by Brea Brown
He pats his face as if trying to “see” himself with his fingers. “Thanks for clarifying that for me. What, exactly, does that mean to you?”
A warning gong sounds in my brain, but like most warnings in my life, I ignore it. “You meet lots of women, all eager to be with you. You’re used to getting the star treatment from them.”
The smile fading from his face, he leans back and tucks his hands into his underarms.
For the second time today, though, I can’t seem to make myself shut up. “You can have any woman you want, and you know it.”
“Wow. Your opinion of me isn’t very flattering.”
Trying to ignore the intimidating set to his jaw, I laugh off his statement while my heart thunders. I keep my hands folded in my lap, because if I lift them, their trembling will give away my trepidation. It’s suddenly hit me who I’m talking to. This is not just any guy. I’ve been aware of that from the minute I accepted his invitation to dinner. But for the first time since agreeing to meet him here, I know it.
“I don’t have any opinion of you,” I breezily claim.
He tilts his head. “Could have fooled me. Sounds to me like you think I’m a tail-chaser who takes advantage of his money and influence and uses women like disposable razors.”
“Huh-huh,” I chuckle nervously, sipping more water. “Not exactly.” He probably has a few razors that have stuck around longer than some of his dates.
“But pretty much, right?” He narrows his eyes and taps his fingers on the tabletop.
“Let’s start over. What I meant was— Never mind. I shouldn’t have teased you. But you may want to take a picture to go along with any future phone numbers you collect.”
He relaxes and allows himself to look caught again. “Well, that.” When I say nothing (I’m finally learning) and wait for him to explain, he continues, “I knew I associated the name ‘Maura’ with ‘smart’ and ‘beautiful.’ I figured, if you didn’t call back, it was a sign I should stay home, like a good boy, and hang out with Quatorze.”
“Quatorze?”
“My dog.”
Normally, I’m not all that interested in guys’ babe magnets, but having taken French in high school (because Spanish and Latin were too practical), I’m intrigued by this pooch’s name. “What breed?”
He clears his throat and lifts his chin. “Bichon Frisé.”
I stifle a giggle at the idea of this manly man owning and cuddling such a pampered breed, much less naming it the French equivalent of his jersey number.
“Go ahead and laugh. Everyone else does.”
My sarcastic but good-natured “No!” cracks us up.
Eventually, he explains, “He was my girlfriend’s. Well, fiancée’s. Now ex. Obviously. He always liked me more than her, so she left both of us.” His expression darkens.
Uhhhhh…
Looking down at the table, he clears his throat and composes himself, then attempts a lighter tone when he glances up at me once more. “Torz is small but mighty. One of the guys. He and I watch a lot of TV.”
“What do you do with him while you’re traveling?”
“I take him with me when I visit family. I have a dog sitter for the other times. Jacob lives in my guest house. He holds down the fort while I’m away. You know, since I’m hopelessly alone.” His slight blush betrays the chagrin underlying his light tone.
Our food arrives before I can reply, and the waiter lingers, ensuring Jet approves of everything in front of us before he wanders off. After talking about the food for a while and trading amateur reviews, we eat in silence. Then, before he’s finished eating, Jet props his knife and fork on the edge of his plate and leans forward onto his elbows. I pause mid-chew, waiting expectantly for him to say what’s on his mind.
“Can I be honest with you without freaking you out?”
I swallow and croak, “Sure,” hoping I won’t regret it.
He sits back and rubs his chin. “This is my seventh year in the league. Don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome. I’ve been working toward this, especially now that we’re heading into the postseason, since I started playing pee-wee football. Playing in the NFL is everything I’ve always wanted.”
“But…?”
He shifts in his seat. “Man, this is going to sound so douchey, but I can’t think of a way to say it that doesn’t, so I’ll just come out with it. The part I hate the most is… the groupies.”
I’ll bet, I think, unable to check the smile that spreads onto my face at his line.
“See? I told you it would sound like a douchey line, but I’m being real.” He fingers his knife and stares down at it in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. “It’s depressing as hell that someone who knows nothing about me would want to, you know, hook up with me. Or whatever. It’s impossible to trust anyone. I hate being such a cynical jerk like that.” He raises his sad eyes, and I regret doubting his sincerity.
Before I can say anything sympathetic, though, he says, almost defiantly, “I want to get married someday, you know? And have kids. But most of the women I meet are more focused on ‘having fun.’” He says the last two words like they’re the most despicable phrase in the world. “The ones who might be interested in something serious come off as gold-digging, desperate psychos. At the end of the day, I come home to an empty house—unless you count Torz. Trust me, Torzi and I aren’t that close.”
I beam across the table at him. “That’s good to know.”
“What, that I’m not a man-whore?”
“That, too. But, no, I was talking about your strictly platonic relationship with your dog.”
He smiles briefly, then nods. “Really, though. I’m sorry for being so serious on a first date, but I don’t want you thinking I call random numbers in my cell phone all the time. I don’t have random numbers in my cell phone. I knew your number was important if it was in there.”
His green eyes beseech me to believe him. I don’t want to look away, but it’s impossible not to blink at their intensity.
