Erica ran public relations for the team, so actually, it made sense that she was in a perpetually bad mood, especially given the owner's recent divorce and his ex-wife's attempt to muddy anything related to the Sharks. Some of her trouble might have been related to me, too, but honestly I didn’t feel like that was my fault.
"You're disgusting, Fernando."
"Hey, I did apologize. Winchell made me choke and you just happened to be right in front of me. I wasn’t aiming at you.” I was honestly sorry. Even though she gave me the cold shoulder more often than not, I kind of liked Erica. I respected her at the very least.
“He did apologize,” the girl standing directly to my right said, leaning toward Erica to make her point before turning to smile up at me. “I heard you,” she said. Then she stuck out a hand with long pointy bright red talons to shake. “I’m Sandy.”
Erica watched all this with something like hatred bubbling in her narrowed eyes. “Do me a favor, Fuerte,” she said. “Try to keep whatever this is—” she waved between me and my new friend Sandy, “—out of the media.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Fair enough.” Erica probably did spend more time than she should on cleaning up some of my image issues, though I honestly thought the media treated me a little unfairly. Any time I was seen with a woman, someone sent a photo to the press and it was a guarantee that the slimiest shiny tabloid would run some incendiary story within the week:
Sharks Striker Fuerte knocks up local waitress and leaves! (If by “knocked up” the piece meant “ordered food” then it was factual.)
Fuerte Fire strikes again, seen with three women at once in downtown club! (Three drunk girls were leaving the club at the same time as me and I helped them into a cab.)
Love ‘em and Leave ‘em Fernando Fuerte…a retrospective. (In this one, they dragged out every photo they’d ever shot of me with a woman.)
“He’s a player,” Erica said to Sandy. “You’ve been warned.”
Sandy grinned at that, potentially thinking Erica meant “soccer player” or possibly finding the idea of “landing the player” a compelling challenge, and wrapped her taloned hands around my arm.
“It’s nice to meet you Sandy,” I said, stepping out of her grasp. “I’m just hanging out with my boys tonight though. Can I maybe get your number?” I had to ask. It was the only way to let her down easy. But I had no intention of using the digits she typed into my phone with a sly smile.
“Call me,” she said, and slinked away, back to a table of girls on the other side of the bar.
Erica had already moved away, going to stand with her brother Trace near the bar. A little flicker of fire lit inside me when she swept her long dark hair over her shoulder and turned away from me, stomping off with her crew of friends in tow.
"Such a charmer," Max said. "I can see you don't need my help."
"It's just her. She hates me no matter what I do," I said. How could I explain that the girl who loathed me most in the world also starred in my dirtiest fantasies? The way she hated me turned me on—there was nothing for it.
"You just met Sandy, right? I do just fine," I told him. It was true. I had no trouble getting dates. That seemed to be the case when you played pro sports. At least it was true with soccer. Definitely baseball and hockey and football, too. Maybe not bowling. Not sure—are pro bowlers hot? They've got those fancy hand guards and usually bring their own balls in that shiny big purse. "Hey, Max," I said, wanting to share my thoughts with a like-minded teammate. "Do you think pro bowlers do as well with the ladies as we do? You know, they've got the balls, and the..."
"They've definitely got the balls," Max said, giving me his what-the-fuck face. "Stop dodging the subject."
"What? You think you can find me one woman who will make me want to settle down?” In truth, it sounded kind of nice, but so far I’d never met a candidate. “There’s no match in your little database for me, dude. Plus, if you put me in there, it won't be fair to the other guys. All the ladies will want some of the Fuerte Fire." I waggled my eyebrows at Erica, who was looking at me over the tops of her friends, and felt a rewarding little flip in my stomach when she lifted a hand to give me the bird.
"That," Max said, watching us. "Is not a rewarding interaction with a woman. I dare you to try Mr. Match. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up like Isley over there." We both glanced over to the corner table where Adam Isley sat with his wife as they both nursed beers and gazed at each other over the tabletop. She'd had a baby just a month or two before, and they were like a friggin' Hallmark movie every time they were together.
"I don't think I could handle throwing up in my mouth that often," I said, faking a gag as I turned away from them. In reality, I did want what Isley had. But I doubted Max's site could do it when twenty-eight years of touring the country and old-fashioned dating hadn't. Girls figured out who I was, made the assumptions that go with pro sports figures, and that was pretty much the end of any potential for anything real. They sought me out for the photo ops, the car, and the money. It had been years since I’d met a girl who didn’t know I was the Fuerte Fire, and I'd decided that was okay with me. If they wanted me for what I offered on the surface, I'd be happy to take them for the same thing. Surface was easy. Surface kept your heart safe, too.
"Tell me you doubt my algorithm can find you the perfect match."
"God, you're sexy when you talk about math."
"Shut up," he said. "I dare you to let me match you."
"Oh, you dare me, do you?" I swigged my beer. I was actually tempted. What was the worst that could happen?
"If it doesn't work, you can hold it against me for the rest of my life. Wouldn't that make you happy?"
I squinted at him. "Winchell, I don't want to hold things against you. I don't swing that way. And if this thing is so fucking foolproof, why are you still single?"
"This isn't about me," he said, his voice low and dark. Kind of like Val Kilmer's Batman voice. Weirdly off-putting and awkward enough to make you never want to hear it again.
"Okay fine," I said, putting my empty beer on the bar and signaling for another. "Sign me up, Winchell. But I promise, I'm going to break your little matchmaking algorithm. You'll see. There is no match for me."
"You're so fucking full of yourself, Fuerte. You’re on."
“One more question though,” I said, leaning against the bar as I looked at him. “Why do you care?”
Max shrugged, “I’m a nice guy. What can I say?”
I laughed. “Fine, but if I do this, you quit getting your heart all hurt when the other team’s losing. No more sacrifices, Max.”
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Also by Delancey Stewart
Mr. Match
Scoring a Soulmate, a Mr. Match Novella
Singletree
Happily Ever His
Happily Ever Hers
Shaking the Sleigh
Second Chance Spring
Falling Into Forever
Watch for more at Delancey Stewart’s site.
Scoring a Soulmate, a Mr. Match Novella Page 6
