Some Like It Geek: A Really Big Set of Romances

by Box Set

  “Dirty martini?”

  “As always!”

  A bit of light peeks through that inner storm cloud as we slip easily back into the groove of our friendship. It’s always this way, no matter how long it’s been between visits. A memory blooms—of my first visit to Tricia’s house. How warm and relaxed and welcoming I found it. How the empty glass I set down wasn’t immediately whisked away by her mom. I’d never been allowed to do slumber parties as a kid, but since I was finally a teen, I’d excitedly packed my overnight bag. We stayed up late sipping one hot chocolate after another without being told it would make us fat, talking about our favorite movies and crap at school. Typical teen angst stuff.

  It wasn’t until her mom dropped me off the next morning and I walked along our curving walkway through the perfect landscaping that was our front lawn in Bird Key that I noticed something inside me for the first time—a low buzz of anxiety. I’d never noticed it before because it was my normal state at home and at school as I strove so hard to please and impress my parents. I hadn’t felt that pressure at Tricia’s, and that had been a revelation.

  “How’s Susan?” I take a healthy swallow of my appletini. Mmmm.

  At the mention of her partner, Tricia’s face softens. She’s been in a committed relationship with her girlfriend since college, and I’m thinking if a relationship can survive law school, it’s solid. “The arts community is good for her. She loves it here, thank God. She’s having her first one-person show next month. You’ll have to come.”

  I smile. “Of course. That’s fantastic.”

  “So.” Tricia waves a speared olive at me. “Catch me up here. You were supposed to meet Rick at the coffee shop, but you ended up with someone else?”

  Mortification washes through me all over again, and I squirm in my seat. “First, can you apologize to Rick for me? I honestly didn’t see him.”

  She huffs a breathy laugh. “Because he wasn’t there. I had words with him. He had a last-minute deposition and didn’t think to text me so I could alert you. Now I’m glad you didn’t meet up with him. So spill.”

  So I do. One martini later, I’m more relaxed, but I’m still dealing with that whole storm of emotions brewing inside me that I can’t seem to dissipate.

  She munches another olive and signals for round two. “You and Phil ended things, what, six months ago, right?”

  “Four.”

  She flicks her hand. “Immaterial. The point is, you weren’t this thrown by that breakup.”

  “Tricia. I named a cockroach after him.”

  She chokes on her olive. After she regains her breath, she says, “Whaaat? You’ve got roaches at your new place? They have this invention called bug spray.”

  I laugh. “No. The Bronx Zoo was doing some kind of fundraiser—name one of their Madagascar hissing cockroaches after your ex for ten dollars. So I did.”

  The waiter arrives with our fresh round. Tricia grabs hers. “You didn’t.”

  I grin. “I did. Felt good.”

  I take a slow sip, marshaling my thoughts as fresh hurt at being called cold threatens to add to my mental stew. I’d heard similar terms growing up—“aloof,” “stuck up” —but I thought Phil had seen past that. I’d been wrong. I relive that betrayal. “Yeah, you’re right. After I got over my anger, there wasn’t much else left. Dating him was a huge mistake.”

  And I’m still paying the price—I’m under probation because of my poor judgment concerning him, and my new supervisor at the practice looks like he’s going to use it as a cudgel to keep me in line.

  “I don’t know about that. Brought you here, didn’t it?”

  I jolt in my seat. Had it? “I didn’t move here to run away from Phil.”

  She cocks her head. “Why did you then? I don’t remember you being all that fond of our hometown.”

  “To start fresh,” I assert. It definitely wasn’t to reconnect with my parents. That’s a fruitless cause. They’re in their own bubble and always have been. The only difference is I no longer even try to gain their approval and thereby acceptance into that bubble with them. Right now, they’re on a two-month vacation in Italy, staying in some villa.

