The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Chance
A few weeks later
My favorite way to finish a game?
Record a save.
My least favorite?
Sitting on my ass and twiddling my thumbs because my team doesn’t even need to call me to the bullpen to warm up.
I’m slumped over on the bench in the world’s quietest dugout. It’s October, the seventh inning of game six of the divisionals.
The Cougars don’t need me to save the game since there’s no win to save. We are down by a grotesque nine runs.
Yup. The Texas Scoundrels are clobbering us in our home park in front of forty thousand fans.
Unless fortune smiles on us in a big way, I won’t be going to the bullpen. I won’t be doing anything but heading home far too early in the postseason.
Two innings later, the Scoundrels’ closer shuts down the big bats in our lineup, the team advances in the playoffs and celebrates on our diamond.
I curse along with my teammates. Safe to say there are no happy campers among the Cougars tonight. We won the World Series last year, but the clock starts over every season. This time, we failed in our one and only goal—to be the last men standing.
I trudge to the locker room, shower, get dressed, then gather my shit. The season is officially over.
But one of my rules is: don’t be a sore loser.
Stay strong.
I man up, clap my teammates on their backs, and tell them it was a good year. The guys and I exchange a bunch of halfhearted see you next years, and have a good off-seasons, and then I head to the door.
I make my way through the corridor of the ballpark then out into the San Francisco night, leaving the game behind.
Once I’m outside, I scan for a familiar face—one I see in the mirror every morning. Ah, there he is. My twin brother leans against a lamppost, AirPods in, singing under his breath.
TJ is the king of finding new, obscure bands nobody’s heard of, so I don’t bother asking what he’s listening to—I won’t have a fucking clue.
He takes his earbuds out and offers, with sympathy, “Want me to pretend I’m you so you don’t have to hear every single person we’re about to see tell you how bummed they are by the loss?”
I perk up. Now that is a save. “Yes. Fucking yes.”
“Consider it done.”
TJ calls a Lyft, and a few minutes later we slide into the Prius that arrives for us. In the backseat, we trade shirts, a necessity since TJ dresses better than I do. I’m the king of T-shirts and pullovers, but as a writer, my brother can pull off a cool hipster style. That’s how I find myself wearing a short-sleeved beige shirt in a fabric patterned with cartoonish mushrooms—psychedelic ones, I’m sure—in shades of orange and brown and yellow.
“You do know I hate mushrooms,” I point out.
“Good. Then the shirt is ironic too,” he says, then gestures to my gray T-shirt. “And I hate boring clothes. So we’re even.”
“Fair enough.” I take a quick glance at TJ in my clothes.
Almost there.
I tug my World Series ring off my finger and give it to him with a warning. “Be nice to my precious.”
“Of course, Gollum.” TJ slides the beauty on, the symbol of one of my greatest professional accomplishments. He waggles his hand, letting the diamonds and sapphires catch the streetlights as the car cruises to the Mission. “Thank you, little bro. And see you later. I have an auction to attend. Gonna see if I can find me a buyer for this bad boy.”
I slam a hand on his shoulder. “And if you do that, I won’t hesitate to tell all your adoring fans that you don’t actually believe in happily-ever-afters.”
Growling, he narrows his dark eyes. “Blasphemy! You wouldn’t dare.”
“Just try me if you fence my ring.”
A few minutes later, the Lyft arrives at The Lucky Spot in the Mission. “Thanks, man,” I say to the driver, then we head into the bar. Normally, I’d go to The Spotted Zebra after games with my teammates. But if I do, I’ll flirt with the bartender, and that’s not cool to do when my big brother—by five minutes—is in town.
Once inside, I ask for a booth, and the host does a double take.
“Mr. Ashford?” he asks, his eyes flicking from TJ to me and back.
TJ and I point at each other.
We both laugh. Can’t help it.
Our twin swap still cracks me up. It cracked us up when we were five years old and tricked our parents at dinner.
We fooled teachers at school too, when we were in the mood to be little jackasses.
Our tricks were harder to pull off as we grew older and developed different talents. Since I couldn’t send him in to sub for me on the mound, and he couldn’t lean on me to sign books for fans while chatting about their favorite kissing scene in his romantic tales, we don’t have many chances to play the old switcheroo.
But this right here is the perfect moment.
“I’ll show you to your booth. That was a tough loss,” the host says to TJ as he guides us through the bar.
“Yeah, that was such a bummer. I cried in the dugout,” TJ says as me, with such a beleaguered sigh, I kind of want to smack him.
“Dude, I cried too,” the host says as we reach the booth.
My brother slides in. I sit across from him, glad to be out of the crossfire of random fan sympathy even as TJ hams it up with his reply: “Baseball is life. All I wanted was to bring life back into that game tonight.”
“I’m telling you, if you’d have gotten in, Chance, we’d have locked that series up. Sent the Scoundrels packing back to Texas,” the host says.
“You bet your San Francisco Cougars ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball ass my bro would have shut them down,” I put in.
