Page 92 of Playboy Pitcher
“Willow,” he says, using that tone where he drags my name out like I’m an insolent child. “What do you mean ‘you have it covered’?”
“Trust me.” Smiling to myself, I reach for the door handle, only to pause and glance over my shoulder. “You don’t get camera shy…right?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I keep my mouth shut,channeling all my energy into squeezing the shit out of an empty water bottle until the guy with the headset closes the door behind him. Once I hear that click, the anger I’ve kept in check for the past two hours erupts into a tornado of hurled plastic and righteous indignation.
Spinning around, I point an accusing finger at Willow. “You’ve gone too far.”
“Come on, Ben,” she says, shifting on the small couch in the even smaller dressing room. “You’re being irrational.”
“I’mbeing irrational?” I yell, swinging my finger toward the closed door. “There’s an audience of about two hundred people, not to mention a camera filming a live national broadcast right outside that door, both of which you want me to look straight at and lie.”
Shrugging, she taps a black-painted fingernail against her lips. “They’re not actuallyrightoutside the door,” she mumbles. “More like down two halls and to the—”
“No, Willow. Hell no.” This is the end of the line, and as far as I go. Owning a franchise isn’t worth humiliating myself on national television.
“Is this because of what I did in the conference room yesterday?”
“No! Yes.” Willow’s face falls, and I groan. “No.” I sound like a fucking moron, but this woman makes me crazy. Too tired to keep tossing accusations back and forth, I slump down beside her on the couch. “Look, you explained last night on the plane why you did a complete one-eighty on our original plan, and I get it. I even get that you had to make a snap decision, and there wasn’t time to tell me. You felt something was off, so you trusted your instincts.” I bump my knee against hers. “Just like any good ballplayer does.”
“But…?”
“But you said you were going to ‘out us’ to the media in order to get on top of the story instead of behind it.” She nods, those soulful toffee eyes drowning in exhaustion and solitude. “I was on board with that when I thought you’d give a comment to the local papers or something. But this…” I motion around the backstage green room. “Your reporter friend flew us to New York for Christ’s sake. This is the fucking Whitney Walsh show, Willow! The number one daytime talk show in the country.”
Smirking, she tucks a piece of teal hair behind her ear. “Fan, are we?”
Smartass.
“Hardly. Hailey used to make me watch this shit.” I wave my hand because she’s doing that thing again where she tries to navigate me off course. “The point is, it’s live. No second chances. No retakes. We fuck up out there, we fuck up everywhere. Why the hell would you do this to me?”
And to us.
Because isn’t that the real question? The one that has me all worked up and arguing in a dressing room. This will clean up my name and reputation, but what about hers? What happens when the dust settles, and she demands a divorce? I’ll still be the Playboy Pitcher tamed by love, only to have his heart broken and left holding a billion-dollar consolation prize.
But Willow… She’ll be vilified.
And maybe our deal isn’t so cut and dry now.
No strings, she said. Well, tough shit. We’re tangled up in so many of them that a simple handshake goodbye isn’t an option anymore.
“It’s simple math, Ben. Two birds”—holding up two fingers, she quickly drops one—“and one stone. We save our names and at the same time drive publicity toward the team.” I have no clue what the hell she’s talking about, so I raise a questioning eyebrow. “Sex sells,” she groans, tapping the back of her hand across my chest. “Hello? Kat Corinthos?”
“Who?”
I guess that’s the wrong answer because she shakes her head. “Never mind. The point is we have to turn lemons into champagne.”
“Lemons into champagne? Are we even having the same conversation?”
She meets my narrowed eyes with two of her own. “Ben, the same social media vehicle that’s damning us right now is going to save us. This is our opportunity to take this whole clusterfuck and use it to our advantage.”
“How exactly are we going to do that?”
“What’s the one thing people love more than a scandal?”
“Dick pics.”
“Would you be serious?” She laughs, lightly punching me in the ribs. “No, a whirlwind fairy tale romance story. You know, Romeo and Juliet kind of shit.”
