The Rules of Friends with Benefits

by Lauren Blakely

  “This?” I tip my head back and drain the little bit that’s left. “Just for starters.”

  He chuckles and gestures to the bartender for two more glasses, handing one to me. When he leans against the bar, taking Matthew’s spot, he looks cool and casual, his dark hair neat and combed instead of sticking up wildly like when he takes his baseball cap off. Both looks are good on him. Terrific in a tux and mouthwatering in his baseball uniform.

  When he turns his blue eyes my way, they’re twinkling with humor. “So how is your precious trophy doing? Are you taking good care of it? Giving it treats and petting it every day?”

  I roll my eyes. “It shows fingerprints like crazy. After a few weeks, I took pity on the cleaners who have to polish it. Now I just rub it for luck before I head to The Extravagant to hit the tables.”

  “So that’s how it is. You can’t resist the lure of the casinos.” He shakes his head sadly. “You’ve gone full Vegas.”

  “Hardly. I do enjoy a game of cards every now and then.” I sigh and lean back with my elbows on the bar. “Sadly, a lot of our fans seem to enjoy an afternoon gambling session too.”

  He turns serious, picking up on my mood. “Are fans gambling at your Hawks games?”

  “No, I don’t mean like that.”

  “How do you mean, then?”

  I didn’t mean for my current predicament to slip out into our conversation, and I certainly don’t intend to dump my woes on him—business or personal.

  But when I glance at him, I reconsider. He is in the industry, and he seems genuinely interested.

  I turn to face him. “It’s just getting harder every year to vie for the attention of people in Las Vegas—visitors and locals. There are so many entertainment options. About a million slot machines, for starters. Then there are the shows—Cirque du Soleil, concerts at The Extravagant, magic acts . . . Attending a football game isn’t high on people’s lists.”

  His brow furrows as he concentrates. “I can see that’d be a bit of an issue with people just wanting a show or an experience. But are those the same people who really follow football? Cirque and football seem like apples and oranges to me, and there’s no contest. But then,” he says a little sheepishly, like admitting a secret, “I’m kind of a die-hard sports fan.”

  “Big shock,” I say dryly.

  “I know. Such a surprise.”

  “Okay, but you—and other die-hard fans—are a different profile than the average entertainment consumer. It’s not just the Hawks—other Vegas teams are having the same issue. It’s a real challenge to pry people away from the roulette wheels and the slots. Not to mention the showgirls and the magicians.”

  “Now, don’t get crazy there,” he says with an intense frown. “When I said nothing could beat a football game, I wasn’t talking about magicians. Have you seen the Max and Alex show?” He mimes his head exploding. “It’s insane.”

  “I know. I’ve seen their show twice. Hottest ticket in town. But that’s my point—we’re spoiled for choice, entertainment-wise, in Vegas.”

  He takes a sip of his champagne, mulling over the problem. “Was it an issue when your dad was running the team?”

  It’s a straight-up question, new problem or old, and not a suggestion that I lack something my dad had, and I appreciate that.

  “Yeah, he grappled with it too. We discussed it when he was first taken ill.”

  My throat catches as I think back to the last few days of his life. My father and I talked about everything—life and love and business—like he was determined to pass on his hard-won wisdom so I wouldn’t have to learn the same lessons twice.

  “We talked a lot, actually,” I tell Crosby, speaking from the heart, where I keep Dad’s memory. “He shared his thoughts on running the team. How to be a good leader. How to inspire people. And when he ran down the things he’d been dealing with the last few years with the team, the competition for attendance was one of them. It had been getting harder every year, and he wasn’t sure how to solve the problem either.”

  Crosby taps his finger thoughtfully on his glass. “Is it a matter of marketing, do you think? Or is it just the nature of the beast in Vegas?”

  I groan. “That question keeps me up at night. I think, in large part, it’s the nature of Vegas. But do I just accept that, or do I do something about it?”

