I was just a girl, standing in a bar, hoping a guy would buy me a drink... I got my wish. Kind of. I got a drink... spilled on me... by a guy. No, not just any guy. A man. A hot man. America's hottest baseball coach, apparently. And he didn't even apologize. That was the first time we met. Or what I like to call strike one. The second time we met? He was late to a parent teacher conference. The one where I realized I was his daughter's new teacher, and where he told me I should quit my job. Strike two. You know what they say in baseball? Third strike. You're out.