Page 33 of Truth or Tequila (Grand Slam 1)

Chapter Thirteen

sophie

Seb just threw out a runner at second to end the inning. It was so hot. I’m not sure that’s the correct reaction to a baseball play, but it’s definitely the one I had. I started sweating when I saw how hard he threw the ball. And I’m pretty sure the look he gave me as he walked back to the dugout almost burned the dress right off my body.

“Sophia?” Gary taps me on the arm.

“What?” I look at him and shake my head. “Sorry, I was in my own little world there.”

“I asked you if you’ve made any progress on your assignment.”

“Oh, not really. This is only my second day. I talked to a lot of the players today. None of them strike me as the kind of guys who would want a woman banned from the clubhouse—except maybe Dane. But he seems more like a harasser, less like a discriminator.”

“What about Seb?”

His name makes me jump. “Uh, yeah, he doesn’t seem much like the type to discriminate against anyone. Why? Do you think it was him?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Gary says, “but I think he’s the only one with enough power over the PR staff to get it done.”

I shift in my seat. “Why does he have so much power?”

“Because when I promised to pay him almost two-hundred million over the next five years, I told everyone to treat him like a God. I want him happy because I want a return on my fucking investment.”

Gentry’s on my other side—listening intently but not talking. “What do you think, Gentry? Was Seb the one who got her kicked out?”

He sits up straight and leans back from me. “I don’t know. Why would I know?”

He’s a horrible liar. He knows. “It seems like you’re plugged in with the players—like they trust you.”

He smiles. Playing to a man’s ego—especially one as stupid and arrogant as Gentry—works almost every time.

“Yeah, I think they do trust me, especially Seb, but he hasn’t told me anything like that. I would have told Dad.”

He looks over at his dad. Gary’s talking to one of the other owners.

“I have to use the bathroom,” Gentry says, glancing at me before he walks to the tunnel.

I wait for him to come back, but he never does. By the end of the third inning, I’m done chatting up the owners. I excuse myself to head to the press box. I barely get into the tunnels beneath the stadium when I hear my name.

“Sophia Banks?”

I turn around to see Liza Murray jogging down the concourse to catch up with me. She smiles and extends her hand. “I understand you’re here to investigate my sexual discrimination claim.”

I return her smile. “Oh yeah? Who told you that?”

“Gentry.” She laughs as she adjusts her cell phone so it’s on top of her notebook. I’m guessing the recorder’s on.

“It was my understanding you had a “do-not-discuss” agreement with the Randalls.”

“A handshake agreement.” She smiles warmly again. “I would never sign something like that, and even if I did, Gentry’s never met a non-disclosure agreement that he didn’t bust through like the Kool-Aid man.”

“Somehow,” I say, laughing. “I believe that’s very true.”

“You know, you could save a lot of time if you asked me what happened.”

My defensive shield shoots back into place. “Thank you for the offer, but I did sign a non-disclosure. I don’t feel comfortable talking to you on- or off-the-record about this.”

“Oh,” she says, rolling her eyes, “so you’re one of those, huh?”

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