Pitching for Her Love (3 page)

“Had to try,” he said with what looked like a wink.  I smiled back.

“Miss Taylor, where are my manners?” Stan interrupted.  “Would you like some water, coffee, tea?” he asked.

“Gatorade?” offered Grayson.

“Iced tea would be great,” I said to Stan, “if you have it.”  And he ran off toward the dugout without another word.

“So,” Grayson said, a smile still plastered across his face.  It was irritatingly confident.

“Is there somewhere we can sit?  The interview shouldn’t take long, but I have a photographer coming that will need some of your time as well. I’m assuming Stan told you about that?” I asked, giving him my most professional voice.

“He did indeed,” he said and then motioned toward home plate. “Let’s sit there.  It’ll give you a great perspective on the field.”

“Lead the way,” I said, though he fell into step beside me as I walked as quickly as I dared in my heels.

“How long have you been a journalist?” he asked.

“I’m the one asking the questions here,” I said with a smirk.  The truth was that I always feared that professionalism deteriorated as soon as personal details on my side were involved.  Not that many people would take a “Sexiest Men in Sports” article as serious journalism, but it helped to be consistent.

“Has the interview started already?” he asked.

“It started the minute I walked into this place,” I said.  As we neared the seats, I pulled a small silver tape recorder and a leather-bound notepad out of my bag.  The paper wasn’t exactly necessary, but it helped with the aforementioned professional appearance.

“Fair enough,” Grayson said, opening a gate behind home plate and guiding me up the concrete steps to a couple of seats about five rows behind home plate.

“My favorite seats in the house,” he said, putting his large hands behind his head and leaning back, his elbows spread wide.

“Oh yeah?  Why is that?” I asked.

“Well, I guess it’s been so long since I’ve been to a baseball game I wasn’t playing in that I forget just how big these parks can be,” he said, his eyes focused into the vague distance above the outfield, and then he fell silent.  Eager to get going, I began with what I thought would be an easy question and switched my recorder on.

“So, how does it feel to be one of
Top Press’s
sexiest men in sports’?” I asked, and he let out a small chuckle.

“I guess it’s a surprise more than anything,” he said. “I’ve spent so much of my time in the past ten years focused on other people that I almost thought it was a joke when Stan called me about the piece.”

“So you don’t consider yourself sexy?” I asked, attempting to throw him off the way he had with the good-looking comment earlier.

“I consider myself a lot of things,” he answered immediately and honestly, “but I don’t think sexy would be in my top fifty.”

“Well you’ve certainly captured the hearts of a lot of our readers. Why do you think that is?”

“I’m assuming they’re all Chicago Riot fans,” he said with a smirk, which I returned.

“Fair enough. When you’re not playing baseball, how do you spend your time?” I asked.

“Up until about six months ago, I was in a serious relationship which took up a lot of my time, so right now I’m trying to find some new hobbies and things to occupy my time.  I took a cooking class last month and I’ve also been thinking about adopting a dog,” he answered, dropping the relationship topic before I was quite ready to talk about it.  Megan had mentioned that Grayson had an ex-fiancée who broke his heart or something earlier this year, but I wasn’t planning on bringing that up until the end of the interview.  Whatever, I could piece this together however I wanted, but my flow was interrupted regardless.

The interview continued, interrupted only twice.  The first was Stan arriving with my iced tea, and the second by my photographer calling to let me know the shoot was ready in the outfield whenever we were done.

I asked Grayson about everything from his family to his charity causes. He was extremely active in a charity bringing together kids in local pickup games in underprivileged areas.  His eyes lit up when he talked about the way these kids loved to learn the game and how he hoped it would lead to a decrease in gang activity and high school dropouts.  As sweet as it was to hear, I knew our readers wanted to hear about his love life, but for some reason I was hesitant to bring up the subject of the ex-fiancée again.  I knew I had to; it was the only thing Bernie told me I
must
discuss, the only thing our readers would really care about, but it felt taboo.  It was as if bringing it up would show I had interest in him outside of the interview, which was preposterous. I’d never had a problem asking people about their relationships before.  Luckily, he brought it up himself.

