Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4

by Stewart, Delancey

  I was about to settle in to get that done when my phone rang. Mom.

  "Hi Mom, is everything all right?"

  She sniffed before answering. Not a good sign. "Yes, it is," she said. "Technically."

  "Are things not all right, uh, untechnically?"

  "That's not a word," she pointed out.

  "Mom. Are you okay?" I sank into the armchair next to the bed and stared out at the light blue sky.

  "I am," she said. "It's just ... God, it's lonely here without you."

  I felt my brows wrinkle. "You've got the hospital, the other volunteers? What about Sue Ellen Neff? You guys used to hang out with them all the time. Can't you do lunch or something?"

  "I could," she agreed. "Charlie, no. Down." He voice was too soft for Charlie to believe she might be speaking to him, I thought. "I think I was wrong. I should have come to San Diego. Is it too late?"

  I stood up again, looking around my room as if I might somehow squeeze my mother and a giant dog in here with me. Part of me had been happy to have this quiet space, but the part that had been on vigilant guard over Mom's mental state since Dad died was already trying to figure out how to fix whatever might be wrong now. "No, it's not too late. Would you want to drive down?"

  "It's a long drive," she said, sounding tired already.

  "I'm just not sure Charlie would be a good plane passenger." I hated the idea of Charlie in a crate. He'd be miserable, and he was certainly too big to fly in the cabin.

  "We can drive," Mom said. "We'll just take it easy. Stop a lot."

  It was easily a full day's drive from Palo Alto. "You sure?"

  "Yes," Mom said, sounding stronger now. A sense of purpose had crept into her voice. "Yes, it will be an adventure. We'll set out in the morning," she said. "First thing."

  "Okay. I'll text you an address as soon as I've got a place we can stay with Charlie, okay?"

  She was quite a second, then she said, "Tatum?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thank you."

  My chest tightened uncomfortably, as it did whenever I felt the odd shift in our relationship, the change that pushed me into a parental role at times. "It's no problem, Mom. It'll be nice having you here, and I can ride back with you guys, help with the driving."

  "Okay," she said. "I better get packed."

  "See you tomorrow," I told her.

  We hung up and I popped open my laptop, pulling up a vacation rental site. It might be hard to find a place willing to house a humongous dog, but I had all day to figure it out.

  A few hours later, I was in the car again, headed to see a small house in Pacific Beach. It was a two-bedroom bungalow a few blocks back from the beach. Palm trees lined the street, and the houses were all one and two-story affairs, many of them clearly built in the fifties. There were updated buildings and condos, a few apartment buildings dotted here and there too, but the house I pulled up in front of was certainly older. It was pink, which I found charming, and had a low white picket fence around a small grassy yard. It would be less grassy expanse than what Charlie was used to, but it was something. I parked and went to the door.

  "Hello," said the man who greeted me, a fit balding fellow in shorts and a T-shirt that said: San Diego means whale's vagina.

  "Hi," I said, trying not to stare at his shirt. I was pretty sure that was a quote from Anchorman, but I didn't want to start a conversation with a stranger using the word "vagina," so I just ignored it. "I'm Tatum Archer."

  "Peter," he said, then looked past me as if he expected me to have someone with me. "Where's this big dog you mentioned?"

  Of course, he was looking for Charlie. "He's not here yet. My mom is driving him down from Palo Alto tomorrow."

  "Aha," Peter said, his voice friendly and his face breaking into a wide smile. "Well, I think you'll be happy here, and so will he and your mom." He moved inside and beckoned me to follow him.

  Peter led me through the rooms, pointing out the tile floors—"doggy claws can't hurt these!"—and finishing up in the back, where there was another small fenced patch of grass. It wasn't going to be enough space for Charlie to get into an all-out run, but it would be enough to let him trot around, investigating his territory as he seemed to like to do. The furniture was simple but looked comfortable and clean, and the place seemed to have everything we'd need for the week.

  The house had been updated recently, and it was clean and bright. "I think this will work nicely," I told him.

