I stride onto the stage, thank Lily, then head to the mic to present the award.

As I gaze out at the audience of team owners, reporters, athletes from all over the country, and plenty of fans, I smile, imagining my father watching over me. I send a silent wish to him that I’m honoring his vision, what he built from the ground up with the fortune that he’d amassed in other fields before pursuing his dream of owning a football team.

I am so lucky to have inherited it from him, and I want to always make him proud.

That’s what I hold on to so I can flash a smile at the crowd. My eyes lock ever so briefly on the friendliest of faces, and Crosby grins back at me, mouthing, You’ve got it.

I wasn’t looking for encouragement, but it sure is nice to know that man has my back. I haven’t felt that before in this setting, but I relish the sense of partnership.

It fuels me. It’s another first.

“It’s an honor to return to the city I love,” I say.

A boo rings through the audience. “Go back to Vegas with the showgirls!”

“Quiet down!” another voice shouts.

“Women can’t run teams.”

“Women do run teams.”

I simply grin. It is what it is. Even at an awards ceremony, there is heckling, and it’s a reminder of the work I need to do.

“I know to some of you the Hawks are still interlopers, but I fully intend to do this city proud. San Francisco is big enough for many sports teams. After all, I bet we have Cougars fans here. And Dragons ones as well.”

Next to Crosby, Holden claps.

“But this isn’t about me,” I continue. “This moment is about an award that means a lot to so many of us. That perhaps is the highest honor. This is an award for the man or woman who exemplifies giving back. And tonight I am thrilled to share that the recipient of the Best Sportsman award goes to . . .” I stop to slide a finger under the envelope flap, then take out the embossed card.

I grin when I see the name. One of Crosby’s good friends and teammates. “Grant Blackwood, catcher for the San Francisco Cougars, who exemplifies giving back with his volunteer efforts for several local charities, including supporting underprivileged young athletes and LGBTQ athletes. Congratulations, Grant.”

I clap as the catcher jogs to the stage, a grin lighting up his eyes. The man is damned handsome, all-American, from the dark-blond hair, to the sky-blue eyes, to his friendly, outgoing personality. I shake his hand once he’s onstage, but he pulls me in for a big hug and swipes a kiss onto my cheek. “Thank you. But keep your damned hands off my third baseman,” he says in a deliberately teasing tone.

I laugh, pat him on the shoulder, and say, “I promise to do my absolute best.”

I move aside as Grant gives a quick and heartfelt thanks from the podium. When he’s through, I clap for him once more, then head backstage with him before I exit into the crowd again, looking for Crosby.

Before I find him, though, a tall, dark, and handsome creature leans back from a clutch of athletes and agents, catches my eye, and winks.

“Declan!” I beam, closing the final feet to the tuxedoed shortstop for the New York Comets. He steps away from his crew to meet me.

“Future Baseball Team Owner,” he says in that sexy guy-next-door voice of his, then yanks me in for a hug.

I laugh, throwing my arms around him. “Why are all the men in my life trying to get me to buy a baseball team?”

“What?” he asks as we separate. “I’m not the only man in your life? Who is he? Who’s this other guy?”

I swat him as I roll my eyes. “Please. You’re the only one,” I say, teasing my friend, a guy who’s most decidedly only ever been a friend. We met a few years ago when I was in New York for business and hit it off, bonding at a party over a shared love for breakfast food and the same loud rock music.

“How long are you in town?” I ask.

He looks at his watch as if it includes his calendar. “I take off tomorrow afternoon.”

I shoot him a wide-eyed glare. “Hello. Why are you not on my schedule for breakfast tomorrow?”

“I could say the same to you.”

“You, me, tomorrow. Let’s do it.”

“All I heard was you’re taking me out for the best omelets in the city,” he says.

“You have such selective hearing. And I’ll text you a breakfast spot.”

I give him a kiss on the cheek and resume my hunt for Crosby. I spot him at the edge of the ballroom, and head over. He’s hanging out with Holden, who’s slung his tux jacket over his arm and rolled up his shirtsleeves. A tattoo adorns his forearm, an illustration of a tree extending over his muscles down to his wrist.

Holden offers a fist for knocking. “Well said, Nadia. I dug the bit about room for both teams.”

“Thank you,” I say, knocking back.

“It’s hard when you feel like you’re ten steps behind from the start.”

“It is. But I find it’s best to try not to let the negative comments affect how you do your job.” I tilt my head, studying his face. “I take it you’re dealing with some of the fallout from the Dragons’ cheating scandal?”

“So much of it.” He sighs heavily, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “The media constantly wants to talk about it, even in the off-season.”

Crosby gestures to his friend. “I keep telling him that he needs someone to help him handle the media. Someone beyond the team.”

I meet Holden’s green-eyed gaze. “What do you think, Holden?”

With a scratch of his jaw, he shrugs. “I guess I’ll see about that when the season starts.”

I give him a sympathetic smile. “Let me know if I can help. I know some sharpshooters who can give you lots of tips.”

His eyes glimmer with the hint of a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Holden turns to Crosby, tipping his forehead toward me. “She’s cool. Maybe I’ll let this one slide,” he says.

Crosby’s brow furrows. “Let what slide?”

Holden rolls his eyes, claps Crosby on the shoulder, and says, “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. For now, don’t do anything in front of me that’ll require a call to the Maldives.”

He saunters away. Once he’s out of earshot, Crosby leans closer, his voice warm and tantalizing near my ear, making me shiver. “But privately, I’d like to do all sorts of things to you.”

Pleasure zings through my body, and I can’t wait for this event to end.

Soon, it does, and we make our way out of the ballroom. Lily Whiting catches us, stopping Crosby to ask if he’ll do an interview before he leaves for spring training.

“Absolutely,” he tells her.

“Great. I’ll be in touch to set it up.”

As she leaves, Crosby turns back to me. “See? I’m good with the media.”

“If I were your team’s owner, I’d be very proud of you.”

“If you were my team’s owner, I’d still want to bang you,” he whispers.

I laugh, shaking my head.

“I mean it. Your job is hot. Smart women are hot. Powerful women are hot. Also, you’re hot.”

I am indeed, thanks to his compliments—ones that are the polar opposite of what I heard my last year dating in Vegas.