Collide Into You: A Romantic Gender Swap Love Story by Kelly Washington

numbers stored in that thing. That’s about how long I think she’s worked at the Pentagon. She’s a fixture.
    The reception area is part waiting room, part common room, and part detention center. The vibe is somewhere between welcoming and forbidden . Mrs. Atkins manages General MacWilliams’ day-to-day schedule, as well as that of all of his military assistants, the same way a MLB coach handles his players: with grit, determination, and a bit of well-placed praise. The bowl of candy on her desk probably helps, too.
    Piss off the secretary and your life is hell from that point forward. She’s your entry point to the highest ranking Army General in the Department of Defense.
    So when she smiles at me, I feel like I’ve won a prize. “Here you are, Sergeant Holtslander.” Her voice is filled with sugar as she hands me a small slip of white paper with the information on it. “Word to the wise, Sergeant, they are called The Historical Office of the Office of the Secretary of Defense. Not the Pentagon Historian.”
    “Thanks, Mrs. Atkins,” I say, pocketing the paper. I leave the reception area, head to the D Ring, enter the top secret facility that the general’s secure office is located in, and return to my task at hand: reading letters, taking notes. Greta seems friendlier, though the Army major is still reserved.  
    I repeat this process Thursday and Friday. I call the historian’s office, but they can’t see me until next week.
    By the end of the week, I’m ready for a break, and Tanner’s game against the Orioles tonight can’t come at a better time. I change at work and hop on the yellow line, transfer to the green line at L’Enfant Plaza, and exit at the Navy Yard.
    I’m an hour and a half early, but fans of both the Nationals and the Orioles are already arriving at the stadium. The way Tanner explained it to me once, when these two particular teams face off, the stands are packed due to the fact that the Nationals and the Orioles are regionally so close to one another. Fans from both sides have relatively easy access to the stadium.
    At the will-call window, I pick up my ticket and make my way to the diamond seats section. I wonder if Dillan’s seat is right next to mine. Probably. When I find my seat, only a few others are in that section, but a woman comes up to me rather suddenly.
    “You must be Alec’s new girlfriend.” It’s a statement, not a question, and very passive aggressive. She must be referring to Alec Huffman, the Nats pitcher and reigning playboy. The woman, who looks to be in her early twenties, is brunette, tall, slim, but with ample cleavage that she amply displays. Her sleeveless arms are full of tattoos. The only thing that makes me think she isn’t just an airhead is the fact that she wears thick, purple glasses.
    She reminds me of a hip librarian who could spout Shakespeare in three different languages.
    However, her rudeness certainly wipes away whatever nice thoughts I might have had.
    “You must be making assumptions,” I say, turning away from her to observe the field. Someone rakes the infield dirt while someone else traces the bold lines of the diamond. Typical pre-game stuff.  
    Ignoring the woman doesn’t work. She moves down two aisles and sits next to me.
    “Sorry about before. It’s just that we’ve heard Alec has a new girl. I’m Zoe, Randy’s fiancé.” Randy “Big H” Hernandez is the Nationals’ catcher.
    I take a calming breath before responding. “Well, when you do meet Alec’s new girlfriend, one thing is certain: your friendly welcome will knock her off her feet.”
    Zoe scoffs as if she’s never been told off before. Then, after a pregnant pause, she asks, “Aren’t you going to tell me who you are?”
    “Hadn’t considered it.”
    Zoe, the committee chair for the welcoming party , stands abruptly. “What a bitch!”
    I’ve been called worse. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dillan.
    And right behind him, his date. I’d rather