  "Great!" Peter explained that he lived just down the block, and would be around to take care of anything we needed. He handed me the keys after explaining a few more details, and then walked to the front door. "I hope it will be okay if I come by once your mom and Charlie are here," he said, ducking his head slightly and smiling. "I love dogs. Especially big ones."

  "That'd be nice, Peter," I told him.

  Once he'd gone, I investigated the house a little bit more, and then went out to my car to bring in my bag. I called the hotel to check out officially, and settled myself in the smaller bedroom. I'd let Mom have the bigger one with the ensuite bathroom. Maybe this would be a vacation of sorts for her. Maybe it would help her get past her pain just a bit.

  Maybe it would help me too.

  Chapter 6

  Conversational Standoff

  Max

  I'd arranged to meet Julie at a bar not far from my house. The place sat along the strip of boardwalk that ran north of Belmont Park along the beach. There were T-shirt stands, ice cream vendors and coffee huts all along this stretch between Mission Beach and Pacific Beach, and it was colorful and busy all the time. I figured if we had nothing in common, there'd at least be plenty of people watching. Nothing was worse than sitting in a quiet isolated spot with someone when you could find nothing to say to them.

  I stepped into the bar, the sun just beginning its descent at my back. It was dim inside, and as I pulled off my sunglasses, a woman stood from where she'd been sitting along one side of the square bar inside.

  "Max, right?" she said, stepping nearer with a smile. She was pretty. She was a redhead, which was a nice change from the sea of blondes that San Diego either made or attracted, and she was wearing jeans and a sweater that hung off one shoulder. It was casual but sexy, and I had to admit that Cat had gotten this part right at least—Julie was attractive.

  "Julie?" I said, putting out a hand to shake.

  She shook my hand, laughing. "So formal," she said.

  "Nice to meet you," I told her, and we both took seats at the bar.

  "I'll admit," she said, after we'd each ordered a Pacifico and tipped the necks together in a little toast, "I feel like I already know you."

  "Oh yeah?" I asked. This was the problem with being semi-famous. People who watched Major League Soccer had an opinion about you already. "You watch soccer?"

  She nodded. "I've always had a little crush on you. Well, I mean, you and Fuerte, but he's obviously taken."

  My groupie alarm dinged a couple times, but I tried to shut it down. A woman admitting to finding Fuerte attractive was like someone saying the ocean was mostly blue. It was an accepted reality. You couldn't escape it.

  "That's flattering, thanks." I took a swallow of my beer, shifting slightly on the stool as Julie grinned at me. She seemed content to sit and smile, but I felt like a first date mandated some kind of get-to-know-you conversation, and it seemed I was going to have to drive this effort on my own. "So," I tried. "Are you into art, then?"

  Julie's grin didn't falter as she said, "Yeah, definitely."

  I waited for her to add more. It didn't happen. I tried again. "So, are you an artist?"

  "I'd like to be, but I'm just in the research phase right now."

  "The research phase of ... art?"

  She nodded. "I'm interviewing as many artists as I can find to help me decide what kind of art I'm going to do."

  I thought about that. It was something I would do—at least the somewhat scientific approach to decision making was. But the idea of
applying that kind of process to art seemed strange. "Isn't art something you're just ... inspired to?" I thought about Cat when we'd been kids. She'd always been drawing, painting, sculpting. It was less of a conscious decision and more of a drive she couldn't ignore.

  "Maybe," she said, and her lack of passion was apparent, but she didn't seem eager to explain. I was getting the feeling that if it was up to Julie, we'd just sit here smiling at each other all night.

  I tried one more time. "So, what do you do for work, Julie?"

  She shook her head, the red hair slipping around her shoulders and sending a waft of strawberry scent my way. "I'm pretty focused on art right now," she said. "So I'm not working."

  "Oh. Okay. So you are ..." I couldn't think of a thing to say. I wanted to drill down, figure out how she lived in a high-rent town like San Diego with no means of apparent income, but that would be rude. I wanted to ask how she could spend her time researching something she didn't seem to have any real zeal for, how she thought she'd make the next step to actually creating art, but the idea of pursuing that topic suddenly felt exhausting. I decided Julie could come up with some conversation. I had made enough attempts. Her turn.

