push back my shoulders, Roxanne places her thumb and middle finger on the corners of her lips and spreads her lips into a clown’s smile.

I know with complete certainty that if I follow this command, my unnatural smile will be plastered on sixteen different TikTok accounts before I leave this room. I’d rather be called a mannequin than be compared to Heath Ledger’s Joker.

Roxanne flicks her wrist at me, a back of her hand dismissal as she mouths the word whatever. She jabs an index finger at the podium where Isiah is speaking and mouths words I can easily read—watch and learn.

You mean take the focus away from me? Finally, an order I can get behind.

***