The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) by Lauren Blakely (best fiction novels of all time txt) 📗

It’s pitcher versus batter, mano a mano. The fierce and mighty fourth grader goes into his windup and unleashes a wicked fastball, sending it right across the plate. The ten-year-old batter connects on the first swing, launching a screaming line drive.

My pulse spikes. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

But Jacob barely needs my direction. He’s tearing down the third baseline, hell-bent on crossing home plate. The ball screams past the shortstop, skittering across the grass, as Jacob hoofs it. I cup my hands in front of my mouth. “You got it! You got it! Just go, go, go!”

Jacob crosses the plate with the winning run, victorious as the rest of his team pours out of the dugout right as the batter lands on first base.

Grant gives the batter a fist bump. I trot toward home plate, and when the kids break apart from their cheering fiesta, Jacob heads straight for me, a gleaming smile across his young face.

“Thank you, Coach Cash.”

“It was nothing,” I say, high-fiving the kid.

But it wasn’t nothing. I know the coaching mattered to Jacob. To these other kids. That’s why we’re here. These grade-schoolers have worked hard all season, and they pulled it off, winning their local league championship.

They make my heart swell with pride. I point at Jacob’s chest, stabbing a finger into his sternum. “You’re the man.”

He shakes his head. “You’re the man.”

I shake mine. “No, you’re the man.”

Grant jogs over to us, arriving at home plate with a huge grin.  “Maybe I’m the man,” he says, smacking palms with the kids, then me.

Chance saunters over, joining the celebration. “Yes, it all goes to you, Grant. We couldn’t do anything without you,” Chance says to the guy who’s the steady force behind the plate in our major league games. They are a tough pitcher-catcher combo, one of the best pairings in all of pro baseball, with the kind of tempo that Posada and Rivera had with the Yankees back in the day.

After we congratulate the kids, help them pack up their equipment, and straighten up the diamond, the three of us leave the field where we’ve served as honorary coaches, playing with a local team of fourth graders in a rougher section of the city.

The kids needed equipment, a field, and some go get ’em spirit. So the three of us volunteered to do it, buying their equipment and pitching in as coaches.

Once we leave the field, heading for my cherry-red Tesla, Grant points to the front seat. “Shotgun.”

Chance rolls his eyes. “Back seat has plenty of leg room too. You always think you’re pulling one over on me, don’t you?”

Grant winks at him. “Front seat is better. You can try to justify it. But the truth is I’m just faster.”

Chance lifts a brow, his dark eyes taunting. “That’s what she said about you.”

Grant shoots him a look. He clears his throat. “Maybe that’s what she said about you. But no man has ever said that about me.”

Chance hums doubtfully, his dark eyes narrowing. “I dunno. Weren’t you in and out in, like, fifteen minutes with your Grindr hookup the last time we went out?”

Grant shoots deadly laser rays straight at Chance. “Dude. That was DoorDash. I fucking ordered DoorDash.”

“You hooked up with the DoorDash guy? Damn, Grant,” he says, whistling.

Grant huffs. “I was on DoorDash ordering some Thai food for when I got home. I’m not even on Grindr, man.” He reaches into his back pocket, then tosses his phone across the roof of the car to Chance.

Chance grabs it with one hand. “Cool. You want me to sign you up for it now? Should I put you down as In-and-Out-in-Five Guy?”

Grant rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a single dating app on there. Because, wait for it, I don’t need ’em.”

Chance winks. “Right. Sure. DoorDash is your dating app.”

Grant cracks up, shaking his head. “It’s a miracle you’ve ever had a date.”

I reach the driver’s side door, gesturing to the two-man comedy act. “Please tell me we’re not going to spend the entire car ride with the two of you debating your prowess in the bedroom with your conquests.”

Grant and Chance shoot each other confused looks. “What else would we talk about?” Grant asks.

Chance scratches his jaw. “That’s literally our only conversational fodder,” he says as he slides into the back seat. “If we can’t thump our chests and mock each other, I don’t know what we would discuss. So maybe shut your mouth, Crosby.”

I hold up a hand in surrender as I slide into the car. “Anyway, that was a helluva good game. A good season too. Glad you clowns didn’t fuck it up for me.”

Grant squeezes my cheek. “Aw, do we usually fuck it up for you, little Crosby?”

I bat him away. “Sometimes you do. But fair play,” I say, shifting to a slightly serious tone as I start the engine. “You fuckers did good today. Did you see how Carson connected on his at-bat in the fourth?”

Grant beams, a grin that makes his blue eyes sparkle. “That was dope. I was so damn proud of him. He’s come so far this season.”

Chance pats Grant’s shoulder. “He’s a helluva catcher too. I can see him following in your footsteps, man.”

Grant offers him a fist for knocking. “Right back ‘atcha. Christian, Vance, Marco—all the pitchers you coached made serious strides this season. Christian is going to be as fearsome at cleaning up the messes on the mound as you are, man.”

It’s Chance’s turn to smile like a fool. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

As the Cougars’ closing pitcher, Chance is indeed our cleanup guy on the mound. He’s the one we trust to get us out of jams. Bases loaded, no outs? Tough leftie at the plate? Winning run on third? Chance is the man. The team’s radio announcers nicknamed him Last Chance Train Is Pulling Out of the Station because of the way he freezes out opponents when he takes the mound at the bottom of the