Scoring the Boss
Mr. Match Book 4
Delancey Stewart
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Prologue
MAX
You're back, are you? A glutton for punishment, I see.
Me too.
How else could you explain continuing to run a site that matches couple after couple, lining up all the elements necessary for the very best shot at a lasting match, at that elusive bullshit we all seek—true love—when I'm the one person who cannot be matched?
There's been no greater irony in my life.
Which sucks, when you think about, which—for the record, I try not to—since if we want to get right down to brass tacks, I built the stupid site for myself.
To match me.
To hopefully find some sliver of the kind of love I saw my parents enjoy together. The kind of love that had made my house a great place to grow up, the kind that had given my sister Cat and me faith that love existed.
I believed it my whole life, that there was someone like that for me. I might still believe it. A little bit. But hope is fucking fading.
Sure, I meet plenty of girls.
And I could take any number of them out. I could probably even have a halfway decent relationship with one of them. But it wouldn't last. The odds are against it.
Relationships built on impulse, on attraction?
I've done that already. That's what led to Mr. Match in the first place.
Let me tell you a little story about young Max Winchell. It'll help us get acquainted.
I'm not the guy in the middle of the action. Well, on the pitch I am, but that's different. In social situations? I'm on the edge of the action. I like to sit back, watch my friends turn into drunken morons and judge them silently for it. Maybe keep a few nuggets tucked away to bring out and use against them later. In the most fraternal way, of course. Because the Sharks are my brothers, and I'll defend them with my life. But I'll also use any little bit of knowledge I've got to humiliate them—in the right circumstances, of course.
Before the Sharks, I was maybe a little less confident. I was on the outside less by choice, and more because I'd never really figured out how to be in the middle.
It worked out fine. In high school, I focused on soccer. In college? I focused on soccer.
Everyone else went out drinking and partying, and I focused.
My double major in mathematics and philosophy took a little bit of attention, too.
Anyway, back to the point.
One of those nights in college? When everyone else had gone out drinking the night before a game? I did something equally stupid. I took the elevator three floors up in the athlete's dorms, followed up on an invitation to visit a girl I'd been nursing a crush on for weeks. A gymnast named Samantha.
Fuck, she was bendy.
And there wasn't a single thing about being with Samantha that hadn't felt good and right and perfect that night. I was sure chemistry was all we needed, and for a couple weeks, the chemistry was incredible.
And then it wasn't enough. At least not for her.
I went up to her room another night to find Jack Wright already in her room, his face flushed and his shirt off when he answered the door.
Samantha had played it off, but the next day she didn't even have the grace to pretend. "We weren't exclusive, right?" she'd said innocently, batting those big blue eyes at me. "We can still hook up, Max."
And I should have listened to my gut. But I was young. And I believed the fables about love, about feelings, about going with your instinct. I believed it when people said things like, "You'll know when it's right." And I told myself it was right. I thought I could convince her it was. I thought I knew.
But the truth is? You won't know. That's why you need Mr. Match to tell you.
I was young and dumb, and full of… well, never mind that part.
Key takeaway here? I was an idiot. And I took myself back to Samantha over and over, let her walk up, down, and all around my stupid hopeful heart, and told myself this was love.
And when she finally told me not to come back, told me that she'd been trying to give me the hint for weeks that it wasn't going to work, had been trying to let me down easy, for fuck's sake—that's when I figured it out.
I took my crumpled heart back to my own room and kept it there for the rest of that year. It was still damaged as we moved into summer training, and not fully recovered until the offer came from the Sharks. And maybe not quite even then.
Turns out I'd liked Samantha a lot. I thought we were meant to be together. And I'd been as wrong as my Durnish buddy Hamish putting meat in a crust and calling it a pie.
Chapter 1
Getting the Little Green Beast in a Sleeper Hold
MAX
Wedding bells were ringing. Or, really, it was more like tropical wind chimes.
It was the Sharks wedding of the year. Erica Johnson and Fernando "the Fire" Fuerte were finally tying the knot, and every one of the Sharks was staying at the Shelter Island hotel where the festivities were taking place.
As the guy who'd set them up in the first place, albeit somewhat anonymously, I felt a little surge of pride as I sat back at the post-rehearsal dinner drinksfest at the outdoor bar. Pride, some distant happiness for them, and a healthy amount of jealousy I wished I could drown with beer, but that never seemed to work. Jealousy wasn't pretty in pre-teen girls, and it sure as hell didn't look good on thirty-year old men. Especially guys who'd recently been profiled in Sports Illustrated and who ran successful side ventures that pulled in seven figures.
So for the weekend, I was pushing that little green beast down deep and pasting on the best smile I could manage for my friends.
"Max, you look weird. You okay?" Trace Johnson leaned down, peering into my face.
"It's a smile. I'm happy for your sister and Fuerte." I pushed the big brute out of my personal space.
"Huh. I guess I'm not used to seeing you smile." He shrugged and turned back toward the party going on around us. "Well, gents, I think I'm going to turn in."
