The Virgin Game Plan
By Lauren Blakely
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Present Day
His Prologue
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I’m the guy with a plan.
I know what my days look like, what my nights have in store.
I have a road map for every practice, an agenda for every game, and a strategy for every at bat. I know dates of each home stand and out-of-town series of the season and can tell you where we’re playing in July and what’s on the schedule for September.
When it comes to sports, I leave nothing to chance. I’m the guy who does the research, who hits the hay by eleven, gets up at six, and logs four miles while the sun is rising.
It’s made me who I am today, and I’m pretty damn happy about that.
Games, seasons, championships—those are won with determination, discipline, and heart, for sure.
But never without a plan.
Dating is kind of like that too. It’s good to know where you’re going for dinner, or how to get to your seats at a concert, or who serves the best cocktails in town. Why wing it and worry when, with a little bit of homework, you can show up confident of a good evening?
The way I see it, preparation is about respect. Respect for the game, respect for the woman, and respect for yourself.
My father instilled that philosophy, my mother reinforced it, and so far, that principle has served me well in every aspect of my life.
Nearly every aspect.
There’s one glaring exception.
Chemistry.
Not the kind that adheres to rules and gives predictable results, the kind you can study in a lab and shows you what to expect in life. I mean the other kind, which doesn’t repeat patterns or generate statistics to analyze. The kind that defies your careful plans and laughs at any strategy.
That chemistry doesn’t give a flying fuck about schedules. It happens when you have something else entirely on your agenda.
At least, it did the day I met Reese.
I got up that morning with one goal. But then I met her, ditched my plans for the afternoon, and spent it with her instead. When I kissed her at the edge of campus, beneath the twilit sky, under a canopy of trees, the night felt young and possible.
Even though we weren’t. We were worlds apart, absolutely impossible.
That’s how she became my what-if girl.
Not the one who got away, or the one where I fucked up a good thing. We were never a thing to fuck up. We only had one day—hell, less than that.
It was one afternoon. One moment that stays lodged in my mind.
What if I met her at a different time, a different place? What if our paths hadn’t crossed going in opposite directions?
Even almost two years later, I still sometimes wondered what she was doing, where she was, and what the odds were I’d ever meet her again.
Then, incredibly, I do.
And I learn there’s a bigger obstacle between us.
So I have to plan to keep her in the “what-if” category.
Then, Reese reveals a deliciously dirty secret, and all my plans where she’s concerned fall apart in filthy, spectacular style.
Her Prologue
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I didn’t go to the party looking for that guy. The one I couldn’t forget. The one whose kisses ruined me for all other kisses.
I went there for work, to make some contacts. See some new people, forge connections and all that.
Most of all, to do some good, since that’s kind of my thing—why I do what I do.
But then I spotted that guy. Watching, observing, listening. There’s a curve to his lips and an intensity in his dark-green eyes, mixed with some of the vulnerability he showed me that day.
A day I’ve longed to recapture.
Except days aren’t driver’s tests—you can’t retake them. They aren’t video games where you can play again from the save point.
But some guys deserve a retake, are worth a do-over.
That’s certainly the case with Holden Kingsley, the guy who showed me exactly what a knee-weakening, bone-melting kiss could be like. Should be like.
The night I meet him again, I want to think we’re getting a fresh start. That we get a magical do-over, maybe with better timing, a different outcome.
Maybe that guy doesn’t have to be simply a fantastic memory.
He can be my present. We can give in to the lust and the longing, the rabid desire that electrifies us both when we’re together.
We can explore the intense connection, the irresistible pull his heart has on me.
I have big plans for Holden Kingsley. Indeed, I do.
At least, I did.
But there’s more than bad timing standing between us now, and I don’t know if any strategy will be enough to keep us together.
Prelude
Nearly Two Years Ago
1
Reese
This is the biggest score ever.
So big, so good, so cool that I could squeal.
But I don’t.
Squealing would draw good-natured shaming from my girlfriends, and no one wants their picture taken with a sign saying, “I turn into Minnie Mouse at good news.” Certainly not more than once.
I’m not a Disney character on helium.
I’m a twenty-two-year-old almost graduate with honors from a prestigious university.
So, no squealing, just a centering breath before I tug on my pink V-neck tee and twist my mostly dry blonde hair into a messy bun on top of my head, vibrating with quiet excitement the whole time.
Yup.
This is happening.
It is on.
I grab my jeans from the locker, pull them on, then retrieve my cell and reread the email to make sure it hasn’t changed. But there it is, the same words imprinted on my memory.
Yes. Hell yes. Absolutely yes.
It delights me wildly that major league second baseman Holden Kingsley replied to my email request with not just a yes, but a jet-fueled quad-shot-latte of a confirmation.
Grinning privately, I set the phone on the bench beside me, staring at the message as I lace up my Converse sneakers. I don’t realize how absorbed I am in spinning out the possibilities until I hear Layla deadpan, “From your rapt attention, there must be some breaking news rocking the sports world. Let me guess—the LA Bandits star pitcher has a hangnail? Some minor league prospect was called up to the majors?”
The pure sass comes from our volleyball team’s star spiker. She could host a master class in sarcasm, and her resting bitch face is top-shelf. I swear she can cut glass with her stare.
“Or is your favorite retro clothing store having a flash sale?” our teammate and friend Tia teases me as she ties a paisley bandana around her sleek black hair, arching a brow. “Because it can’t be a Tinder hookup that has you all giddy.”
Layla nudges her. “You know what would? A professor who wants Reese to do extra credit.”
“You know me so well,” I say. Any of those things would rev my engine—Tinder hookups excepted. But their teasing can’t dampen my enthusiasm for this score.