  Her eyes narrow. “Because…”

  I look away and watch the brightly dressed people strolling by outside. “Because…” Self-reflection is not a default setting for me, but Tricia’s giving me her patented glare. No trouble seeing why she does so well as a prosecutor. “Gainesville just seemed…messy for me.” I sigh. “Okay, maybe because of Phil, but it’s wrapped up in all that went into getting through my schooling. I was basically unfinished there. Working toward what I wanted. So…maybe I figured I’d come here and be the finished me.” That sounded lame, but it’s hard to pick up the threads of my logic and straighten them out.

  She puts up both her hands. “Hey, I’m not saying the move was a bad thing. So dating Phil was a mistake. But maybe good things come out of mistakes.”

  I frown, doubtful. “Not sure what good will come from yesterday’s epic mistake.”

  She twists her mouth to the side. “So…Luke Haas, huh? I don’t know that I remember him all that well.” Not surprising—Sarasota High had over 2,500 students.

  “He’s the one who competed with me every year at the science fair. Diet Coke on my winning project guy?”

  She pauses, her drink halfway to her mouth. “Oh shit, really? Him?”

  I nod.

  She snorts, and I try to channel her patented glare. She puts a napkin over her mouth. To hide her grin, I’m sure.

  “Sorry. It is kinda funny. I might have had a class with him, but I don’t remember. How did you not recognize him?”

  I fall back against my seat. “Luke, to me, is a short, pimply, skinny kid. Quiet. And kind of a jerk. I only saw him once a year for that fair. We never shared a homeroom or classes.”

  “And…?”

  “The man I met yesterday was this six-foot-two Greek god with a dry sense of humor who just oozed sex appeal.”

  “Oozed, huh? They make ointments for that.”

  I throw a napkin at her. “I’m being serious. Right when I walked in the door and spotted him, his presence pushed and pulled against me. You know? We just…clicked.”

  She smirks. “Is that what you heteros are calling it these days?”

  “Tricia,” I mock-plead. “Are you going to help me or tease me?” I laugh, already feeling better.

  She leans back against her seat. “Sorry, I missed you. You’re such an easy mark.”

  The waiter comes with our bill, and Tricia whips out her card. “Let me treat. To celebrate you moving back.”

  I put up a token protest but acquiesce because I’m still looking at a mountain of debt. She knows it, and I appreciate that she lets me save face with her excuse. “Thank you.”

  “No sweat. And I’m holding you to your promise to come to Susan’s one-person show.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” I tap the Lyft icon on my phone.

  We stand and work our way through the crowded restaurant. “What are you going to do about Luke?”

  I sling my purse strap over my head. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? I thought he was a ‘Greek god.’ ”

  I lift my chin and adjust my purse strap. “Doesn’t matter. He’s dishonest. I’ve also already been-there-done-that with the whole dating a client athlete. It’s too complicated.” Including my feelings. “I don’t need complicated right now.”

  Having talked it all out with Tricia, it’s clear that the whole fiasco just reminded me why I don’t like messy, emotional crap. Too easy to lose one’s way.

  “If you say so.”

  “I do,” I say way too cheerfully, fueled by martini courage and resolve. But I worry that courage and resolve will crumble the next time I’m in Luke’s personal space.

  The man affects me.

  I can’t help it.

  But I can resist.

  Maybe.

  The Lyft driver pulls up, and as I’
m about to step in, Tricia grabs my forearm. “Luke might not be the right person for you, but don’t close yourself off to everyone. When you find the right person, they’ll be worth the complication.”

  I give her a side-eye, but she persists. “Promise me?”

  Reluctantly I agree, since I don’t need to be taking up the Lyft driver’s time arguing with Tricia. She was always good with timing ambushes like that.

  Chapter Seven

  Luke

  I stride into The Alligator’s Butt on South Lemon Ave. My shower-wet hair has dampened the collar of my T-shirt, but I had no time to waste after finishing my workout. I’d called a meeting of the team to discuss strategy, and they should all be here by now. Aiden would’ve already been here, since it’s his bar.

  The sticky floor clings to my shoes, and the peanut shells crunch underfoot. I note who’s new and who’s not as a jangly tune blares from the overhead speakers. I push through the beaded curtain of a side room. We call it the War Room.