“I threw myself into the charity when my ex and I split. She was much more involved with the social aspects of my life.  She’s still very good friends with a lot of the wives and girlfriends of my teammates, so I took myself out of that situation and became much more involved with the community.  I think I’m a better person for it too,” he said when I asked how he got started with his philanthropy.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I began, “how did the relationship end?”

He gave me a weak but sincere smile and nodded, as if he’d known the question was coming.

“Sometimes two people just aren’t right for each other.  It turns out that we wanted different things, but I do wish her all the best and hope that she finds exactly what she is looking for,” he said.

Wow, I thought. What an eloquent and charming way of not answering the question at all. But I didn’t press the matter, sensing that this was all I was going to get from him.  I decided to end with a fun question, one our readers always seemed to love.

“So Grayson, we’re about out of time, but I have one last question for you,” I said.

“By all means,” he said graciously.

“Now that you’re living the single life, can you tell us anything about your ideal woman?” I asked.

He took a moment, and his dimpled smirk came back to his face, his eyes lighting up ever so slightly.

“Now that I’m a little older, thirty-two, I’m not into the club and bar scene as much anymore, so I need a girl who is okay with lying low.  I’m also very attracted to confidence and independence; that’s sort of been my downfall in the past.”  He stopped, but I didn’t say anything.  The way he paused made it seem like there was more there and something else he wanted to say.

His eyes had a far-off quality that made me wonder whether he even saw me at all anymore, as if they were lost in a memory that I and my readers would never have a chance of seeing.  Right as I was about to thank him for his time, his eyes found mine again.  He was back.

“And I love a girl with curves,” he said, winking.

I
had been so flustered after Grayson’s comment that it barely registered when he asked if I would be accompanying him to the photo shoot.  I nodded yes absentmindedly and then followed him and Stan, who had been sitting only a few rows behind us during the interview.  Stan was chattering on about something a few paces ahead of us as we walked down the baseline and into the dugout.

Had he said that on purpose?  Was the wink I saw real?  It couldn’t be.  This was a man who was incredibly attractive, that point was undeniable, despite the fact that he wasn’t my type.  I had never been self-conscious about my curves, but his comment made me very aware of them, as if he was saying that because of that, I was his type.  It made me a little uneasy, especially considering everything he had said about his ex made me think that she and I would have gotten along very well.  I too loved to go out and have a good time and engage in the social benefits of my connections.

And yet, here I was, walking stride for stride with him to the outfield to witness his photo shoot.  There was something else about him, a certain maturity and feeling of at ease he had that seemed at odds with other men I knew.  The way I avoided the games men played was by dating casually and never getting close and always appearing distant enough to be aloof and not fall prey to their deceit.  It seemed that Grayson’s approach was to not play games at all.  It made me feel immature, though I somehow knew that wasn’t how Grayson saw me.

“How did I do?” he asked.  It was the first thing he had said since Stan had ushered us toward the outfield, and it jarred me from my thoughts.

“Oh,” I said. “Very well. But I’m sure the pictures are what most readers are going to be looking forward too, so the most important part is still to come, I guess.”

“So, no pressure then?” he asked with a dimpled smile.

“None at all,” I laughed as we continued to walk.

“All right,” said Stan. “Here we go.  Here is the photographer.”

Grayson introduced himself to Peter, one of the
Top Press
photographers.  I knew Peter well enough to know he would make this as quick and painless as possible.  He was a no-nonsense, get the job done quickly kind of guy, but was a perfectionist when it came to getting the best shots.  Part of me was thankful I didn’t have to talk to Grayson anymore, which was odd.  I was never uncomfortable with any of my interviewees, but I think Grayson was the first interview I had ever had that broke down the wall and allowed us to speak as people rather than in the forced way I tended to endure.