TJ strokes his bearded jaw. Damn good thing I grew out my beard in the postseason. TJ and I match completely. “I had my best pitch all lined up too,” he says. “I was ready to throw fire from my hands like the Devil himself.”
The host smiles sympathetically. “I wish you’d been able to break out your cutter, Chance,” the guy says. “I still remember when you struck out that Miami Ace last year. Don’t let this time get you down though. You are our World Series champions, and we will always love you.”
TJ affects a choked-up sob, clasps his heart. “Means the world to me. Thanks, man.”
The host turns my way, flashes a courteous grin. “You must be the romance writer.”
“Roses are red, violets are blue, romance is awesome, except when it’s not,” I quip, and holy fuck it’s hard to come up with rhymes on the spot.
TJ lowers his head, laughing. “Please tell me that’s not going in your next book.”
I grin wider. “You know what I am going to put in my next book? A guy who has really big feet. He wears really big shoes. His name is going to be . . .”
“Longfellow?” the host asks, helpfully.
“Nope. Bigfoot,” I say deadpan.
The guy laughs, then hands us the menus. “Let me know when you’re ready, Mr. Ashford and Mr. Ashford,” he says, then sets a sympathetic hand on TJ’s shoulder. “Until next season.”
The man smiles and walks away.
I stare at my brother with an arched brow. “Seriously? You cried in the dugout?”
“Just be glad that I waxed on and on about your sport instead of saying roses are red and violets are blue. Also, I am not putting Bigfoot in my book.”
“But I bet your hero will have big feet,” I say, sketching air quotes.
“All romance heroes have big feet. That’s like saying he’ll have carved abs and drink scotch.”
“Wait. You mean he’ll look just like me?” I ask, then yank up the mushroom shirt and flash my six-pack.
TJ rolls his eyes. “You’re so modest, Chance. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you aren’t a paragon of humility.”
“I won’t,” I say.
TJ leans back in the booth, a slow and satisfied grin spreading on his face. “It worked.”
“What worked?” I ask.
TJ points at me. “Me playing you. It got your mind off the game.”
I smile. “It did. Thanks. Appreciate it.” I sigh heavily. “I know I have no right to be upset, but damn, I wanted to advance.”
“Course you did. You’re a take-no-prisoners competitor. Losing sucks, no two ways about it. But at least there are burgers and beer.”
“And that’ll have to do,” I say, then peruse the menu.
When the server swings by, we order, and once he leaves, TJ dives into music talk, telling me about a new band he’s into called Secret Frog Lovers Mate in the Night.
“What is it about bands these days? Why can’t they just have normal names?” I ask.
“There are no normal names anymore,” he says.
I snap my fingers. “Normal Name. That would be a good name for a band.”
TJ arches a brow. “You sure about that? Would you listen to a band called Normal Name?”
He has a point. “No, but only because, unlike you, I already listen to music artists people have heard of. Shawn Mendes. Justin Timberlake. Post Malone.”
“Word of advice—either develop taste or turn to me for playlists to impress the ladies.”
Another excellent point, but I won’t concede. “Yeah, count on that never. Besides, I’ve had no lady to impress in ages.”
He nods in understanding, then asks, “Anyway, what are your plans for the off-season?”
“I’ve got a couple events with sponsors in the next few weeks before I go to New York in November for a big shoot with a watchmaker. I’ll be the new face of Victoire watches.”
“Do you mean you’ll be the new wrist of Victoire?”
“Pretty sure they want this face too,” I say, gesturing to my cheek. “We’re a package deal.”
“Want me to fill in, since I’m the more handsome one? I could probably sell more watches than you.”
“Speaking of modesty,” I say, laughing. It’s true—no one takes my mind off bad games like my brother.
The server stops by with our beers; we thank him, then we toast to French watchmakers and big feet.
“Anyway, the watch thing sounds like a sweet gig,” TJ says after he sets down his beer. “Are you going right after the wedding?”
No clue what he’s talking about. “What wedding?”
The golden flecks in TJ’s brown eyes glimmer. “Blake’s wedding,” he says. “Cousin Blake. Mom’s sister’s son. Blake, the Hot Tub King.”
Ohhhhhhhhh.
I groan, put the glass on the table, and slump down in the booth. “Yes, I know who Cousin Blake is, but seriously? He’s getting married next month?”
“Yes. The save-the-date cards were sent out ages ago,” TJ says.
“I know, I know. But I haven’t received my invite yet, and my brain erased it.” I drag a hand over my face. “In fact, it was preventing a horrible future memory. It’s like the start of a reward. It’s a pre-ward. My brain was giving me a pre-ward for forgetting it.”
TJ holds up a wait-a-minute finger then grabs his phone, dictating into it. “Book note: character makes a joke about a pre-ward before he gets a sex reward.”
“Hey! I want royalties for that.”
TJ winks. “Sure. You can have them when you give me ten percent of your bank for all the times I caught fastballs in the backyard growing up. Anyway, Blake’s a good guy. He’s fun. He’s the life of the party, and he’s using all that hot tub dough to host a sweet tropical destination wedding for him and Trish. Why don’t you want to go?”