  We stand there for a moment, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. We’re comfortable enough together that I can wait, barely, for him to speak in his own time.

  “Now . . . don’t just dismiss this idea because of the source,” he begins.

  “You’re worrying me, Crosby.”

  “It’s ballsy, but not as crazy as staking your Lombardi Trophy at the poker table to make ends meet.”

  “Okay. Now that I’ve got that for perspective . . .”

  “You could, say, move the team to San Francisco.”

  He says it levelly, seriously, like it’s a thing I should legitimately consider.

  Still, I laugh. “Oh, that’s ballsy, all right.”

  He shrugs, but not lightly. “I told you not to dismiss it right away.”

  “Moving a team is one of the hardest things to do. But I’m sure the NFL will trip all over themselves to approve that proposal.”

  “You never know.” Meeting my eyes, he smiles. “You never know about a lot of things, right?”

  He holds my gaze a long time, long enough that my heart flips, that I feel like it’s one of those things where anything could happen. Like we are one of those things.

  Am I reading too much into it?

  Is it wishful thinking?

  Or do I know him well enough to infer what he’s thinking?

  I look away first and take a sip of my champagne, savoring the way it makes my skin feel all sorts of tingly.

  Only maybe it’s not the bubbly.

  Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me.

  And maybe that’s why, when I glance back at him, I say, “Yes, you never know about all sorts of things.”

  It comes out a little breathy, a little flirty, and he taps my arm, echoing, “Exactly. You never know.”

  The possibility in those words, in the way he says them, stays with me after we part, after I’m in my hotel room. In the dark I imagine things spinning out in unexpected directions. Dangerous things, lovely things. Moments. Times together.

  But in the morning, on my flight home, I remind myself that things I don’t know can’t be accounted for. They’re not variables I can change, or outcomes I can affect.

  That’s where I need to put my focus—on things like luring scads of fans back to the stadium.

  4

  Nadia

  A little later

  * * *

  My cell rings as I’m wrapping up my notes for an upcoming owner’s meeting. When I see Eric’s name on the screen, I grab it right away.

  My brother never calls. He’s a texter. Between picking up the phone and swiping the screen, I go right back to when my dad phoned to let me know he was sick. God, I hope nothing is wrong with Eric. I hope nothing’s wrong with my mother.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”

  Maybe I sound less frantic aloud than I do in my head because Eric launches right in with “Everything’s great!”

  That’s obviously true from the sound of his voice, and I sigh in relief.

  “Either you just landed a huge new deal for Harlowe Funds or you’ve finally found that first edition of For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

  He laughs. “Neither. Something worlds better. I asked Mariana to marry me.”

  I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth even with no one here to see. “Oh my God! I’m so happy for you! I’m thrilled.”

  Thrilled barely scratches the surface of my feelings. My brother found the love of his life at a friend’s wedding, and now they’re going to be starting a life together. Who wouldn’t want that for her beloved brother?

  “Oh, that’s perfect, Er
ic. Tell Mariana, ‘Welcome to the family.’ And I think you should get to work on babies because I want to be an aunt, and I’m not getting any younger.”

  He makes a choking sound, and I glance at the time. Three o’clock, so yep, I made him spit out his afternoon coffee. Or, if I’m really lucky, I made him spurt it out his nose.

  Score a point for the little sister.

  “One, you’re twenty-four,” he says when he recovers. “A good thing because, two, babies aren’t happening anytime soon.”

  “One, you don’t know the future, and two, I would really love it. And Mom would love it too. You need to give her a second grandchild. Since Brooke’s already beaten us to the punch.”

  “As she should, since she’s the oldest. And give us a few years, please,” Eric says. “At the moment, I’m underwhelmed by your enthusiasm for my simply getting married.”

