It Happened in L.A.: Ms Match / Shockingly Sensual / Playmates. Lori Wilde

like it.”

      “I do. I just can’t believe all this is just for us.”

      He shrugged. “I have to do business here on a regular basis during the season. For once, I didn’t want to think about anything but the game.”

      “I don’t think I could do business. It would be like working in church.”

      “Exactly. You ready for your beer, or you want to wait for the first pitch?”

      She bit her lower lip and for a moment he saw a family resemblance. Not that he could have said exactly what, but it was there. “I’ll wait,” she said.

      “Whatever you want.” He sat back and looked past the park to Elysian Field. Even with the smog, it was a great sight. Man, he loved this place.

      Gwen got up, and as she passed him, she put her hand on his shoulder. He looked at her, at her happiness, and he felt as if he’d passed a test. It wasn’t the whole match, but it was a start.

      Now if he could just figure out why he wanted to win at all.

      GWEN LOOKED AT HERSELF in the private bathroom mirror and she had to wonder whose life she was living. It wasn’t hers, that’s for sure.

      The game had ended not ten minutes ago—a four-two victory for her boys. She’d eaten unbelievably fine food, shouted until she’d worried about losing her voice, had laughed far more than seemed plausible. In short, she’d had a great time.

      With Paul Bennet.

      There were still so many questions that she should be asking, but the truth was, she didn’t want to. It was one day. One game. She’d had a blast, and not just because of the game.

      She’d underestimated Paul in the brains department. Yes, he still had the whole shallow thing going on, and please, she had to deal with enough of that with her family, but he’d said things this afternoon that made her believe there might be some thinking going on underneath that pretty-suit.

      Not that she expected him to win the Nobel or anything, but it was heartening. Mostly because she didn’t have to feel quite so guilty about getting all twittery when he looked at her for longer than two seconds.

      Her chin dropped to her chest. It was no good. He could have said the most brilliant thing she’d ever heard, and she’d still feel creepy. She was the most hypocritical person on earth, and she didn’t deserve to have had this day.

      The lyrics from West Side Story started spinning in her head. Stick to her own kind was exactly what she needed to do. Which should be easy because this was it. She’d made up for being a bitch at Bats and Balls. He’d done his anthropology assignment, or whatever the hell he was trying to accomplish. Done. The end.

      She put on some lip gloss, fluffed her hair to no avail, and returned to the suite.

      He stood next to the wet bar, leaning against the fridge, his grin showing off the dimples that were simply overkill of cuteness. “I have one more surprise.”

      “No. No way. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

      “If you want, we can go down and meet a few of the guys.”

      She knew exactly what “guys” he was talking about. She’d met two in her life. Derek Lowe and Jeff Kent. She’d stuttered like a fool both times. And neither player had paid so much as a second of attention to her.

      But they would pay attention to Paul because he was the kind of man people noticed. The kind of man other men wanted to impress.

      The question then became, did she want to subject herself to being the question no one asked, but everyone thought? Did her desire to meet ballplayers outweigh her ability to withstand total disinterest and not a small dose of humiliation?

      Screw it. She’d been humiliated before. There were very few opportunities to meet her Dodgers. “Let’s go.”

      He pushed off the fridge and gave her a wink. “This is gonna be great.”

      Yes, it was. She wasn’t going to let any of the small stuff get to her. This was her idea of nirvana, something she’d remember forever.

      She followed him down the concourse until they got to a smallish elevator. They rode down alone, stopping only when they reached the clubhouse level. That’s when a whole new set of jitters hit her.

      “Tell me the truth.” She hurried to keep in step with Paul so she could whisper. “Will I look like a total dork if I ask them to sign my program?”

      “Hell, no. They live for that stuff. They’d be crushed if you didn’t.”

      “Wow, you are so good at your job.”

      He laughed as he slowed down a bit. They were reaching the gateway to the clubhouse. Two very large men stood guard.

      Paul stopped in front of large man number one. “Paul Bennet.”

      The guard spoke quietly into his Bluetooth. Then he nodded at Paul as he stepped slightly to the right.

      With her heart hammering, Gwen took her first step inside the hallowed space. How many times had she longed to get inside? To hear the pros do their own post-game analysis? She admired so many of them, making sure to focus her insatiable thirst for knowledge on their athleticism, not their personal lives. She might be a groupie at heart, but it was for baseball, not ballplayers.

      “Watch your step,” Paul said. “There are lots of cables all over the floor. And if you see someone talking near a camera, lie low. No one wants to ruin a take.”

      She nodded even though she knew pretty much all of what he’d said. She was a native Californian, after all. She’d grown up watching movies and TV shows being filmed. Often on her own street.

      They got to the press area and the first person she saw was Takashi Saito, the relief pitcher. Then Nomar Garciaparra, and there was the catcher and her favorite first baseman, and holy crap, this was truly the mother lode. She got her program from her purse along with a pen, pissed she hadn’t thought of bringing a black marker.

      Paul grabbed her hand as he slipped between a newscaster and her boom man. Even though she expected the cables, she almost tripped twice as they maneuvered through the tightly packed space.

      He stopped right next to Dylan Hernandez, one of her favorite sportswriters, and waited while he interviewed Joe Torre.

      Gwen tried to see everything at once. There were simply too many choices. Too many things she wanted to say to each of the players. Too big of a lump in her throat to even say boo.

      The interview ended and Paul stepped right up to the Dodgers manager. “Joe, great game.”

      Torre shook his hand. “How you doing, Paul.”

      Gwen could hardly believe he was on a first name basis with the freakin’ manager.

      “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. I know it doesn’t sound possible, but she’s a bigger fan than I am.” Paul stepped to her side, put his hand on the small of her back to gently urge her forward. “This is Gwen Christopher. You have any questions about your team, I’ll bet the farm she knows the answer.”

      She stuck out her hand and she supposed it was shaken, but she was too busy trying not to act like a doofus. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, sir.”

      “Sir? You call me Joe.”

      They said some things, things she knew she would want to remember, but nothing was getting through. It was Paul who had Joe sign her program. Then it was Paul herding a bunch of players in her direction. Each of them seemed delighted to meet her. Of course, Paul made her sound like the greatest baseball expert in the history of the game, and she was frankly too shell-shocked to correct him.

      In the end, she’d met almost the whole lineup; her program was so precious to her she’d save it from a fire before her best friend.

      By the