The Secret Hook-Up

I will not lose my shit in this elevator.

Nope. Nope nope. Not thinking about where I am.

In the dark.

In a small room held up by just a cable.

Who knows how many stories up.

In the dark.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Still the same dark, but I’m in control of dark-behind-my-eyelids dark.

I’m in control. I’m in control. I’m in control.

Do we have enough oxygen? Does anyone know we’re stuck? Will they help us? How can they help us? Are we between floors? How long will we be here?

Nope, not in control.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Is Addie afraid of elevators?

Addie.

I will not lose my shit in front of Addie.

Better.

I cannot lose my shit in front of Addie.

That would be mortifying.

But also, I still give it a fifty-fifty chance.

A light flips on.

Her phone. Duh. Of course. Get light from the phone.

Her fingers touch my wrist as I lean against the wall and let my eyes close again. My pulse is hammering. I’m starting to sweat. And I’m pissed and embarrassed too.

“Wanna sit down? Get comfortable?” she says. “Could be a few minutes.”

“I’m good.” I’m not good.

The worst part, though, is how quickly I’m panicking.

That’s what it is.

Panic.

We’re alone, but I feel hot bodies crowded tight around us. I hear a baby crying. My mom grips my shoulder harder and harder while my dad tells her not to worry. The scent of onions lingers in the air while the minutes drag on and on and on. Someone had onions on their lunch and got in an elevator and now we’re all stuck here.

“I want to sit.” Addie’s voice is a lifeline pulling me out of the memory, bringing me back to where it’s just the two of us. “Will you sit with me?”

Shit. My thighs are shaking and I still smell onions. “Yeah.”

I don’t move.

Not even when her fingers move on my wrist, reminding me she’s here and that she’s moving.

“Duncan?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m texting building support to let them know we’re in here.”

A shiver wrenches through my body with the same force of the thunder making its presence known outside. “No signal—in—metal boxes.”

“I have a strong signal. Sit with me. Since the power hasn’t come right back on, it might be a few more minutes.”

Right. I’m still standing. I press my back against the wall and let myself slide down it.

Addie slides down next to me, then squeezes my thigh. “Better, yeah?”

“I got stuck in an elevator at the CN Tower in Toronto on a family vacation in high school. Full elevator. Crush of people. Near the top. It dropped a little when the power went out. I’m fine. Long time ago.”

“Is that the last time you were stuck in an elevator?”

I’m definitely sweating.

It’s fucking cold, my clothes are soaked with rain, my hair is dripping, it’s the temperature of a refrigerator in here, and I’m sweating.

I’m definitely not fine. “Yeah.”

“First place your brain went just now?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re okay. We’re barely a floor up. Super close to the ground.”

I make myself suck in a breath. Ignore the fireflies dancing in my vision. Concentrate on Addie’s voice.

“Management is usually very quick to respond,” she’s saying. “They’re ridiculous. They pitched in and got me a champagne basket the first time the Fireballs went all the way. Gift certificates for restaurants around the neighborhood too, though I’m pretty sure the restaurants donated those. They act like I’m some kind of celebrity.”

The sound of her voice is pulling me back from the edge. “Say more.”

“We’re playing Minnesota this week. First series on our road trip. That’s always hard. They were my team when I was growing up, and now my job is to crush them. Well, to encourage the guys to crush them. My first season, I got completely tongue-tied when I realized I was standing on the same field as guys in Minnesota uniforms. Luca Rossi caught me taking a selfie with the other team in the background and offered to introduce me to some of the guys. He played for Minnesota for a year. I declined. I didn’t want any of the guys to know I was freaking out on the inside. Embarrassing, eh?”

My breathing is evening out. My eyes are still closed. Easier to not think about where I am this way. “This is embarrassing.”

“Human intelligence has advanced world technologies much faster in the past two hundred years than the evolution of our brains can keep up with. Normal fight-or-flight response to an unnatural situation. Rooms aren’t supposed to go up and down.”

This isn’t fight or flight. It’s freeze. “I hate MRIs too.”

She tucks her arm through mine.

Her good arm. I’m on her right.

It’s warm.

She’s warm.

I shiver, then huddle closer to her.

“Same,” she says quietly. “And I’d be lying if I said it’s because MRIs mean I’m hurt. They’re…just as bad as being stuck in a dress.”