Trying to break the tension, I ignore everything else he’s said. He’s right; it is too serious for a first date. Instead, I focus on the last thing. “Fine, but you didn’t know why my number was important.”
Silverware in hand again, he points to his head with his knife and says with a half-smile, “Cut me some slack. I take a lot of hits out there. A helmet can only do so much.”
Likely story.
“Realistically speaking, I probably don’t have many more years in the NFL. I’ve always planned to retire before I’m too banged up. Of course, by then, I hope to be married, too.”
Of course. Ha!
“And when my playing career is over, I’d like to start a family.”
Well, duh. Double-ha!
“But not before then, I don’t think. Because I’d hate to be on the road so much, away from my family.”
What a swell guy.
“Then again, I’d love to get into broadcasting. I majored in broadcast journalism at USC. So, I’d still do a bunch of traveling with that, too, unless I got a studio gig, and those are hard to come by.”
Please, tell me more. This is fascinating.
“But if I end my career on a high note, landing a studio job will be easier, so that’s one more motivation for winning one of those rings.”
Mon Dieu!
He has everything planned out. Everything.
I understand driven people know exactly where they’re going and how they’re going to get there, but whenever I encounter someone like that, I respond one of two ways: if I’m familiar with them, like Greg or Deirdre, I become antagonistic and sarcastic (see Christmas Eve dinner); if I don’t know them well, I retreat into my shell.
Nodding and smiling is about all I can muster right now. At least I think I’m smiling. Probably more like grimacing.
Fortunately, before he can outline his life all the way through death (he probably thinks he has that all planned out, too), he ducks his head and says, “Oh, shit.�
��
I half-expect Rae to be behind me when I turn to see what’s interrupted his recitation.
“Don’t look, don’t look!” he implores, too late.
An average-looking blond guy in a black shirt, black pants, and skinny hot pink tie looks right at me and nods his head once. Then he makes a beeline for our table, shouting, “Yo! Knox!” When he arrives next to me, he peers straight down my top and says, “Hot date,” like a statement, more than a question.
I’d be flattered, if he weren’t an obvious creep and half the occupants of the restaurant weren’t staring at us, thanks to him.
Jet smiles tightly. “Hey, Schoengert. How’s it goin’?”
That’s invitation enough, so our visitor pulls an empty chair from a neighboring table and plunks it next to me, sitting down. “Good, good. Just chattin’ up the chicks, if you catch my drift. And who’s this lovely lady?” he asks, somehow finding a way to lean closer to me.
“This is… my friend,” Jet answers evasively. To me, he directs, “And this is Todd Schoengert, the team kicker.”
But I’ve already recognized him. The guy’s clutch. Hasn’t missed a field goal all season. Shattered every record on the books. Unfortunately, I like the kicker much better on my television.
I slant away from him and cover my cleavage with my flattened hand. “Nice to mee—”
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” he interrupts me, intensely holding my eye contact.
“No!” I don’t think I do, but I definitely don’t in relation to anything having to do with this guy.
He waves his hand dismissively. “Me neither. It’s a myth perpetuated by Hollywood to sell movie tickets, and it contributes to massive discontent in the ever-aging singles community.”
“Well said,” I say, trying to ignore the nerve his statement pings.
“Don’t encourage him,” Jet mumbles.
Todd turns his attention to his teammate. “Knox, you ever pee in the sink if you can’t make it to the can?”
“Uh, no,” my date replies, surprisingly unfazed by this seemingly random question and quick change of subject. “Can’t say I ever have.”
“What about the shower? You ever pee in the shower?”
“No, Schoengert. If you do”—he points to him—“I’m gonna start keeping track of where you are after practices and games. I don’t want to be stepping in your piss.”
I study my fork and try not to laugh.
Then Jet says, “Well, it was nice of you to stop by and say hi, but…”
The kicker stands and pulls at his cuffs. “Yeah, I get it, man. We’re a coupla rebels, out on the prowl when we should be restin’ up, right? Like I told Busch, I won’t tell anyone I saw you here if you don’t tell ’em you saw me,” he adds on a wink.
We give the guy a second to hear himself, during which time I try to be subtle about looking around the place for Mr. Tight End. Here? Seriously? I tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Aw, man!” Schoengert hisses. “I broke my promise to Busch.”
Jet laughs. “Anyone who follows Keaton on Twitter knows he’s not sitting at home tonight. See you tomorrow morning at the team meeting.”
“Cool, man. Hey, nice to meet you, ‘Jet’s friend.’” Todd shoots double guns at me and winks before sauntering back to the bar area, where he sidles up to an olive-skinned beauty in a sleek halter dress. She turns away from him and escapes to the other end of the bar.
“Sorry about that,” Jet says, wincing. “If I’d known half the team was going to be here, I’d have suggested somewhere else. And Schoengert…” He shakes his head and chuckles. “I hope you don’t mind I didn’t tell him your name. That’s probably not information you want him to have. He’s a blabbermouth.”
“I noticed.”
“And kind of a sleaze. But he’s an awesome kicker.”
“Right? He holds the current league record for successful consecutive field goal attempts,” I recite what I heard an announcer say last week during the Denver game.