  I picked up my beer bottle and took a long swallow, attempting to indicate that I was going to take a conversational break and that Julie should go ahead and jump in.

  I let my gaze wander the bar, which was beginning to fill up as sunset approached. The volume level was rising as other folks managed the seemingly impossible task of finding things to talk about. I glanced back to my date. She met my eyes and grinned.

  A tired sigh rolled out of me. This was not exactly a raging success. I drank.

  Julie grinned some more.

  Five minutes passed, filled with grinning and other people's conversations, but I was going to stay strong. I was not going to make arbitrary conversation just because that's what was expected. I would not break down.

  The bartender wandered by and I lifted a finger, indicating I wanted another beer. I looked at Julie, raising an eyebrow toward her bottle. She shook her head. It seemed she had committed herself to silence too.

  My beer arrived, and I sipped it, my mind twisting over the increasingly ridiculous situation in which I found myself. Why wouldn't this woman speak?

  Now I was finding it hard to look at her, and I kept my eyes on my own hands, wrapped around the beer bottle. It had been at least ten minutes since either of us had spoken, and I risked a quick glance up to see Julie still watching me expectantly, still grinning.

  I was beginning to wonder if she was potentially an android.

  "Hey, aren't you Max Winchell?" A guy leaned toward me over the corner of the bar at my side.

  I startled, since I had grown unaccustomed to people actually speaking to me. "Yeah," I said, turning to face him. "That's me. How're you doing?"

  "Good, man. I'm a big fan. You guys were so awesome this year. Great season."

  "Thanks," I said, relieved to find my voice still worked. This date felt like some alternate reality in which I had begun to question everything—my actual existence, my ability to speak, my choice in footwear ...

  "Can I maybe get a photo?" the guy asked. "If you don't mind," he said, addressing Julie now. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

  She grinned. She still. Did. Not. Speak.

  I leaned in as the guy snapped a selfie with me, and signed a cocktail napkin for him, then turned back to my date.

  "Okay, well," I said. "It was great meeting you. I've got an early meeting tomorrow though, and I think I'll head on home."

  The grin fell. "Oh?" She looked disappointed. "I thought we might get dinner, maybe."

  I took a breath. "Seriously?"

  Oops. Julie's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You don't like me?"

  Crap. I didn't want to be a dick. "No, it's not that. I really do have an early meeting though. And I just felt like maybe, well ..." The grin was slowly returning to her face. "Well, I just think maybe we don't have a lot in common, that's all."

  Grin gone again. "Oh."

  "I mean, did you feel differently?"

  She nodded. "Totally."

  "Oh." I eyed the cocktail straws and considered whether there might be some way to quickly end myself with them. Maybe I could choke on a cherry or something? "Okay, well. Can I walk you to your car or anything?"

  Please say no, please say no.

  "No, I'm good." She gave me a false little smile and said, "Well, it was nice meeting you."

  "You too." I stood awkwardly for just a moment, and then turned to escape, relief flooding me as soon as I was free, outside.

  I called my sister as I walked home. "Are you at my house?" I asked. Cat had a habit of popping in without telling me she was coming by.

  "No, why?"

  "Because if you were I'd probably kill you. I just met your friend Julie."

  "Oh, isn't she adorable?" Cat seemed to hear the first part of my statement a beat later than the second. "Wait, why do you want to kill me?"

  "The date was that good."

  "Oh no."

  I dodged roller bladers and bicyclists as I strolled along the wide pavement, watching the sun sink into the Pacific. "Let me ask you a question," I said. "When you met Julie at the gallery, did she speak?"

  Cat laughed. "Yes. She asked me a million questions about my work."

  Right. The research. "Did she tell you why?"

  "She said she was considering a new medium."

  "Any medium would be new since she isn't an artist."

  Cat paused a moment, taking that in. "She's not? But, I mean, you don't care, right? It's not like you were interested because you thought she was an artist."

