I should never have told her who I was coming down to see. When Dad used to watch the Sharks play, Mom and I had both been along for the ride, and she knew about my crush on Max. He was her favorite player, too, besides the Hammer—who was just plain lovable, as far as anyone could tell. Mom was also partial to Buck, a Ghanian player who she said had the most beautiful teeth she'd ever seen. Neither of us had watched much soccer last year, though, except in the hospital with Dad.
"That's pretty irrelevant," I told her. "But I think so, yes."
She wiggled her eyebrows at me and I knew I needed to direct the conversation elsewhere before Mom got too invested in some fantasy about me ending up with Max Winchell.
"He's a client, Mom. It'd be good for us both to remember that." I had opened a bottle of red wine as we talked, and handed Mom a glass now, which she accepted. I poured my own and turned to face her. "I thought we might sit on the patio for a bit and then I've got a pasta bake for dinner."
Mom sighed contentedly and followed me out to the little table on the patio. The night was cooling, but it was still warm enough to be out, and as we settled into wicker chairs, I said, "I'm glad you decided to come."
Charlie was nose down at the fence line, examining every inch of his new territory. We both watched him pad along, his tail wagging.
"I am too," she said, and we sipped our wine and enjoyed the change of scenery.
* * *
I stayed up late after Mom turned in, poring over the reports I'd put together for Mr. Match based on the financials Max had shared and my own firm's analysis. The business had some pretty impressive margins. There was little overhead beyond the server space required to store and process the data that made the venture work. Three employees and a relatively inexpensive office, considering the location. The employees were well compensated, and Max had bought into an HR coop for them, so their benefits were handled externally for a monthly fee that was pretty reasonable. The business seemed to run itself for the most part, though Max's operations manager, Megan, handled the occasional advertising and media request.
All in all, the business was in a good position. An executive might be mostly a figurehead unless Max was interested in expansion and publicity, and without a desire for those things, it was a better target for acquisition than investment. I weeded through the list of potential executives, but didn't find a lot of people who would be a good fit for a mostly hands-off venture, and I wondered how "in the background" Max was really willing to be. I had a feeling the business would be hard for him to step away from, but he'd need to be sure about whichever path we took.
The following morning, I walked down to the beach with Mom and Charlie, though Mom seemed very comfortable with the neighborhood and almost seemed to know where she was going without me.
"Have you been here before, Mom?" We stepped out onto the wide path, Charlie trotting along obediently on his leash until the first rollerblader went swooping by. Charlie tried to catch the guy, and there was nearly a horrific collision.
"Control your lion, sheesh!" the rollerblader yelled as we moved off the path.
"Sorry!" I called, navigating to the beach. We walked through the sand, my calves burning after a few minutes.
"I spent some time here after college," Mom said. "Before I met your father."
"Did you meet Dad down here?" I thought I'd heard these stories, but I couldn't recall them.
"No, I met him on a business trip to the Bay Area," she said.
"Was that when you were an accountant?" I asked. Mom had done people's taxes when I was growing up, but she hadn't worked full time since I'd been around. I seemed to remember her talking about a corporate job though.
"Yes," she said. "I was sent to work at your father's company for a couple weeks. The rest is history." She laughed lightly.
"So you lived in San Diego for a while. I guess I forgot that." It was strange to think about her having a life before Dad and me. Of course I knew she did, but it wasn't something she'd talked about much, and as kids, we tend to be self-centered. I was a little bit ashamed at how little I'd asked about her life before me.
She didn't respond, but gazed around us with a smile on her face.
"You like it here," I observed.
She glanced at me and then back out at the water. "I do."
This was interesting. At least I wouldn't have to worry about Mom getting lost or feeling homesick while I was working. I looked her way now, and was surprised to see a little content smile on her face as we walked through the fine sand on Pacific Beach. Her dark hair was blowing in the breeze, and the sun was reflecting off her skin, making her glow slightly. Mom looked younger suddenly, and a little bit like a stranger. But then she turned to me, catching me staring with a little questioning smile, and she was just Mom again.