Jet raises his eyebrows at me and grins. “Impressive, Richards!”
I pretend to inspect my nails. “I’m not one of those women who watches football to check out the players’ cute butts.” Not exclusively, anyway.
He laughs. “Anyway, you see why we all gladly put up with him and his annoying, random questions.”
“You’re only as good as your kicker, right?”
“Exactly! He’s worth his weight in gold. I just wish he wasn’t so socially backward.”
“What’re you talking about?” I dead-pan, swirling the ice in my glass of water. “You know, I’m beginning to think Rae’s right.”
“About what?”
“You’re a liar.”
He scrunches his eyebrows together and looks legitimately worried. And pale. “Excuse me?”
“C’mon, Knox. Everyone pees in the sink now and then.”
His nervous, over-the-top laughter makes me wonder what he thought I was going to say.
Eight
Inquisitions
I’m not sure how to feel about that date. It was… nice. Jet is nice. Really nice. The nicest.
And that’s such a bummer.
Because he’s so not the man for me.
I was already feeling inferior in the presence of someone as well-known as he is. Add to that his brimming confidence, and I couldn’t help but think, Should I be more like that? What’s wrong with me that I’m not? What’s it like to be so certain of yourself, your likes, your dislikes, and your goals? How does it feel to get up every morning and be excited about what the day has in store, especially if part of the day includes work? What if work didn’t feel like work, because it was something you loved doing?
What disturbed me the most was that he sounded like someone at a job interview. But I’m not hiring a husband. Or a sperm donor for my unfertilized eggs.
Thinking about it as I lie in bed this morning quickens my heart and dampens my skin, partly because I’m beginning to doubt my sanity. What other straight woman would feel like this after a date with Jet Knox? The strongest positive feelings I can muster about the situation are flattery and lust. I must not be right in the head.
That’s why I can hardly argue when Rae calls me as I’m eating breakfast at my kitchen counter and says as an opening, “Are you crazy?”
“I might be. But maybe not for the same reason you’re referencing.” I push the sugary cinnamon squares around my cereal bowl, then drop my spoon when I realize how nonexistent my appetite is.
“What were you thinking, going on a date with Jet Knox, two days before his playoff game?”
Immediately as defensive as a linebacker, I reply, “Hm. Let’s see. As I recall, I was thinking he called me and asked me out, and I didn’t feel like sitting home alone on a Friday night, so I went.”
“He’s supposed to be resting, eating well, and getting as much exercise as possible, when he’s not studying the playbook and watching video. He better not have had any refined sugar or alcohol on your cute little date.”
“Of course not,” I say without hesitation, immediately picturing the flourless chocolate cake we shared for dessert. She’s the crazy one if she thinks I’m going to tattle on him.
Her exhale is so loud, it hurts my ear. “Whew. I hope even he isn’t that dumb, to—”
“He’s not dumb!”
Whoa! Where did that come from?
Fortunately, arguing Jet’s IQ doesn’t seem to be of any interest to my friend. “So, spill it. What did he eat?”
“Excuse me, but you’re not my mother. Or his. Even if it was ‘wrong’ for him to be out, as you seem to think, I did nothing wrong. He’s a grownup. I’m not about to ask a guy if he’s making ‘good choices’ when he calls to ask me out. How do you know about this, anyway?” I already have a strong hunch where she got her intel, but I’d like confirmation, to ensure I kill the right person.
While I indulge in a fantasy that involves strangling Schoenger
t with his pink tie, she answers, “Did you really think you could go out with Jet Knox and not have someone—or several someones—take your picture with their phone?”
I mentally let go of the field goal kicker’s tie.
“It’s all over the Internet. Looks like you, Knox, Schoengert, and Busch had quite the night out together.”
“We weren’t together. It was a coincidence we were all at the same place. I didn’t see so much as a glimpse of Mr. Tight End.”
“Leave it to a bunch of meat heads to think they could go incognito at one of the most popular places in town.”
“How was your date?” I ask before I lose my temper and say something I’ll regret.
Unfortunately, she’s not ready to let it go. “Do you understand the implications here? How are you going to feel if they lose tomorrow?”
I contemplate that for about a second before answering, “I’ll be disappointed for the team—and the fans, including myself—but I won’t feel responsible, if that’s what you’re suggesting. It was three hours. Jet’s a grown man. A very well-grown man.”
I don’t get the laugh I was hoping for, but I achieve some semblance of victory when she takes a deep breath and says, “I’m sorry. You’re right. You know how competitive I am.”
I graciously accept her apology. “I don’t think there’ll be a second date, so stand down.”
She sounds intrigued when she asks, “He didn’t like you?”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Well, he’s Jet Knox.”
“Yeah, well, Jet Knox was freaking me out with his talk about domesticity and goals and the future.”
This cracks her up. “Oh, geez. He didn’t do his homework about his opponent before you guys met up, obviously.”
I don’t tell her that he wasn’t clear who his opponent was going to be, period. I may have found it mildly amusing, but I’m not willing to admit to anyone else that it happened. I do have some pride.
“Right? Now, are you going to tell me about your date, or what?”