“You know what’s dumb?”

“The price of ice cream these days?”

I huff out a surprised half laugh. Maybe a quarter laugh. But more of a laugh than I expected to have in me right now. “Airplanes don’t bother me. Not even when we hit turbulence.”

“That’s because you have a solid understanding of aerodynamics.”

More shivers ripple through me. We’re both soaked. She has to be cold too, despite the warmth radiating off of her.

And now I’m remembering giving her a presentation on how airplanes work when we were hooking up a few years ago.

In another place, in a different situation, the reminder would make me laugh again.

I geeked out hard.

“Should’ve taken the stairs,” I mutter.

“Next time.”

“Every time.”

“I took the stairs when we got back to the hotel after a game in the middle of a long road trip a few years ago. The team was all lined up around the elevators, and I didn’t want to wait. Or be stuck in a small space with them when their body washes don’t always work well together. It was a hike. Something like fourteen stories. Halfway up, I started smelling something weird. Like, worse than their body washes combined. Skunky, but not normal skunky.”

I don’t remember any stories about any of the Fireballs being suspended for weed, but that’s where my brain goes at skunky. “What was it?”

“We were staying in the same hotel as a bunch of music fans who met on the internet and decided to go on vacation together for a nineties band tour. Apparently they didn’t get along as well in person as they did online though, so there was a group of them that kept going to the stairwell to smoke.”

“Plain pot.”

“Pot and burning human hair.”

My chest is loosening. I pry my eyes open and look at her, illuminated by only her phone’s flashlight. She’s staring straight ahead, not looking at me, but she’s still gripping my arm.

“Burning human hair?” I repeat.

“Someone got careless with a lighter, someone else thought it was intentional, and all of these fifty-something white dudes were trying to light each other’s hair on fire while high.”

“No.”

“All I wanted was to get to my room. I always preorder my room service because I know once the team gets back to any hotel, the kitchen is getting backed up. I had a hamburger on the way, and I hadn’t had a hamburger in weeks. And instead of eating my burger in peace and quiet, I’m calling the front desk and helping put out hair fires and getting a contact high. By the time I called Santiago to tell him to have the boys lock down in their rooms until the drama was over, I sounded like a Smurf.”

“That the only time you’ve ever been high?”

“I did gummies with my brothers a few years ago at the holidays.”

“And?”

“And now I know what it’s like, and I don’t need to do it again.”

“What happened?”

“My sister-in-law put Frozen on the TV, and I cried my eyes out from the first note to the end of the credits.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I stare at my legs, sticking straight out in front of us. Breathing is easier. Panic’s mostly receded. I’m okay.

I’m okay.

“Was it at least a fun cry?” I ask her.

“No.”

“Do you cry often?”

She makes a noise that I interpret as that’s a stupid question, of course not.

Most of my body is cold, but it’s warm where our arms are touching. I lean closer to her. “No shame in crying.”

“The day the rest of the coaching staff cries, I’ll cry with them.”

“You were good with Mary today.”

She stiffens.

I lift my free arm and reach across my body to grip her forearm. “You were. And with the Stingrays too.”

“It matters to me that women know they can reach for their dreams.”

“You let them in.”

She’s quiet for a long moment while I wonder if I’ve overstepped again. I’ll blame the panic if I did.

It’s true enough.

“I’m not the marble statue I used to be,” she says quietly. “At least, I wasn’t. Until I found out Santiago’s retiring.”

I angle a look at her.

“I can’t—I don’t—when people take advantage of you and watch for every mistake to try to prove you don’t belong, it’s hard to not put up walls so they can’t hurt you. My longest gig before coming here was about eight months. I spent the first two years here waiting for that call into the office to be told that someone had complained that I’d looked at them wrong, or I’d crossed a line that a female coach shouldn’t cross with a male player, or that I wasn’t living up to expectations.”

I squeeze her arm again. “You kick ass, and the Fireballs know it.”

“I started to believe that. We won the whole damn thing, and I started to relax. The team, the coaching staff, management—they made—make me feel like I belong. Like we’re family. Good family. And I was still scared, but I wanted to trust it. So I started to loosen up. Be more me. And it felt good. But going through the process of thinking about applying for the manager position, telling the Fireballs staff to put my name on the list, thinking about how I can level up as a coach—it’s put my brain back to all of the interviews I went on after college, when I was switching jobs every four to six months and feeling like I didn’t belong anymore.”