"So you'll be okay when I go into work later?" I asked her.
"We'll be fine," she said, and her voice was more confident than I'd heard it since Dad had died.
Chapter 8
Microblading Mishap
TATUM
Max was waiting when I arrived at the offices downtown, and he greeted me with a smile.
I ignored the way my stomach leapt at the curl of his perfect lips, and the random thoughts that crowded my mind.
Look at his perfect hair.
Look at his perfect ass.
I wonder what it would feel like to run my hand along that stubble?
Stupid mind.
"Megan," Max said, sticking his head into the office occupied by his operations manager.
A petite blond girl who couldn't have been more than twenty-two came out of the office, greeting us in the hallway. She was wearing black slacks and a floral button down shirt, and she had a ski cap pulled over her head, her wavy locks cascading from beneath it, around her shoulders. The hat was pulled low, covering most of her forehead and eyebrows.
"Um," Max said, clearly wondering about the cap as much as I was.
"I know," she said quickly.
Max shook his head lightly. "You know? You know what?"
"The hat is ridiculous." She glanced at me. "Hi again."
"Hi," I said, wondering what exactly was going on here.
"I thought maybe it was some kind of millennial fashion thing I'd missed out on," Max said.
Megan dropped her eyes to the floor and her shoulders rose as she took a deep breath. Then she lifted her hands and pulled the hat off, slowly lifting her face to us. "It's covering this," she said.
When her head was up, I scanned her forehead, trying to see what she'd been hiding. I'd been expecting a huge pimple or maybe a bad bang trim. But instead, she wore a surprised, almost accusing expression, one eyebrow lifted in an arch that didn't look quite normal.
"What's, uh ..." Max was clearly not sure what the right response was here any more than I was. "What's going on there?" he asked.
I sealed my lips, not wanting to contribute to the girl's clear embarrassment.
"It was a microblading accident, okay?" she flung the words out as if defending herself, and her cheeks turned a bright pink.
"Micro ...?" Max trailed off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking back on his heels, still flummoxed.
"It's a kind of tattoo," I explained. "To fill in your brows." I turned to Megan, still a little confused. "But, I mean ...?"
"My friend is getting her license," she said, her voice soft. And we were at her house, and her brother bumped into her, so she kind of messed up."
Oh God, that was funny, but I bit my lips, holding in the laughter I felt threatening.
"She tried to fix it," she went on. "She said the arch would make me look mysterious. Or intelligent."
"Or suspicious," Max offered, earning him a dark look before Megan seemed to remember he was the boss and dropped her eyes again.
"So," she said. And then she pulled the cap back on, looking up and meeting my eyes. "That's why the hat."
"Of course," I said, wishing I could he
lp somehow. I wanted to offer her some hope at least, maybe alleviate some of the clear shame she was feeling. "It's, uh, temporary though, right?"
Megan sniffed, and her eyes filled. "Yes," she said softly. "Just a couple years, probably."
Max cleared his throat suddenly, either in shock or horror, and Megan turned and went back into her office, both of them forgetting whatever his reason had been for calling her out to the hallway in the first place.
I followed Max into the conference room, and he shut the door behind us, stepping against it and leaning back, lifting a hand to cover his face. "I shouldn't ... I mean... that's horrible," he said, but I could hear the laughter trying to force its way up his throat.
"It's awful," I confirmed. I felt terrible for Megan, though in reality it wasn't as bad as it could have been. She could grow her bangs to cover it, and it wasn't something most people would notice on first glance. Still ... it wasn't good.
"It is," Max said, seeming to get hold of himself. "Poor Megan."
He sank into a chair across from me and we met eyes, each of us acknowledging the awful humor in poor Megan's situation without saying anything else. It was strange, but in that moment, we had a conversation, it seemed. Neither of us said another word about it, but I felt like we'd each acknowledged the humor of it, the guilt we felt at finding it funny, the sympathy we had for poor Megan, and the need to push the moment aside and focus on business. When he dropped my gaze, it was strange, but I felt like I knew Max Winchell better than I had before.
