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)
“Talk to me,” I say, relieved he wants to chat about something easy. For a second, I thought he was going to throw me an awkward curveball. It happens, anything from can you introduce me to your agent, which I’ve gotten from other players, to were you hitting on me earlier, something I’ve had to deal with a couple of times from homophobic assholes in college.
Fortunately, I haven’t had that in the pros. Representation has grown, and now, major sports count plenty of out athletes among their players. But you never know when you’ll run into a bigot. I take nothing for granted.
Beck drags a hand through his dark hair, then sets his drink on my coffee table. “So, I guess the question is—how the hell do you do it?”
I laugh, appreciating how forthright he is now compared to earlier today. He’s not a dick; he just has stage fright. “It’s an art form,” I joke. Then, I exhale deeply, setting down my drink too—time for some real talk. “Listen, I’m presuming we’re not exactly in the same situation, but I had to make a choice a few years ago. Be open, be accessible, be available.”
Beck nods intently, as if he’s taking mental notes or maybe snapping pics with that photographic memory. “Sure, I get you.” Then in a quieter voice, he adds, “On most of that.”
Wait. Hold on. Is he telling me something without telling me something?
But I don’t want to read into his most of that remark. I’m just glad he’s picked up on my overall meaning. “I’ve had some mentors over the years,” I continue, focusing on his question. “Guys I could look up to who had to face some of the same scrutiny. Like Grant Blackwood,” I say, naming the out catcher for the local baseball team. “From talking to him and others, I sort of figured out I needed a shtick with the press.”
Beck’s brown eyes flash with understanding. “Got it. I need a shtick, you’re saying?”
I reach for my can on the coffee table and raise it to punctuate my point. “Bingo.” I take a drink.
Beck nods, absorbing my advice. “And your shtick is . . .”
He’s not so much asking a question as waiting for me to finish for him, so he doesn’t have to be the one to identify my press persona.
But I’m not going to let him off so easy. “You can say it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. He’s not touching the answer with a ten-foot pole.
“C’mon, Cafferty. Say it,” I goad him as I set down the drink, then stretch an arm across the back of the couch.
More laughter, then he holds up his hands in surrender. “Can’t do it.”
I sigh in over-the-top disappointment. “How can I help you come up with a shtick if you can’t say what mine is?”
He dips his face, maybe worried he’ll offend me. But he finds the guts to mutter, “Bad dad jokes.”
“Dude! There’s no other kind of dad joke.”
He laughs. “I won’t argue with you there.”
“But I also kind of go for the whole mayoral routine,” I say, a touch more serious as I share what’s behind the lame jokes. “Know what I mean? I glad-hand. Ask the reporters how they’re doing. It works, and it helps me stay on a good footing with them.” I rub my palms, getting down to business. “So what’s yours going to be?”
He laughs, a little helplessly. “Hell if I know. Got any ideas?”
I scrub my chin, giving him a once-over. Damn, he’s handsome. But that’s irrelevant. I shake off the thoughts of his good looks. I’m not interested in admiring straight men and their stubbled jaws, intense irises, and full lips.
“You’re a smart guy, right?” I ask.
“I like to think so,” he says, uncertain.
“You think so, or you know so?”
This time he owns it, saying with confidence, “I know.”
“Lean into that then. Maybe your shtick is the thoughtful QB. Play around with some options. Because the reality is this—when you’re the quarterback, you can’t shy away from the media.”
“True words,” he says.
A chime rings from my smart home on the table. “Unfinished Business starts in ten minutes,” a cool, robotic voice announces.
I sit up straight, hunting around the cushions for the remote. “Sweet! I’ve been waiting for the new season to binge,” I say.
Beck’s quiet for a beat, looking down, but a smile seems to tug on his lips. “Me too.”
It comes out soft but with a hint of hope in it.
Maybe this is ridiculous, but it sure sounds like he wants to watch it. With me. When Beck turns my way, the look in his deep brown eyes borders on sexy, maybe even dirty.
A little like the show. Unfinished Business is one of those romantic comedies that centers on several different couples—some gay, some straight. Watching a show like that together is kind of date-y, especially when the show gets kind of sexy, as it does.