A Shot at Love

Game Changer

I sink deeper into the overstuffed, deep green velvet couch, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The wrought-iron chandeliers flicker on, casting a soft glow across the room as dusk filters through the arched windows. Breaker and I are at the Chateau Marmont—iconic, timeless—and after hours of writing, I've only got one sentence left to finish Shohei's piece.

The place is starting to buzz, the energy picking up as more people trickle in, voices rising and glasses clinking in the background. I pause for a second, taking it all in—just one more line.

Biting my bottom lip, I start typing, then release it as the words take shape, reading them aloud as I go.

"Shohei Ohtani isn't just a one-of-a-kind player; he's a one-of-a-kind playlist—every pitch, every swing, a track that hits differently, leaving us all addicted, hitting replay long after the game's over."

I smile to myself, feeling the sentence land just right.

"And that's why they pay you the big bucks, Baby K!" Breaker shouts over the growing chatter of the crowd. I glance over at him, and pride practically radiates from his eyes. He's been with me through every revision this afternoon, never once breaking my focus. "To the queen of sportswriting!" Breaker lifts the last of his Old Fashioned in my direction.

My lips curl into a relieved grin. "Thank you, Breaker. Cheers." I raise my barely touched tequila mojito, finally allowing myself to savor the much-needed cocktail. "Now, we just need to pick the photos, and this piece is officially a wrap. You can help me with this part."

Excited, Breaker swings his arm over the back of the velvet emerald couch, shifting his body closer to get a better look at my laptop. I feel the heat of him hover just behind me as he signals the waitress for another round. His movement makes me instinctively take a deep sip of my mojito, the cool, minty rush soothing my anxiety.

We haven't mentioned what happened at my apartment—not a word. Instead, we dove straight into work. But once we choose the photos, I know I'll have to set the record straight with him.

I open the picture selections Conrad sent over and start scrolling through them. A few stand out instantly, and I jot them down without hesitation as Breaker nods in agreement. We're down to the final spot, debating between two similar shots of Shohei in the dugout.

"What makes you like that one best?" Breaker asks, and I turn back to him—his face a little too close for comfort.

I point to the screen. "While the first shot is stunning with perfect lighting, the second one makes me feel. Shohei's expression tells a whole story. You can see his triumphs, his struggles, his undeniable greatness—all in a single look. It's captured so beautifully, that it almost feels like you're witnessing the moment with him. That's the one I'd choose for the cover."

Before Breaker can respond, the waitress arrives, setting our drinks down on the table, now cluttered with the remnants of our cheeseburgers, fries, and Caesar salads. Breaker thanks her, then picks up his Old Fashioned, a twist of citrus peel hanging over the edge.

"Hmm," he says, his cheeky British accent slipping out. "Never thought of it that way, but I see it now."

I finish typing the last line of my email to Conrad, attaching the article and photo selections. "Think of it like headshots in acting," I continue, leaning back in my chair. "Sure, anyone can take a pretty picture, but if there's nothing compelling happening behind your eyes, the casting director's not calling you in."

I hit send and gleefully close my laptop.

Breaker's mischievous glance flicks to me as he leans in closer. "Unless you're Breaker Ford, of course, and they just call you with direct offers," he says, half cocky, half charming, his laugh low and easy.