Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
His eyes light up. “We’re allowed?”
An evening away from the team hotel is a big deal. Teams are seriously strict about what players do the night before a game. But my shindig is a late afternoon event. “Since it’s a charity game, the teams have relaxed the rules a little. You can come.”
Beck gives a flicker of a smile. “Thanks. That’d be great. What’s your address?”
“108—” I begin, then stop. No way his recall is that good. “Do you want me to text it to you?”
“I have a photographic memory,” Beck says with all the confidence he lacked at the podium.
Okaaaay. I give him the rest of my addy.
He taps his temple then repeats it back to me like a showoff. “It’ll be right up here with the playbook.”
I’m a little thrown for the first time today, but I cover it up with a laugh. “Cool. See you later.” I turn toward the door, then remember some of the guys are bringing dates. “Bring a friend if you want. Or an SO – significant other.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
Then I turn and leave, wondering if those last words mean he’s bringing a girlfriend. Or a guy friend.
Wondering, too, why I care.
He’s attractive, sure, but I didn’t even like him at first. But here in the hallway, he’s kind of opened up, admitted he feels awkward, and that vulnerability is sort of endearing. Maybe that’s why I’m a little curious if he’s gay or single.
Except, I really shouldn’t care.
3
One of Those Kitchen People
Beck
* * *
You can learn to teach a dog to high-five from a YouTube tutorial. You can figure out how to tie a bow tie with a video. Hell, you can even learn how to throw a football in a few simple steps courtesy of an amateur coach on Instagram.
But fuck if there’s anything useful on the Internet about how to act when your crush invites you to his home, where you’ll be surrounded by his and your teammates.
It’s a quandary. But I’m not going to the barbecue to hit on Jason. I’m going because I desperately need a favor, and Jason McKay’s the only one I can ask.
After I change into shorts and a T-shirt at the team hotel, I stop by the nearest Whole Foods on my way to Pacific Heights. I text my friend Rachel as I cruise the aisles. What do you bring to a last-minute barbecue?
She replies quickly. You can never go wrong with potato salad. Also, who the hell invited you to anything?
I roll my eyes and type, Shocking, I know.
Um, you didn’t answer me.
I reply, Don’t read anything into it, Rachel. Just another football player.
Then I go to the deli counter and ask for a pound of some gourmet salad with purple potatoes and fancy pickles. No idea if Jason likes potato salad.
Why would you know, dipshit?
Maybe I should bring beer. That’s what you can never go wrong with—beer. It’s too late to kibosh the salad, but when the woman at the deli counter hands me the tub, I say thanks then head to the beer aisle.
I can bring both beer and salad, right? That’s not too much, is it? I suppose I could ask the Internet, but the World Wide Web has already proven useless today.
Quickly, I track down a local wheat ale that sounds delish, and I grab a six-pack.
There.
I zip through the self-checkout, then order a Lyft, inputting Jason’s address. Once I’m in the car, I peer at my reflection on my phone. Run a hand through my hair. Check my teeth. Consider my scruff.
Then I roll my eyes. It’s a barbecue, not a date.
When the Lyft turns down Jackson Street, I gawk at the sweet homes. Swank townhouses line the block, their three-and-four-story facades signaling “you need money to live here.” Must be nice to go in the first round of the draft and land a fat signing bonus.
The car arrives, and I thank the driver and climb out, then draw a deep breath as I face the townhouse. I can hunt wide-open receivers under pressure, but walking up the steps to this guy’s home makes me more nervous than anything on the field.
I do my best to slough off the nerves.
Jason doesn’t know I think he’s hot. That I’ve admired him from afar. That I sometimes wonder what makes him tick. He’s not going to find out either. Those are the benefits of having an excellent poker face and a propensity for saying little.
I bound up the steps and rap on the door, then peer through the bay window and into his living room as I wait. A big U-shaped couch fills the space, and there’s a huge screen on the wall. No one’s walking around inside, but I wait patiently.
It’s been a minute, and no one has answered.