“You smiled before the game yesterday.”

“My boss asked me why I was being an asshole to the players.”

I jerk my head up. “Seriously?”

“Not quite those words, but he did say I’d seemed stressed and the players had noticed. So I—I’m trying to remember to be more me.”

“Believe in what the universe has planned for you,” I muse.

Yeah, I’m better.

Because she’s here.

I’m not alone.

She makes me okay.

“I really love working for the Fireballs,” she whispers. “Before coming here, I was starting to doubt I could make it. They made me believe in me too.”

“Good. I don’t have to secretly hate them.”

“I just don’t want to cross a line that I don’t even realize I shouldn’t cross and lose it all. I’m really happy here.”

“Favorite coach I ever had was the one who pulled me into his office to chew me out when my game was shit right after my divorce,” I tell her. “But he didn’t chew me out. He sat me down, said, son, you’re gonna get through this just like I did. Told me about his wife leaving him. About drinking too much after. About having to find what was good in the rest of his life to live for again. Told me to call him day or night, no matter what.”

Her arm tenses under my hand. “I’m glad you had good support.”

“Wasn’t just me. He talked to the whole team about the shit we’d all been through. Sometimes privately. Sometimes to all of us. First team I played with to win the cup.”

“I was fired once for giving a player a hug right after he lost a parent,” she whispers.

“That’s complete bullshit. I hug my teammates all the time. Coaches too. Don’t tell me baseball dudes don’t hug. I’ve seen them.”

“I know. But knowing it and getting over it are different.”

I scoot lower on the floor so I can lay my head on her shoulder. “I feel better. Thank you.”

She checks her phone. “Management says the power’s out on the whole block. Crews are working on it. Should be up in half an hour to an hour. They can call the fire department if we need out now.”

“I’m okay.”

“I have to get to the ballpark. No one has to know you hate elevators.”

“I do hate elevators. But I don’t mind being stuck with you.”

Her shoulder lifts, then settles back as a heavy breath leaves her nose. I watch as she replies to the text from the building’s management.

We’re okay for the moment. I’ll text my boss and let him know I might be late.

She switches to Jimmy Santiago’s contact info and types out a quick stuck in an elevator update.

His near-instant response of I told you to move into a building with backup generators makes her snort. She gives it a thumbs-up emoji, then closes her text messages.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, just the sound of our breathing filling the dimly lit space between us.

My skin is starting to itch from being wet. Hers can’t feel too good either.

“I’m debating withdrawing my name for the manager position,” she whispers.

I lift my head and look at her. “What? Why?”

“I got into coaching baseball because I love it. I love the game. I love the weather. I love living every day in the presence of the idols I had when I was growing up, playing baseball with my brothers and going to games with them and teaching myself to read with the sports pages.”

She’s playing with her hands. “I love coaching the men I would’ve idolized as a girl, even knowing that my idolatry was likely misplaced. It’s about the player, not about the man, and believe me, that’s a lesson I learned the hardest of hard ways. I love being part of an organization that believes in growth and that believes in putting resources into continuously getting better as a team. I don’t love that I have to be better and stronger and more professional than everyone else on the coaching staff, but I do love that I am. No one can take that knowledge from me.”

Her clothes have to be itching like mine, but she doesn’t so much as twitch as she keeps talking. “My job is hard. It’s demanding. But it’s so damn fulfilling to watch the growth and see this team that used to suck donkey eggs be something. I want to keep being a part of the Fireballs being something no matter my own title. And I want to keep being better than everyone else at the same time.”

That.

That right there is why Addie Bloom is fucking irresistible.

Her passion. Her belief. Her drive. Her acknowledgement of why things are harder and her refusal to let it stand in her way.

There’s this fire inside her that makes her shine brighter than every other person I’ve ever met. She tears down roadblocks and she makes her own path. I wonder if she realizes the impact she has on the world is so much bigger than the lives she touches directly with all of her volunteer work on top of her job.

“You’re fucking incredible, you know that?” My voice is husky, and her shiver in response to it is nearly instantaneous.