I'd never experienced a full eye-conversation with anyone before, even my husband. Part of me wanted to ask him about it. But maybe it had been just me. Maybe Max had thought I was just staring at him. That probably happened a lot.
He was famous after all. And really, really good looking.
Have I mentioned his hair? It was dark with a little wave over his forehead, and it had never looked anything less than perfect, even when I'd seen him sweaty on the beach.
But, I reminded myself, Max was a client. And there was no reason to think there would be any hair-touching or any more eye-talking.
Or any sex. There would certainly not be sex.
Oh my God, get a grip!
"So I've pulled a list of potential executives in Southern California that might be interested in Mr. Match," I told him. "But unless you're interested in expanding the business or potentially taking it public, I don't know if there's enough here to entice them."
"Ouch," Max said.
I backpedaled quickly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "That was meant to be a compliment. The business is performing well, it's essentially self sustaining. Most of the executives we source are looking for growth and a challenge."
"I'm not opposed to growth," he said, his voice softening as he thought. "Maybe a line of Mr. Match underwear or something?"
I laughed, forcing away thoughts of Max in his underwear, Justin Bieber or Marky Mark style. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but it's not a horrible idea. Merchandising a successful brand is often a lucrative side business."
"Mr. Match T-shirts," Max said. "Or housewares. Pots and pans?"
"I'm not ruling out merchandise, but I think staying in the realm of dating might be a good idea." I tapped my lips with my pen, trying to keep my focus serious. "Cologne? Lingerie?"
"Underroos!" Max laughed. "Unicorn Mr. Match underroos."
I squinted at him, imagining this. "Like the tank-tops and tidy whities?"
He nodded. "With unicorns. Emo gothic unicorns."
I shook my head, at a loss for words. Max had a hidden sense of humor. I liked it. A lot.
"Trust me, they're very me."
"Please tell me you're not wearing emo unicorn underwear right now." I tried not to picture this. Or Max in any underwear. Or Max without underwear.
Yum.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Max laughed, and something intimate and warm wrapped around us, beckoning me to lean in, to settle into this flirtatious banter.
But Max was a client. And this was not a date. I straightened up and cleared my throat, and for the next hour, we managed to structure the direction the business would take as we embarked on the CEO search and sought to expand the company through strategic investment.
And as I was getting up to leave, congratulating myself for not considering what kind of underwear Max might actually be wearing for at least an hour, Max invited me out. Kind of.
"So there's an exhibition match tomorrow," he said, as we walked past Megan's office again on my way out. "For the Sharks."
"Oh," I said. "Okay."
"Sorry," he grinned at me. "That was an invitation. I'm evidently not good at those. Would you and your mom like to come? You could sit in the box seats up front."
I thought about that, and a twinge of deep sadness went through me. Dad would have loved to go to a Sharks game, sit up close. It wasn't fair that the opportunity was coming up now. Now that he was gone.
Max leaned his head toward me, his voice softening. "You're thinking of your dad."
I met his eyes, noticing the little rim of gold around the dark brown center for the first time. There was understanding there, and a little sympathy. "Yeah," I admitted. "But I think we'd like that. Let me ask Mom, okay?"
"I'll put the tickets at will call for you. Game's at six," he said. "Let me know if you're coming."
"I will," I told him. "I'll give you a call tomorrow either way. I'll call back to the office with some of the work we've done, get some input on investors."
"Great." Max held the door open for me and I stepped past him, getting a whiff of something I'd been noticing in the conference room too, something clean and a little bit like leather. "Talk to you soon."
I smiled at him and went out to my car, a strange mixture of focus and giddiness warring for space inside me.
But it didn't matter how handsome Max was, or how something about his quiet demeanor made me wonder if he was sad. He was a client, and I needed to remember it or risk everything I'd built in the last decade.