  Aiden is leaning against the far wall supervising his waitstaff passing out waters. During the season, we’re on an alcohol break. He nods as I take a seat. A water appears in front of me. They’re so good to me.

  Almost everyone is assembled. “Where’s Mark?” I ask, relaxing into my seat.

  “On his way.” Conor takes a sip from his water and leans back on his chair legs.

  On cue, Mark pushes through the curtain. “Hey, guys. What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing yet, cheese ball.” Aiden pushes away from the wall.

  Conor turns to me. “Wanna share why Dr. Rodgers is upset with you?”

  “No.” While I was prepared for her to be brought up, I was not prepared for the rush of longing and regret that hearing her name induces.

  Conor glares.

  I shake my head, smiling. “Not gonna work, asshole. You do not compare to my instructors during Hell Week, so give it up. It’s none of your business.”

  “Except it’s affecting ours.” Paolo clicks and unclicks a ballpoint pen. He’s our Radar O’Reilly—part nerd, part nice guy, with the round head and round glasses to finish it off. He hates it when we call him Radar.

  “Radar,” I grunt. “The circumstances that caused it are private, okay? Yeah, I did something to piss her off. I’ve apologized. I think she’s accepted it.” The look of betrayal and hurt and how she’d huddled in on herself in the car fills my mind.

  “You think?” Conor bites out.

  Aiden swings a leg over his chair and sits. I hate when he does that. Ever since he saw some compilation of Commander Riker on Star Trek: The Next Generation doing that over and over, he’s made it his signature move. He leans into the table, taking us all in with a big grin. “Drink up everyone! You’d think a round of free drinks would play better with this crowd. Look, I know we’re all tense. Soldier here knows he’s fucked up, and he plans to make it right. He called the meeting, didn’t he? Let’s cut him some slack.”

  “Sailor,” I mutter, but the distinction never seems to register with them, so I’ve ceased making a big stink about it. Besides, the razzing is nothing compared to the shit my fellow SEALs gave each other. Like then, we might find someone annoying—hell, we might dislike one—but we all trusted each other. It’s taken a while for this team to get to that point, but we have. It’s one of the reasons we trained so hard—the more intense the training, the deeper the trust we forge. And trust leads to success.

  Romy shifts his glass back and forth. “So what do you propose?” No surprise that he’s one of the last to say a word. He’s a quiet guy, a bit prickly, and none of us has a fucking clue what he does for a living.

  I smile at him, taking a cue from Aiden to lighten up the mood. “It all depends, and I’m glad we have a scarf-fluffer like you to help strategize.” Since none of us know his occupation, we always make ridiculous guesses just to needle him.

  Romy flicks the wadded straw wrapper my way, and I dodge.

  “We’re going to make this right. I looked up what’s technically required in a PPE—”

  “A PPE?” This from Eamonn.

  “A Pre-participation Physician Examination. Some of the tests are optional, and those are the ones that operate in a gray zone. Lots left up to the doctor’s interpretation. I say we do the minimum required for a PPE, sign the medical release, and not get talkative about our health. We’re all healthy, so we have nothing to hide. Our past files will show that, but no need to give her ammo that she can twist or misinterpret in her report.”

  Eamonn crosses his arms, his gaze resentful. “She wouldn’t even be on our asses if you hadn’t gone after a sponsorship.”

  I grit my teeth. No good deed goes unpunished, right? Jesus. “And we’d not be going to the playoffs without that sponsorship. You want to go, right?”

  “More than anything,” Eamonn says fervently. Nods all around the table too.

  “Then this is the price, guys. Suck it up. We need to concentrate on being ready for our game with Galway New York. It’s our last chance to play against another team before the playoffs.”

  New York is in a whole ’nother league literally and figuratively. The North American Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) is composed of all the teams in the US except those in New York. They’re considered a league all their own, and they compete along with London in the Connacht Senior Hurling Championship in Ireland. Yep, they’re that good. This team’s captain grew up with Conor in Galway and is doing this as a favor. It’s hard not to see it as them humoring us, though. The tone of their emails has all been infused with their belief that they’re expecting to come down to the GAA sticks and hand us our asses.

