The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) Lauren Blakely (fastest ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Yes, Crosby feels like my date.

My eyes roam to the man I want. He’s chatting with Holden, as well as Juan Rodriquez, one of the Cougars’ starting pitchers. I love how close he is with his teammates, how they’re good friends and look out for each other. He told me recently that he and Chance babysat Juan’s toddler son when Juan wanted to take his wife out to dinner.

As I check out the man I shared a limo ride with, I fight off a grin, then change the subject. Matthew’s my friend, but what’s happening between Crosby and me is private right now.

“You never know,” I say evasively. “What’s going on with Phoebe? Has she changed her tune at all?”

“The opposite. She’s turned up the volume on her complaints.”

“Let’s hope it’s just a rough patch,” I say.

“I have a feeling it’s more like a rough road to the breakup,” he says, and I frown, but he waves it off. “It was probably destined to happen anyway. And look, when she throws me in the rubbish bin officially, I fully intend to take up wine and painting.”

I laugh. “Why’s that?”

“Well, can you think of a better way for me to meet a lovely woman in San Francisco than to go to one of those wine-and-painting classes?”

I burst into laughter. “Gee. I hadn’t thought about your backup plan. But clearly you have.”

“I’m truly joking. I don’t actually have a plan. And I certainly don’t have a plan involving wine and painting.”

“For now,” I say.

He gestures to the stage, then taps his watch. “Better get on, love. It’s nearly your turn to present.”

I head backstage, waiting for my chance to present an award.

A voice booms from the podium—the pretty, confident soprano voice of Lily Whiting, the main anchor at The Sports Network. I’ve met Lily in Vegas a few times. She’s a fantastic reporter who was recently married, but went back to using her professional name rather than her married name. I admire that about her. It’s not easy being a strong woman in a high position and she wants to stand on her own merits. She’s proof you can be ridiculously in love and be your own woman in business.

“And now presenting the award for the best sportsman or sportswoman is a woman I admire greatly,” Lily says. “A woman who fights hard for equal pay for other women in this male-dominated field, who’s making strides at bringing more women into sports and who has already brought a top team back to the Bay Area. She embraces community with her team’s involvement in local charities. I am so proud to welcome back one of our own with the return of the Hawks to San Francisco, helmed by Nadia Harlowe.”

I stride onto the stage, thank Lily, then head to the mic to present the award.

As I gaze out at the audience of team owners, reporters, athletes from all over the country, and plenty of fans, I smile, imagining my father watching over me. I send a silent wish to him that I’m honoring his vision, what he built from the ground up with the fortune that he’d amassed in other fields before pursuing his dream of owning a football team.

I am so lucky to have inherited it from him, and I want to always make him proud.

That’s what I hold on to so I can flash a smile at the crowd. My eyes lock ever so briefly on the friendliest of faces, and Crosby grins back at me, mouthing, You’ve got it.

I wasn’t looking for encouragement, but it sure is nice to know that man has my back. I haven’t felt that before in this setting, but I relish the sense of partnership.

It fuels me. It’s another first.

“It’s an honor to return to the city I love,” I say.

A boo rings through the audience. “Go back to Vegas with the showgirls!”

“Quiet down!” another voice shouts.

“Women can’t run teams.”

“Women do run teams.”

I simply grin. It is what it is. Even at an awards ceremony, there is heckling, and it’s a reminder of the work I need to do.

“I know to some of you the Hawks are still interlopers, but I fully intend to do this city proud. San Francisco is big enough for many sports teams. After all, I bet we have Cougars fans here. And Dragons ones as well.”

Next to Crosby, Holden claps.

“But this isn’t about me,” I continue. “This moment is about an award that means a lot to so many of us. That perhaps is the highest honor. This is an award for the man or woman who exemplifies giving back. And tonight I am thrilled to share that the recipient of the Best Sportsman award goes to . . .” I stop to slide a finger under the envelope flap, then take out the embossed card.

I grin when I see the name. One of Crosby’s good friends and teammates. “Grant Blackwood, catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, who exemplifies giving back with his volunteer efforts for several local charities, including supporting underprivileged young athletes and LGBTQ athletes. Congratulations, Grant.”

I clap as the catcher jogs to the stage, a grin lighting up his eyes. The man is damned handsome, all-American, from the dark-blond hair, to the sky-blue eyes, to his friendly, outgoing personality. I shake his hand once he’s onstage, but he pulls me in for a big hug and swipes a kiss onto my cheek. “Thank you. But keep your damned hands off my third baseman,” he says in a deliberately teasing tone.

I laugh, pat him on the shoulder, and say, “I promise to do my absolute best.”

I move aside as Grant gives a quick and heartfelt thanks from the podium. When he’s through, I clap for him once more, then head backstage with him before I exit into the crowd again, looking for Crosby.

Before I find him, though, a tall, dark, and handsome creature leans back from a clutch of athletes and