I stare at my brother. He can’t be serious. “Gee, can you think of a single reason I don’t want to go? Like, maybe . . . a bridesmaid?”
Realization dawns at the mention of my ex-wife’s role in the wedding. “Shit, man. I genuinely did forget about that. Want me to pretend to be you?” he offers.
I press my hands together in prayer. “Please. Would you go as me?”
TJ stares at the ceiling, maybe considering it, then lets out a sad sigh. “I would. There’s only one little problem. I already RSVP’d, so Blake and Trish know I’ll be there,” he says, tapping his chest. “If I go as you, I’m the asshole—me, as in TJ—who didn’t show.”
“Got it. Makes sense. But man, I do not want to see Natasha.” There’s no way around that. We’re all interconnected—Blake, Natasha, and me. Trish, the bride, is my ex-wife’s stepsister, and Natasha introduced her to Blake, my cousin, at one of my baseball games.
Natasha, who ran me through the wringer in our divorce.
Who did her best to paint me as the distant, absent, always-on-the-road spouse.
And since I didn’t want to draw any more media attention to my imploding personal life and her very public lament for the end of her marriage to All-Star Major Leaguer Chance Ashford, all I could do was keep my head down and ride it out.
Even when, a week before the divorce was finalized, I learned she’d been cheating on me for the past three years.
The irony is enough to make anyone bitter. Natasha’s a lifestyle coach and purveyor of platitudes under the brand Notes to Self.
Our split gave her endless inspiration. Nothing like seeing the private details of your disintegrating marriage on Instagram, captioned with banal affirmations over a picture of a breakfast smoothie. If I never again see a filtered photo of avocado toast—It’s not selfish to care for yourself—it’ll be too soon.
Note to me: relationships suck.
“Look,” TJ says, “if you really want, I can say something came up. I’ll tell them my book is overdue—which is true—and my publisher is breathing down my neck—also true—and I just can’t go. Then I’ll go as you.” My brother scratches his jaw. “Honestly, it might be a little cathartic getting to zing your ex-wife in your place. I can even come up with a whole list of digs, so I’m prepared.”
I smile, grateful for the offer. But that’s too much to ask anyone, even my twin. “Appreciate it, but I can’t have you do that. Also, you hate Natasha, so you’d snap and then the jig would be up. Mom would be furious at both of us, and Dad would try to make everyone happy.”
I shudder at the thought of ticking off either of them—or anyone, really.
“Just like they did when they split.” TJ stares thoughtfully out the window. “Okay, scratch that. We don’t need to deal with that again.” Then he jerks his gaze back to me as if an idea jolted him. “You could take a date.”
How do dates even work anymore? “I haven’t had a date in a year. Are you taking someone?”
TJ scoffs. “No way. There’s no dude I want to be holed up with in Hawaii for a weekend. Romance and me broke up. I am single all the way. Like, in perpetuity.”
“Perpetually single is the way to go,” I say, offering a fist for bumping.
Our burgers arrive, and after a few delicious bites, I set down the food, a fantastic thought dipping into my brain. “Maybe my invitation was lost. Or maybe Blake isn’t inviting me on account of Natasha being there. Maybe he’s being pre-thoughtful? That’s possible.”
TJ smiles as he chews. “You’ve always been the big dreamer between the two of us.”
I shrug, owning it. “I’m going to hold on tight to this dream. I am going to cup it in my hands and squeeze it until it comes true.”
* * *
I dream that the invitation was lost in the mail. I wish that it were sent to Mars. I imagine an eagle swooped down and plucked it out of the mail carrier’s bag like a fish from a river. But my dreams die a painful death when I open the mailbox a few days later after returning from a morning workout. Outside my home in Pacific Heights, my hands clasp a white envelope. With embossed writing, my name in silver taunts me.
Three days in Maui.
Three days seeing Natasha with the man she left me for. The man she cheated on me with.
Three days with family asking how I’m doing, if I’m sad, how I’m handling the end of my marriage, if I’m moving on.
The answer? I’ve moved on, closed up the heart, and taken myself out of the falling-in-love rotation.
But I’d rather not see their sympathetic faces. Hear the good for yous.
My chest tightens with knots, like how I feel when I face a terrifying batter. A leftie with tree trunks for arms.
But do I back away from vicious lefties who try to chew up closing pitchers like they’re chicken bones?
Nope.
I stare down those fuckers and throw them the nastiest stuff.
I snap the invitation against my palm, TJ’s advice ringing loud and clear in my ears.
Take a date.
It’s not a bad idea.
After keeping on my game face while Natasha, her adoring fans, and random strangers painted me as the bad guy, I’d like to let the world know I’ve moved on. I’ve finally climbed out of the “smile and wave as my marriage implodes on social media” phase of my life, and I don’t want to go down that road again.
Showing up to support my cousin despite Natasha being in the wedding party will let the world know I’m a good sport.
Hell, I’m a goddamn good guy.
Just like I’ve always wanted to be.
All I need is a date for the wedding.
But asking the woman I have in mind will require some finesse and a little research.
Time to see what Google has to say on the subject.