  Basically, it feels like a pity fuck.

  Aiden slaps his hands onto the table. “Sounds like a plan to me, man. Any aches and pains are part of the sport, right?”

  “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt us?” Paolo smiles around.

  But everyone looks to Conor, cuz he’s our captain, and we’ll do what he says. I’m in this club for other reasons than it makes me feel alive to play—it’s the closest to the band of brothers feeling I had in the service. We all respect Conor.

  He takes a long pull from his water and nods.

  That’s it then.

  “One last piece of business—I’m moving forward with the assumption we’ll get the sponsorship and ordering our jerseys. We’re definitely decided on the Sarasota Wolfe Tones?”

  “Fuck yeah,” says Aiden. “The Wolfe Tones are only just the best Irish rebel band.”

  Conor nods, and Aiden starts singing the lyrics to “Come Out Ye Black and Tans” in a full-throated tenor.

  I know fuck-all about Irish history, but if it makes the team happy, I’m in.

  Luke

  We’re back out on the pitch today to do some final drills and exercises before our match against Galway New York on Saturday. Conor is riding our asses hard, and while this kind of endurance drilling is nothing compared to what I went through during the third week of BUD/S training, known as Hell Week, the demands are testing the others. Just as then, it’s as much about mental toughness and teamwork as it is strength, and I assist and prod the others where needed. I even share the mantra that helped a lot of us in BUD/S—focus on making it to the next meal.

  But I’m relying on my SEAL training to keep focused for a completely different reason—Pepper is here to have us redo our health evals.

  Pepper

  I divide the hair in my ponytail and give it a tug to tighten the elastic. Not counting the first day with the team—what I now call Luke’s Day of Reckoning—this is now my second full session with these players. The first session, they’d been super-friendly. Charming even. Including Luke, damn him.

  I prop my hands on my hips and squint at them as they sprawl on the various picnic tables and fill out their health evals. For a second time.

  The first ones were too suspiciously perfect. It happens occasionally—more so with top-form athletes like these—but all of them
?

  Luke stood by me each time as if he were my damn personal mascot, bending over backward to facilitate my examination of the team. It was all a bit too…accommodating.

  And suspicious.

  And doing a number on my resolve to resist him. I’d successfully corralled my emotions and locked them away after talking with Tricia. In their place, I donned my cool professional manner. It’s never failed me.

  Though one of the players doesn’t fit the pattern. The large blond—Eamonn—bounces his leg up and down. He glances my way but darts his gaze back down when he catches me looking. I make a note to scrutinize his eval. Especially since I don’t have his medical records yet. Typically I’d already have all medical records at my electronic fingertips—all patient info, including physicals, are now required to be online in the United States. But this team has several green card players and expats from Ireland, and it’s that bunch who have been slow to hand in their medical release forms. They’ve feigned forgetfulness, but I get the vibe they don’t like the paperwork and intrusion into their privacy.

  One by one, they bring me their forms when they finish. Eamonn hops up right after Conor, as if he’d been waiting for the sign for when he could be done. His report is just as sparse as the last time. All of them are.

  Of course Luke is the last one. He saunters up, crowding my space. I stand my ground and give him a polite smile, but my body betrays me by leaning forward slightly and surreptitiously inhaling his scent. He hands his form over and lifts his brow, but he couldn’t have possibly noticed my discreet sniff.

  I don’t think.

  “I’ll walk you back to your car.” He nods toward the lot.

  Oh. “You don’t have to. I’m fine, thanks.” I shuffle the papers as if it’s super-duper important. I don’t need more time in his personal space. It’s eroding my resolve.

  “I know I don’t have to,” he says, his voice low. “But I want to.”

  It’s pointless to make a stink about it, as well as unprofessional, so I nod and start walking. It’s also hard for me to emotionally sort out the man who revs me up more than anyone ever has, including Phil—who was not an inattentive lover—and the scrawny jerk I knew in high school. The jerk thing seems to carry over.