“I’m just a girl with a dream.”

“And the determination to get it. That’s hot as hell. You’re hot as hell.”

“I’m a pain in the ass.”

“I don’t want anything from you, Addie. I don’t want your job. I don’t want your connections. I don’t want your championship rings. I just want you.”

“You wouldn’t if we weren’t stuck here.”

“I’ve never stopped wanting you. Not when you told me we weren’t serious. Not when I was a massive dumbass who blew up over it instead of listening to what you were saying. Not when I thought of you every time I played a set onstage the past few years. Not when I saw the footage of you celebrating all of your wins with the team. Not when I saw your tattoo in the dress shop. Not when I watched you walk onto that stage at the auction. Not when I see you being a mentor to the next generation of coaches and players. Not when I watch you encourage other women who are doing the scary things. I haven’t ever stopped wanting you.”

“You scare me.” Her voice is so soft, I wouldn’t be able to hear her if the elevator were running. “The idea of you scares me. The idea of us scares me.”

The Addie she shows the world isn’t afraid of anything.

But I know better.

“I fucking hate blacked-out, stuck elevators, but I’m okay. Because I’m with you. If you want to face your fears with me too, I’m here. Ready and willing to be your lifeline.”

“You are so damn infuriating.”

I suppress a smile.

She’s not mad at me.

She’s mad at herself for liking me. And maybe she’s mad at me for getting past her fences.

But I don’t care if she’s mad. Why she’s mad. Who she’s mad at.

I truly don’t.

Not when she’s angling her body and her head exactly right to brush her lips against mine.

“So fucking infuriating,” she repeats.

I love you too, Addie Bloom.

But I don’t say it.

I know better.

She doesn’t know yet that love is what this is. And this time, I’ll give her the time to figure it out.

In the meantime, I take advantage of her lips on mine, and I twist my body into hers. Let myself lick those delicious lips. Curl my fingers into her wet ponytail. Drown in the soft sounds of her surrender as she parts her lips and sinks deeper into kissing me.

Fuck yes.

I could be trapped anywhere, anytime, and I’ll be fine if I’m kissing Addie.

And fuck me, I’ve missed this.

Her.

I’ve missed her.

She doesn’t half-ass anything in her life. Not coaching. Not volunteering. Even when I was just a fling to her, she didn’t hold back when we were alone together.

And she’s not holding back now either.

She crawls into my lap and pushes my wet shirt up over my abs, over my chest, until I have no choice but to lift my arms and take the damn thing off.

Her hands roam over my still-wet skin, hot against the chilly air that’s giving me goosebumps.

Her touch is giving me goosebumps too.

“Shouldn’t be doing this,” she says against my mouth.

“Why not?”

“Always ends poorly.” She nips at my lower lip.

“Problem for later.”

Much later.

Definitely not a problem when she’s straddling my hips, rubbing her sweet pussy against my rock-hard cock while I stroke my hands down her thighs.

I love the power in her body. Her curves. Her muscles. Her buttery-soft skin. Her plump lips caressing mine.

She could be right. This could end poorly. Again.All content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

But if it doesn’t—if it doesn’t, we could be magnificent.

Her tongue touches mine, and my balls tighten.

Fuck, I’ve missed her.

“Should…not…do…this,” she says as she grinds her pelvis harder against my aching cock, dipping her head to bite my shoulder.

“No regrets here.” I lick her neck and stroke up her legs again, my thumbs dipping into her inner thighs, close to her pussy.

And I officially hate her pants.

Loathe them.

If it were up to me, she’d never wear pants again.

Except baseball pants.

She’s fucking hot in baseball pants.

I wonder if she took home any of the see-through pants from that uniform snafu. If she’d model them for me.

Without underwear.

And my dick just grew an inch.

She rakes her fingers down my chest. “Why do you feel so good?”

“Because we’re good.”

“Dammit, Duncan.”

“So fucking good, Addie. Only gets better.”

“I know.”

“I want you naked. I want you naked and exposed and I want to lick every inch of your body. I want to eat your pussy until you come so hard you can’t remember your own name. I want to fuck you into blissful oblivion until you see stars. The next time I’m in the shower with you, I want to take you against the wall and then wash you clean and then do it all over again.”