  "No, but I'm definitely less interested knowing she is not an artist."

  "That doesn't make any sense."

  "Neither does Julie. And by the way, she might have some kind of transient catatonic disorder." I said, thinking of Julie's glassy-eyed grin.

  "That's a little harsh. Did you have fun at all?"

  "I asked her a couple questions, and she answered with one-word answers. Then I waited for her to ask me something, and she literally didn't speak. We sat there for fifteen minutes without talking."

  "Why didn't you ask her something else? Max, do I really have to teach you how to have a conversation?"

  "Why should I do all the work?"

  "Oh my God. Seriously?" Cat sounded annoyed. At me.

  "I'm not the bad guy here." I was just unmatchable.

  "It was a date, Max. There is no bad guy. You were supposed to go get to know her."

  "Well, I don't think I want to know her. And I definitely don't want to be set up on any more dates."

  "Okay then." Cat sounded a little hurt, and guilt pinged up my spine.

  "Hey, I appreciate the effort. Thanks for trying."

  She sniffed. "Okay. Well, good night."

  "Night, Cat." I put my phone away and lifted my eyes to the sunset. I stopped and faced it, a wave of sadness washing through me as the final quarter of the sun slipped behind the long blue edge of the water.

  * * *

  I woke up feeling better.

  We had games coming up. Though the regular season didn't kick off until March, we started practice again this week and had a couple exhibition games first. A few of the guys would let loose in the off season (all two months of it), but I wasn't willing to do the extra work required to get back in shape if I let myself go too far. So the day after my failed date, I went running in mid-morning.

  Since I lived on Mission Bay, on the little spit of land that ran between the ocean and the bay, the Mission Bay bike path was my usual route when I was up for a long run. It was twelve miles around, and was a great scenic run. That said, today wasn't a long run day, so I headed north on the boardwalk instead. They called it a boardwalk, but that makes most people think about places like Atlantic City or Ocean City, out on the east coast. Those are real boardwalks. This is a wide sidewalk next to a low retaining wall,
set back far enough to separate the beach from all the businesses, condos, bars, and hotels that faced the water. It was wide and flat, and there were always plenty of people out enjoying it.

  I ran, relishing the sun on my back and my favorite playlist pounding in rhythm with my feet. A little old school System of a Down and Trapt always got me going, and today I wanted it loud enough so my brain could focus only on that—the drums, the guitar, the repeated hammering of my feet on the pavement. Not about the couples strolling casually hand in hand. Not about Julie's perma-fixed grin and inability to form a sentence. Not about Mr. Match and the fact that I'd created something that had helped everyone in San Diego meet their match but didn't seem to work for me.

  Sweat poured down my face by the last mile, and my mind was blessedly blank. I slowed down to a jog, and eventually halted, stopping off the side of the path to stretch and cool down a bit. I'd planned to end just outside Joe's Java, and strolled in that direction now, pulling my ear buds out as I moved back out onto the path.

  I moved up to the window at Joe's to order—you didn't even have to go inside, which was the only reason I felt like it was okay to come here when I was slicked in sweat from a run—and picked up the Americano I'd been promising myself since I set out this morning. Coffee in hand, and a slightly better mindset in place, I turned to head back home. But just as I was about to put my ear buds back in and start the best part of my workout, the part where I could just sip coffee and walk along, admiring the ocean, someone appeared in front of me.

  "Hey," the someone said, and it took me a minute to figure out who it was.

  Tatum Archer was clearly out for a workout too, dressed in black tights that ended mid-calf and a fitted tank top that revealed impressively toned arms. This was clearly not her first rodeo. She wore a hat and dark glasses, which was why it took me a second to be sure it was her, but she removed the glasses and there was no mistaking the wide smile and dark eyes.

  "Tatum, hello," I said, suddenly aware I was drenched in sweat and was probably not looking my best. Though I couldn't have told you why I thought this would matter—the woman was helping me with Mr. Match, not planning to date me. She didn't care what I looked like, I reminded myself.