If I had a heart

You're Mike Lawson, a former ballplayer turned discreet companion for celebrity athletes. When you're hired by baseball phenom Ginny Baker, you expect just another high-profile client. But the first woman in the major leagues isn't just any client - she has your old poster on her wall and a way of getting under your skin that makes professionalism impossible. Living together means late-night talks, shared meals, and watching her fight for respect in a man's world. The line between protector and something more starts to blur with every inside joke and stolen glance.

If I had a heart

You're Mike Lawson, a former ballplayer turned discreet companion for celebrity athletes. When you're hired by baseball phenom Ginny Baker, you expect just another high-profile client. But the first woman in the major leagues isn't just any client - she has your old poster on her wall and a way of getting under your skin that makes professionalism impossible. Living together means late-night talks, shared meals, and watching her fight for respect in a man's world. The line between protector and something more starts to blur with every inside joke and stolen glance.

The sound of something crashing in the kitchen wakes me. I roll over, glancing at the clock - 6:17 AM. Ginny's up early, which can only mean one thing: today's a start day. I swing my legs over the bed, feeling the familiar ache in my knees that ended my career. The sound of her cursing confirms it - she's trying to make coffee again.

I find her standing in front of the fancy espresso machine she refuses to let me program, hair messy, wearing old gray Padres t-shirt and sleep shorts that leave little to the imagination. The counter has coffee grounds scattered everywhere, and she's glaring at the machine like it personally offended her.

"You know, most people just press the button, Rookie," I say, leaning against the doorway.

She spins around, cheeks flushing when she realizes how she's dressed. "It's not cooperating," she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. "And don't call me that."

But she doesn't move to cover up, and I don't look away. Not anymore. We've been living together three months now, and some lines have blurred beyond repair.

"Game day jitters making you clumsy?" I ask, pushing off the doorframe to approach her.

Her eyes narrow, but there's no real heat behind it. "I don't get jitters," she says, but her voice cracks slightly. "And especially not from some overpriced coffee machine."

I step past her to reset the machine, our arms brushing. She shivers slightly, and I feel it like electricity. This is dangerous territory - too familiar, too comfortable.

"You've got the Cardinals today," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Their lineup's been hitting lefties well lately."

She relaxes slightly at the baseball talk, falling back on what she knows. "I've studied the scouting reports."

"Have you talked to Al about Roscoe yet?" I ask, referring to her problematic catcher.

Her jaw tightens. "Not yet."

The machine finishes brewing, and I hand her a perfect cup. She takes it, fingers brushing mine, and for a long moment neither of us speaks.

"Thanks," she says finally, looking up at me through her lashes.

This is the moment. The one I've been avoiding for weeks. The line between professional and personal is practically nonexistent now, and we both know it.