"A very attractive single client," Mom said nodding, when I told her where my focus needed to remain later over wine. "One who invited you out to a game."
"In which he will not be sitting at my side holding my hand," I reminded her. "He's a player. He was just being friendly. This is no different than when Dad was doing some work for the Giants and he got to go to a couple games. It's a perk." I considered reminding Mom about Austin, but decided not to go down that well-trodden path today.
Mom just smiled, looking unconvinced. "If you say so."
Charlie bounded toward me suddenly, eager to contribute his thoughts to the conversation. He dropped his big head into my lap, gathered a few pets from me, and then wandered away to continue patrolling the little yard. I looked down to find slobber smeared across the front of my pants.
The joys of dog ownership, I thought.
As I went inside to clean myself up, I forced my mind to avoid focusing on the idea of watching Max play soccer. Close up. Close enough to see those muscles his clothes hinted at working, to see that intense focus I found so appealing. I could not get distracted, no matter how sexy or interesting I found Max Winchell. I wanted to be partner. Foster was retiring, and I was going to be his replacement. I needed to keep my eyes on the prize.
Chapter 9
Nostradamus and Ricky Ricardo
Max
It was good to be back on the field, another team staring us down from across the line.
The off-season wasn't long really, but when your life was driven by something like soccer, you lived and breathed it. I'd talked with guys like Fuerte and Hamish about it before; we all felt more "right" somehow when the season was on. Like life was more balanced.
The game was just getting underway, and my focus narrowed down to the green of the pitch, the men who were standing at my back, and the guys across the line. One guy in particular, Seattle's infamous trash talker, Greg Lewis. I'd heard the announcers call hi
m "Garbage Greg" for all the shit that spewed regularly from his lips, and I think he was the only guy in the league to ever get a red card for a verbal foul. That particular gem was directed at a ref and was captured by the television cameras. Plenty of guys cussed and threw tantrums, most of us were just smart enough to keep it on the down low. Lewis didn't seem to have the smarts to fly under the radar, and as we'd lined up to take the kickoff after winning the toss, Lewis was at it again.
"You sack of shit, Winchell," he was muttering before the whistle. "I'm going to grind you into the pitch. I'm going to push this ball so far up your ass, you'll need a surgeon to get it out, I'm going to—"
I was pretty sure this was how Lewis psyched himself up for games, which was unfortunate, because while he was a good player, he wasn't as good as I was. And talking a ton of shit just before getting beaten mercilessly by the Sharks offense had to be embarrassing.
Within seconds of first touch, Fuerte shot me the ball, and as Lewis came at me, I faked, passing back to Fuerte as he streaked downfield. I managed a casual foot out to the side as Fuerte took the play, and Lewis went down hard, tripping over my foot. He rolled around for a minute whining and hoping the ref would call a foul, but no card came, and a wash of satisfaction flooded into the already rampant adrenaline in my system. Man, I loved this game.
Today's match felt different, in a way, because I knew Tatum Archer was in the stands. She'd called last night to confirm that she'd be coming, and I'd managed a couple glances at the box. She sat there with an older woman I assumed was her mother, both of them looking engaged and excited as the game got set up. I didn't go say hello—I couldn't afford to let anything distract me. But it was interesting knowing she was there. I felt a bit like I was under a spotlight. More than usual, I mean.
Seattle lost, predictably, and some of the best plays of the game had been made by a couple of the new guys on our roster, who got a bit more time on field during exhibition than they might during the regular season. We'd picked up an Italian guy named Maestroduomo, though as soon as Trace Johnson had heard the guy's name, he dubbed him Nostradamus, so none of us had managed to figure out exactly how to pronounce the poor guy's real name. I just called him Ricardo, but a lot of the other guys called him "Ricky" and there was a good chance that would stick. Ricky Ricardo rolled off the tongue easier than Nostradamus, despite Trace's whining that he never got to come up with the names when we got new guys.
Scoring the Boss: Mr. Match Book 4 Page 6