“Okay so,” Peter began, “should be no surprise that we’re going to need your shirt off. This is for
Top Press
after all, no offense, Grace.”

“None taken,” I said, wanting to mention that Peter had been at
Top Press
much longer than I had.

Grayson laughed good naturedly and peeled his black spandex off, revealing wide, muscled shoulders, a firm chest, and sculpted abs that had been visible through his top but I had done my best to ignore.  He seemed only slightly self-conscious, but that faded as soon as Peter handed him a bat.  It looked natural in his hand, like an extension of himself.  His whole body seemed complete.

“It’s going to feel weird at first, so just try to act natural and then we’ll do some more posed, but for right now just talk to us,” Peter said, putting the camera to his face and snapping.

“Any more questions for our man?” Stan asked me as Grayson stood in the mid-morning light.  The sun seemed to glow off his tanned, perfect skin.  I caught a glimpse of Peter’s screen, and the photos were fantastic.  Despite how unfamiliar Grayson was with this, he seemed to be a natural.

“Are you sure this is your first time?” I asked Grayson.

“I’ve been on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
a few times, but those are all candids usually,” he said.  I admired his arms, the same arms from the picture Megan had shown me, but somehow much more impressive in person.  I continued to watch from a distance, Peter working meticulously and efficiently, taking hundreds of shots of Grayson in athletic motion, candid laughter, and pensive contemplation.  The readers would eat this up, and Bernie would be pleased.

Just as we were about to wrap up, Megan sent a group text to me and our friend Amanda reminding us of the wine bar opening we were attending that evening.  Amanda immediately texted back an excited selfie.  Amanda may have been the most beautiful person I knew.  She was taller than me but just as curvaceous, with long ringlets of golden glass falling well past her shoulder blades and piercing blue eyes that would give Grayson Hunter’s a run for their money.  She also managed Chicago’s only
Simona Beck
store, whose namesake was one of the most acclaimed up-and-coming designers in the world.

Megan quickly texted back that she would need my help with her makeup for the evening, and Amanda agreed.  It was commonly known among the three of us that Megan supplied the invitations, Amanda the attire, and me the makeup.  We worked well together, and we were affectionately known as the Chicago Heartbreakers to those who knew us well.  The first time we saw that name referenced in the entertainment section of the
Tribune
was a big deal, and we never forgot it.

Megan and Amanda continued the conversation without any of my input as I slipped the phone back into my bag.  Grayson was crossing the outfield toward me, pulling his black shirt over his muscled core.

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Hunter,” I said, extending my hand.  Without missing a beat, he bypassed the handshake and pulled me into a light hug, kissing my left cheek close to my ear and sending a river of chills down my spine.

“Call me Grayson,” he said, his hand lingering just a fraction of a second on my lower back before he released.  “Have a wonderful day, Grace.”

With that, he called to Stan, who trotted over and shook my hand enthusiastically.

“We can’t wait for the article, Miss Taylor,” he said and chased after Grayson who had started jogging toward the dugout.  I looked after him longer than I intended to, and Peter coughed intentionally.

“Are we good?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Always, Peter,” I said, and we walked toward a small door in the outfield wall and back into the parking lot.

I
t didn’t take long for me to forget about Grayson Hunter.  During the cab ride back to the office I got caught up on the text message conversation between Megan and Amanda.  The wine bar opening for that night was scheduled for six, which gave me just enough time to finish up at the office and then run to
Simona Beck
with Megan for a wardrobe change and to pick up Amanda.

It was a busy day at
Top Press
. Even Megan didn’t have time to chat with me about my interview, which was just as well because I was still pretty unsure what I thought of it myself.  I sat in front of a blank Word document for what felt like hours, until finally Megan’s voice piped up from behind me.

“Earth to Grace?” she said.

“Yeah?  Sorry, little busy over here,” I said.  She stared at my blank screen.

“I can tell,” she said.  Not wanting to talk about the interview, but knowing we would eventually, I quickly changed the subject.