Every jaw around dropped open and we all turned to stare at Trace Johnson as he stood and looked around at us with a smile, stretching his arms above his head.
"Say what, now?" Erick Evans asked in disbelief. "It's..." he checked his watch. "It's ten-thirty." The music flowing from the speakers around the outside bar ticked up as if in agreement.
"Yeah, mate," Hamish "The Hammer" MacEvoy said. "Even Fuerte's still here and he's the one who should be worried about the time. He's the one tying the knot tomorrow."
Trace's face was oddly serene and unruffled in the glow from the tiki torches. "My sister's getting married tomorrow. I'm not going to be hung over. See you guys in the morning. Fuerte," he said, turning to address his sister's groom-to-be. "Don't stay up too late."
"Okay, Mom," Fernando Fuerte said, chuckling from the seat he occupied at the table we surrounded. He raised his glass to Trace as he turned and made his way across the open expanse of lawn that separated the outdoor bar at the resort from the buildings that housed the rooms and the little bungalows down closer to the marina. "Will you check on Erica as you head in?"
"On my way," Trace called over his shoulder. "Night guys."
The Sharks all called their goodnights as Trace disappeared in spectacularly responsible fashion.
"You ready for this?" I asked Fuerte. We'd come to the outdoor bar from the rehearsal dinner, giving the ladie
s the indoor bar. Since Fuerte and Trace's sister Erica hadn't wanted bachelor and bachelorette parties, this was what they'd decided. But things were a lot tamer than they used to be for the South Bay Sharks—and part of it was my fault. Or Mr. Match's fault, really.
And helping two—or arguably three—South Bay Sharks couples find love in quick succession had turned the spotlight up a notch, and it had been shining a little close to home lately. The last thing I needed was to be outed as Mr. Match.
Fuerte smiled, and he looked calm and satisfied. "Yeah, man. I am ready." He leaned in a little closer. "I owe you a thank you. If it wasn't for you—"
I shook off whatever he'd been about to say. I didn't need anyone else knowing, not even on the team. So far only Fuerte and Hamish knew, though I was pretty sure Trace's sister was in on it, and I wondered if Hamish had told Sophie, his wife. My own sister was the only other person in the know, if you didn't count the three people I had working in an office downtown. By my count that was about eight people too many. It was inevitable that word was going to get out soon. "Nah, it's all good."
"I'm serious, Max. I wouldn't have gone looking if you hadn't made me. And never in a million years would I have chosen Erica. She hated me."
"Clearly not." I took another gulp of the martini I'd been nursing, liking the fire down my throat. It burned, and if I could feel that, it proved I was capable of feelings. So clearly, that wasn't the issue I had.
Fuerte studied me for a long minute, long enough to make me shift in my chair and consider getting up. I had the sense he was about to ask some questions I didn't want to answer. "So what about you, Max?"
Here it came.
"You bringing a date to the wedding tomorrow?"
A bitter chuckle from my chest. "Nah." The fucking irony. I tried on my smile again—bitter and pouty probably wouldn't look any better than jealousy on me.
So rather than letting anyone see how much I'd really hoped to find my own match, I had made this my schtick. I acted like I was above it all, like I was happy to pull the strings and make the matches (though really, I had little to do with it at this point. Mr. Match dot com pretty much ran itself. The math made the matches. I just made the money.)
"You seeing anyone, though?" Fuerte was trying to be gentle.
I glanced around the bar where the other Sharks players were starting to get slightly rowdy. Evans and Toofer were dancing out under the hanging lights with some women they'd met at the bar, and Hamish and Isley were alternately laughing hysterically and leaning their heads together, talking about something. Buck and a couple of the Sharks' newest players were scattered along the bar in various states of inebriation.
"Nope," I said, taking another sip of my drink.
"Why not?" Fuerte asked.
"You always this nosey the night before you get married, dude?"
"Figure I don't have much left to lose. My fate is sealed."
"Funny. You're the happiest I've ever seen you. Don't pretend like you're a man headed to the gallows." Fuerte didn't get to play off his happiness. Not with me, not when all I wanted in the world was what he had.
"True," he said. "Why are you avoiding the question?"
"Why the hell do you keep asking it?" I finished my drink and put the empty glass on the table. "Do I need to escort you to your room? You're not going to stay here all night with these guys and end up late to your own wedding are you?"
"Erica would have my balls," Fuerte said, glancing around almost like he was afraid she'd come storming through the bar at any minute.
"Afraid she's already got yer balls," Hamish roared, coming to join us. The big Durnish defender wore his kilt, as usual. He'd been a little tough to take lately, too, since marrying his childhood sweetheart.
"Don't stay up too late, guys," I told them, getting up from the table. "And whatever you do, don't let Evans dance like that. Ever. Again."
