Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Carter smacks a big palm on the bar approvingly. “Dude, she is good.”
I flash back to Elodie’s finesse there in Felix’s office as I recount the tale for my audience of two—Carter’s the star receiver for the San Francisco Renegades. Monroe is a shrink and podcaster, and we’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve only gotten to know Carter recently, but he’s a good guy too and plays a mean game of golf.
“She sure is,” I say, a little regretful. I’m not sure what I’m missing most—another chance with her or the shot at the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Both, really.
Monroe clears his throat, all dry and deadpan as he lifts his tumbler. “But let’s get back to the part where you cock-blocked yourself with the first great date you’ve had in years. Tell me more about that.”
I groan in annoyance. “What choice did I have? You can’t bang a business partner. That’s just a fact.”
“Or your best friend,” Carter adds with a sly grin. He fell in mad love with his best friend and now they’re getting married soon.
I point at him. “You’re the exception. Not the rule.”
“And you ruled against your dick,” Carter adds.
“Yup. You put your dick on ice so you could go into business with her, and now you’re not in business with her. You should be drinking,” Monroe says, then toasts in obvious mock sympathy.
Carter clinks his glass to Monroe’s, then looks to me. With less ribbing in his tone now, he says, “You really should. But since the deal didn’t work out, does this mean you’re going to see her again?”
I blow out a breath, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.” And that’s a damn shame.
“But you’re not going to go into business with her?” Monroe asks, sounding perplexed.
“Yup,” I say, drying a glass from behind the counter.
Carter hoots. “You didn’t just get cock-blocked. You got sacked in the end zone.”
“Yes, and I lost the game too,” I say dryly to the too-amused football player. “It’s called Nothing Works Out. Story of my life.”
“Hey now.” Monroe fixes me with a look that says you’re a pessimist and always have been. “Things can work out if you work on them.”
“Like muscles,” I say. “Relationships, though? Different story.” I lift my index finger. “Exhibit one. My marriage to Hailey.” Another finger. “Exhibit two. My major league career.” One more finger. “Exhibit three. My relationship with Kylie.”
She was my first and only serious girlfriend after Hailey’s death. A few years ago, I fell for the software designer, she fell for me, and Eliza fell for her too. Kylie came to Eliza’s softball games, made dinner with me, and stayed over and watched movies since Eliza’s obsessed with movies, like many kids her age. We air-popped popcorn and watched animated flicks on the couch. I was finally feeling like romance as a single dad was possible. But when Kylie was offered a job in New York and she moved two weeks later, that was that. A little more than a year after it started, the relationship was over with barely a second thought. Eliza asked why Kylie didn’t love her enough to stay. It broke my heart all over again.
“But on the other hand,” Carter begins, “you have Sticks and Stones. And your daughter. Those worked out just fine.”
“All true,” I concede.
Monroe lifts his glass. “Be a glass-half-full guy.”
“I’m a moving on guy,” I say with a full-speed-ahead attitude. Monroe’s right in that I shouldn’t dwell on the past and the things that didn’t happen. Sour grapes and all. “We had one great date. She was incredible. Captivating. Gorgeous. Kept me on my toes like no one ever had. The chemistry was out of this world. And then…it was cut short. Our business thing isn’t going to happen. That’s two strikes. Which is more than enough.”
Carter sets down his glass with a thunk. “I think you’re getting your sports metaphors wrong. Sounds like it’s time to take a third swing and fucking mean it when you do.”
I love baseball analogies, but I’m not following his. “What pitch do you want me to swing at?”
Carter stabs the counter with his finger, adorned with one of his Big Game rings, bright and gleaming, a shining sign of the ultimate triumph on the gridiron. “You’ve got this goal of opening this other bar. Literally the only thing standing between you and this other bar is an engagement ring.”
“But it’s a ring that got us in this messed-up situation in the first place. She wears this gigantic cocktail ring, and that’s why he thought we were engaged.”
“Maybe that’s kismet,” Carter says. “Maybe she ought to wear yours for a few months.”
“You’re saying I should do this?”
“Take a swing. Take a big swing, man.”
“It can’t be that easy,” I point out.
“Or maybe it can’t be that hard,” Monroe puts in.