  “What? I said I was thrilled! I thought Mariana was the bomb from the first time I met her. You two have always had this wonderful connection.” I speak from the bottom of my heart, and hope it carries over the cell connection. “It’s been amazing to watch my big brother fall in love and become such a terrific man and wonderful partner. And Dad would have been so happy too.”

  “Okay, stop. I already have coffee all over me. I don’t need to be soaked in man-tears too.”

  “This call just keeps getting better and better.”

  “Will you come to our engagement party in a couple of weeks?”

  He asks it so earnestly, as if there could be a snowball’s chance in Vegas that I’d say no.

  “If you didn’t invite me, I would disown you.”

  “That’s the only reason I ask. So you won’t disown me.”

  “Well, as long as you have your priorities straight,” I say. “Now, tell me how you proposed.”

  I spin my chair as he gives me the details. I spot Matthew in the doorway on my second revolution. His green eyes are wide as he points to the phone and mouths, Who’s engaged?

  My brother, I reply the same way, and I motion for him to come in.

  It doesn’t take Eric long to give me the bullet points; clearly, I’m going to have to get the juicy details from Mariana. I send my love and end the call, still grinning.

  Matthew smiles. “Close to your brother, are you?” He sounds particularly British and particularly charming.

  “Yes. Very. Especially since . . .” I wave a hand, and he nods. I don’t have to spell out that Dad’s death hit us hard. The bruises are close to the surface too, since it’s coming up on a year since he died.

  “Do you want to go over these sponsorships now, or shall I come back later?”

  “Let’s do it.” We go over the proposed numbers from our key advertisers, comparing them to last year’s. When we finish, I tap the papers into a stack on the coffee table then lean back into my leather couch as Matthew makes a few last notes on his tablet.

  “So how is everything going with Phoebe?” I ask.

  “Pretty good so far. We played mini-golf at one of those glow-in-the-dark indoor courses. So we’re scoring lots of points for being quirky.”

  “Quirky points are awesome. And even better to have someone to be quirky with. All of that sounds promising to me.” Despite my leading pause, he doesn’t fill it in, so I poke him in the arm. “Do you think it’s promising?”

  Matthew taps his stylus on his knees as he thinks before answering. “It’s hard to say. Can you really know that quickly if someone is the one for you?”

  “Don’t ask me. I only know that it takes just half a dinner to know if someone is wrong for you.”

  “The matchmaking thing is going well for you, then?”

  I hold out my fist, thumb extended, and then turn it emphatically down, adding a raspberry just to be clear.

  He laughs, then holds up his hands innocently. “Sorry. I’m sympathetic, really. But at least you can say your situation is unambiguous.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bright Side. But I think I’m done with matchmaking. From now on, I’m only going to date vicariously.”

  “So my romance is all about you, really?”

  “Pfft. Obviously.” Then I sit up from my slump because I want to say something true and for him to hear it. “Real talk, though, Matthew. I just want you to be happy. I like seeing the smile on your face when you talk about Phoebe.”

  And there it is, a little roguish and a little abashed at the same time. “I do like her, actually.”

  It makes my heart glad to hear that. Makes me miss my brother a smidge less.

  5

  Nadia

  A few weeks later, I fly to San Francisco for my brother’s engagement party. I say hello to everyone, then don’t waste any time before giving my brother a bear hug. He squeezes back, lifting me off my feet. When he sets me down and pulls back to smile at me, a slew of emotions rise up and stick in my throat.

  Family.

  I missed this.

  I miss being able to see them regularly.

  Drop in for coffee at three p.m.

  Babysit my niece at the drop of a hat.

  Be a phone call away to celebrate or commiserate.

  I chat with Mariana, getting the engagement story from her in much more satisfying detail. I’m squealing and oohing and aahing over her ring when someone covers my eyes from behind and says, “Guess who?”

  “Oh, gee, I have no idea who it could possibly be, Mom.”

  She laughs and drops her hands. “Well, I used to be able to fool you.”

  I turn so she can see I’m teasing. “No, I used to pretend to be fooled. Because I was four.”