“Oh, god, Duncan.” She’s jerking hard against my cock, her breath getting shallower, her head thrown back, exposing her neck for me to lick just above her collar.

Fucking collar.

I hate all of her clothes.

I want to see her breasts.

I want⁠—

The world shudders around me and sunshine erupts, blinding me, while something whooshes nearby.

“Oh, god, I’m coming,” she pants. “Duncan, I’m⁠—”

“Afternoon, ma—ah, hi,” a voice says.

Addie shrieks.

I grab her and hold her head in the crook of my neck while I gape at the sight before me.

I’m not seeing blinding sunshine because I’m coming too.

I’m seeing blinding sunshine because the elevator doors are open and there are six firefighters gaping at us.

Six fucking firefighters.

“Holy shit, you’re Duncan Lavoie,” one of them says.

Fuuuuuuuck. “Nope,” I say.

Six grins greet my denial.

Addie makes a muffled noise that could be her riding out an orgasm while she’s frozen on top of me, or it could be all of her mortification leaving her body.

Or maybe it’s both.

“Power on?” I ask.

The firefighter who recognized me nods. “Yep.”

“Can you hit the button for the seventh floor and go away?”

Chortles of laughter greet my request.

None of them are coming from Addie, but she definitely makes another noise.

“Ma’am, you okay?” one of the other firefighters says.

“Hit seven, please,” she says into my neck.

“Are you being held against your will?” a third firefighter asks.

“Only by extreme humiliation.”

“If you need us to hold this guy until the cops get here⁠—”

“I’m on top of him, you dolt,” she replies.

“He looks strong.”

“That’s why this was enjoyable. Please hit seven.”

“It’s wrong to tell him he has to give us his autograph before we let him go, isn’t it?” the guy who recognized me says.

“Usually, but these are unusual circumstances,” his buddy replies.

He tilts his head sideways, frowning. “Aren’t we supposed to be getting a baseball coach out of here so the Fireballs can win today?”

Addie makes another strangled noise.

“Thanks for your service, guys,” I say. “Seven, please.”

“Seven, please,” Addie echoes.

“If that’s the female coach, she could lay him out flat if she wanted to,” a fourth firefighter says. “I saw an interview with her a couple years ago. She’s fit.”

“Don’t you have an oath of privacy or something?” I say.

“Usually, but this is funny shit,” one of the guys in front says.

Another one pokes him. “Don’t make him mad or he won’t get us tickets.”

The lights flicker.

All of us look up at the elevator’s ceiling.

Except Addie. She groans again, and then starts shaking.

And she follows it with a little piggy snort.

Thank fuck.

I know that piggy snort.

She’s laughing. And it’s a real laugh, or she wouldn’t have let the piggy snort out.

“Stairs,” she says in a strangled voice.

“I like stairs,” I agree.

“You need an escort?” one of the firefighters asks.

She peels herself off of me, and just when I think she won’t make eye contact, she hits me with a shy smile.

Addie.

Shy.

My heart flops over and offers itself to her.

But then she’s all motion.

“Gentlemen,” she says to the firefighters, “thank you for your assistance. And your discretion. Am I clear?”

All six of them straighten as if she’s said more than a dozen words on the matter and they know they’re never setting foot inside of Duggan Field to watch another Fireballs game in their lives if they breathe a word of this to anyone.

“We would never, ma’am,” one says.

“Not with your names attached,” another adds. “Or identifying occupations.”

“I’ll never forget the way you dead-eye stared at Brooks Elliott when he walked onto that practice field wearing a thong and a cape,” a third says reverently. “That’s serious facial muscle control.”

A fourth pulls his cap off and watches her with wary eyes. “You’re scary. In the good way.”

The fifth and sixth guys don’t add anything, but they stare at me with significantly more respect as I pull my soaked shirt back on and follow Addie off the elevator.

“Thank you again,” she says to all six of them, as dead-ass serious as she’s known to be on the baseball field.

I trail her to the stairwell.

The firefighters don’t follow.

She’s silent for two flights.

And then she stops on a landing, looks back at me, and doubles over laughing.

Fuck, yes.

This Addie.

I like this Addie. The one she hides from the world. The real Addie under all of the layers of expectations that she thinks she has to live up to.

And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure I get to keep seeing her.