We all turned toward the dance floor where Erick Evans, a mid-fielder with blond hair and a penchant for hooking up with soccer groupies, was currently doing some kind of hip-swiveling dance, which he'd accompanied with some ill-advised finger snapping. He'd fashioned a hat out of one of the cloth napkins from the table, and was wearing it wrapped around his skull. It wasn't a pleasant sight, but the girl he was dancing with didn't seem to mind.
"I'll take him up before things get out of hand," Hamish promised.
"If that's not out of hand, I'd hate to see what is," I said.
"Remember the Cup afterparty?" Fuerte asked, and each of us groaned.
The Sharks had won the Cup last season, and Evans had taken his terrifying moves to new heights. Literally, dancing on the bar at the celebration and then falling spectacularly off of it and into the glasses on the bartender's side. We were almost banned from McDaugherty's for that, but since it was the unofficial team bar, we'd been able to talk the owner into giving us another chance.
"You're right. Don't let it go there tonight. I'm headed up." I said.
"Night Winchell," Fuerte called, and I lifted a hand to my teammates as I made my way back to my room.
Alone.
Like always.
* * *
The ceremony was beautiful, and the reception was a true celebration—as opposed to those over-formal focus-on-tradition type receptions some couples have. Despite the fact that they'd been planning their wedding for a year, neither Erica nor Fernando got too wrapped around the axle on the details, and both of them let loose when it was time to enjoy that it was done. They entered their lives as a married couple laughing hysterically among friends and family, dancing and celebrating.
And I found myself still envying them both enormously.
"Dance?" A woman said, stepping close to where I'd been sitting and extending a hand. She was Sophie's friend, Anna, from the bakery. We'd met a few times before. I liked her, and appreciated her sensitivity—she'd seen me moping and had come to rescue me. I pasted on my smile and accepted her hand. Because while I didn't have any interest in dating Anna, I enjoyed her company, and I was grateful to her for pulling me back into the party and out of my own head.
"Everything okay?" She asked me over the noise of the music and the crowd.
"Yeah, of course," I answered.
"Weddings make you think, don't they?" The music had shifted to a slower song, and she stepped close, automatically putting a hand on my shoulder as my own hands found her waist.
"That's exactly it," I told her. "They make me think about things I can go weeks without thinking about normally." That was almost true. As Mr. Match, I thought more about finding a soul mate than most people probably did.
Anna was close now, our arms around one another as her head came to rest on my chest. "I'm so happy for them though, for Snappy and Shark. They're a good fit."
They were. And the nickname Sophie and Anna had created when they'd taken Erica and Fernando as wedding-cake clients fit them well. We swayed, and I watched my friends around me as the night cooled on the patio outside the big reception hall lined with windows. The boats in the marina bobbed and the palm trees stood watch around the party, all of it reminding me how lucky I was to live the life I did, and to live it in a place as nearly perfect as San Diego.
In reality, everything about my life was pretty damned perfect. I had more money than I needed, and at a time when so many needed so much, that was saying something. Life was comfortable, and I'd been able to make sure it was good for my mother and sister too, which was one of the things I'd grown up saying I would do. My career was still on the upswing with the Sharks, and Mr. Match was doing better than ever. I was healthy and surrounded by friends. At this exact moment, I had a beautiful woman in my arms.
But it wasn't enough, and when I focused on everything I had, it just made the awareness of what I lacked that much more acute. Because Anna was in my arms, but she was not in my soul. I probably could have taken her home, but that wasn't my style. I knew the difference between passing time and living a full life, and I didn'
t want to pass any more time.
I'd singlehandedly helped more than two thousand couples find love in Southern California—not just love, but their true mathematical match. My sister and my mother had both used the tool I'd created to find someone to fill their hearts, and I'd expanded the geographic reach to include Arizona as well. But it didn't seem to matter.
There was still no match for Mr. Match himself, and I sensed that pretty soon all of San Diego would know it. There had been a couple members of the media allowed to photograph the ceremony, and I heard one reporter asking a guest about Mr. Match's identity—after all, the site was part of Fuerte and Erica's story. The vultures were definitely circling, and if it came out that Mr. Match himself was single, doubt would be cast on the veracity of the entire venture. People would start to doubt whether the algorithm worked, if Mr. Match himself wasn't happily matched. Worse yet, already happy couples might start to doubt the certainty of their own relationships, start to question whether I was just a shrewd charlatan selling a new version of snake oil.
No one could know I was Mr. Match, and that meant I needed to step away before I got found out.
I'd been thinking about this for a while, and I had a plan.
I kissed Anna's cheek as the song ended. "Thanks for the dance," I told her.
She gave me a wistful smile as I turned and walked away, heading back to the bar.
Chapter 2
Entrée: Shoes and Slobber
TATUM
"Slow it down, boy," I called to the huge dog at the end of my leash, hating the desperate sound of my own voice. "Come on, Charlie."
"Don't let him be the boss," the dog trainer called helpfully across the field through which I'd just been dragged by my one-hundred-pound Newfoundland. "Assert yourself."
Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4 Page 1