  Then I wrap her in a big hug too, hoping she’s still playing games with me when I’m forty-four. “So good to see you, Mom,” I say.

  “It’s always good to see you.” When she steps back, she cups my face in both hands. “Time goes by so quickly.”

  “I know.” I cover her fingers with mine.

  She pats my cheek and lets go. “None of that at Eric and Mariana’s party. There’s always time to feel sad, but the guests will only stay until the canapés run out.”

  That’s my mother all over.

  My brother and his fiancée introduce me to their friends and make the rounds, all while being absolutely, unequivocally, nauseatingly in love. I catch up with Brooke and her husband, getting all the fantastic details on their daughter Audrey’s latest reading habits—she eats books for breakfast, and it is awesome.

  Once the party goes on autopilot, Mom and I find a couple of glasses of wine and a corner of the party room.

  “How’s everything going?” I ask. “By which I mean, how are you doing?”

  “Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “I’m doing okay.”

  I arch a brow. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” That’s more definite. “I’m active in the community, and there’s always work to do. And I have good friends I like to spend time with.”

  “Oh, yeah? Friends?” I ask significantly.

  She rolls her eyes. “Women friends. We are ‘The Ladies Who Lunch,’” she says, quoting the Sondheim musical, and I scoff. “But dating feels far off in the future, if it happens at all. And I enjoy spending time with Audrey.”

  She gestures toward my seven-year-old niece, who is reading—very animatedly—to a stuffed dragon on the table in front of her. That’s the joy of being a voracious reader—entertainment self-sufficiency.

  “And I see Brooke a lot,” my mom says. “We have lunch once a week. Sometimes twice a week.”

  A pang of jealousy twists in my chest. It doesn’t diminish my happiness for them, but it still hurts. “I wish I could join you,” I say.

  “I wish you could too,” she agrees with a soft smile. “I take Eric and Mariana out a lot too. I’m lucky. I get to see my family as often as I can.” She reaches for my hand, squeezes it. “Except with you, as often as possible is never often enough. But I know you’re busy in Vegas.” She chuckles, but it’s bittersweet. “How could I n
ot, married to your father all those years?”

  Audrey runs up just then, offering to read to us, only it’s less an offer than an order. And I have no problem with that.

  The evening unwinds until it’s just family, and then just Mom and me, and I go back to my hotel room instead of talking late into the night because I have an early flight tomorrow.

  What would it be like if I didn’t have to get on a flight tomorrow?

  If I could be here longer, or more often, or just more regularly? It would be easier to leave if I knew when I’d be back.

  Commuting to Vegas would be ridiculous.

  But maybe if I could work remotely every third week.

  Or every other week.

  Or maybe something truly crazy.

  Once the idea takes hold, it won’t let go. Almost as soon as I land in Vegas, I text Matthew and ask him to meet me at The Extravagant poker tables. I don’t tell him why. When he joins me and we sit, the dealer sliding out our cards, he doesn’t push for an explanation. He knows I’ll toss the question out to him when I’m ready.

  And I do.

  “What would you think if we were to try to move the team to San Francisco?”

  He doesn’t laugh and tell me the idea is mad, doesn’t grin and tell me it’ll be easy.

  He handles my question as he handles all business questions—thoughtfully.

  “We’d have to analyze it. Run the numbers, make sure it makes financial sense. But given the way attendance has been going the last few years, this could be the ideal solution.”

  It could. The ideal solution to a lot of things.

  6

  Nadia

  The idea might not have been completely insane, but the past couple of months certainly have been. City officials to convince, NFL execs to persuade, players and staff to inform, all while keeping airtight security until we’re ready to inform the press.

  The league ends up helping to expedite the move, or I wouldn’t have been able to do it so quickly. My dad had a lot of goodwill banked with a few key people, and it doesn’t hurt that the projected network revenue is in my favor.