A fucking finalist.
Pissing Cole off even further, Cassidy wouldn’t tell him who his competition was. Cole had named every worthwhile sportswriter in the city, but Cassidy wouldn’t so much as grunt in confirmation.
Damn Cassidy and his unshakable professionalism.
His friend hadn’t completely left him in the lurch, though.
Cassidy had pointedly mentioned to Lincoln that the other candidate had been invited to the Berkin’s Hospitality Group’s reserved suite at tonight’s Yankees game.
Lincoln had, of course, told Cole.
So here they were, trying to sniff out the competition.
It was the only reason Cole would be caught dead in the luxury suite. Cole hated the luxury suites.
This wasn’t what baseball—or any game—was about. Baseball was about the peanuts, the rowdy crowds, the overpriced beer. It was about the sound of a fastball smacking against the catcher’s glove, the satisfying crack of a wooden bat when a rookie pinch-hitter really got a hold of one.
For Cole, watching baseball was about sitting with his brother in the stands, watching Bobby’s face go positively ecstatic every time they did the wave, and the way his brother never, ever got tired of the seventh-inning stretch.
That was baseball.
And Cole wanted nothing more than to be an anonymous part of the rowdy crowd, preferably on the third-base line, watching the Yankees, hopefully, trounce the Blue Jays.
Instead, he was stuck here with a bunch of fools who wouldn’t recognize a baseball if it line-drived them in the ass.
Adding insult to injury, it was all for nothing. There was no sign of his competition. Cole knew every decent sportswriter in the city, and none were here tonight.
It was possible, he supposed, that Cassidy was considering some out-of-town jock for the position, but a quick scan of the room showed only familiar faces, all corporate bigwigs.
“Let’s get out of here,” Cole said to Lincoln, downing the rest of his beer in three gulps.
“You don’t want to at least wait for Cassidy?”
“Nah, I’ll catch him tomorrow.”
Before Cole turned to leave, he couldn’t resist one last look at the seat where his Tiny Brunette had been sitting.
He paused when he saw that she’d returned, and, incredibly, the woman had just gotten more appealing to Cole.
Her face was turned to the side just slightly, her notebook now on the open seat to her right instead of on her lap, and she wrote furiously with her right hand, while her left hand held…
A hot dog.
Be still my heart.
Apparently, Miss Glued-to-the-Game had managed to tear herself away long enough to get a good old-fashioned hot dog. Mustard only, from the looks of it. Personally, he’d have added some ketchup, but still…a woman who’d so unabashedly eat a hot dog?
He had to talk to this woman, risk of rejection be damned.
Cole was beside her before he’d even fully committed to the decision to move, ignoring Lincoln’s snicker behind him.
Up close, she was even smaller than he expected. Narrow shoulders, no chest to speak of, skinny little arms.
He had yet to see her face full on, thanks to the cap pulled low on her forehead, and suddenly he wasn’t sure what he was more desperate to see—her face or her notebook.
He cleared his throat. “Hey.”