8. Unfinished Business
8
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Jason
This is my favorite kind of game—one that ends in a win for the home team. As my Hawks jog off the field, victorious, we smack palms with the line of Mercenaries.
My game face is on, so when I near Beck, I don’t crack a smile as I smack his palm or show an ounce of excitement over what’s to come tonight. Fine, maybe I do steal a glance at those lips.
In a couple hours, they’ll be wrapped around my dick.
Yes, this is a seriously good day.
And it’ll be an excellent evening. Maybe, if all goes well, I’ll ask him a question. How about a third date?
We can probably pull off another one during the season. I’ll check our schedules and figure it out. But I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. First, there are things to buy. Like food and stuff.
After I leave the facility, I get in my car and swing by Whole Foods. I don’t know his likes, but he’s an athlete and a foodie, so I make some educated guesses at the deli counter. A chicken salad, a quinoa dish, and since you can never go wrong with cheese, I snag some Gouda and crackers and olives.
I might not cook, but I can make a charcuterie board almost as well as I can play football.
At home, I change into better casual date attire and consider my reflection in the mirror. Trim shorts and a tight navy-blue polo. It’s all good.
Then I head downstairs with Bandit at my heels. He performs his counter jump again in the kitchen, skidding a few inches but then steadying himself. “And it’s a nine point two from the American judge,” I say. “But rules are rules.”
I scoop him up and put him on the floor, moving the stool away so he can’t reach the counter again. Then I set up the food. “Damn, I impress myself,” I say to my new roommate, who’s circling my feet.
I head to the living room with my buddy, grab the clicker, and point it at the TV. I’m tempted to watch another episode of Unfinished Business, but maybe Beck wants to watch with me.
It’s past five, so I click to my texts, about to fire off a note to Beck, asking if he wants to see an episode tonight, then I stop and laugh.
I never got his number.
He did the whole I have a photographic memory thing. And last night, I didn’t ask for it when he left because... we made plans. We set a time and a place.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Is he...?
Did he play me?
He should have arrived already.
I sit up straighter and peer out the window. Maybe I’ll spot him heading down the block or bounding up the steps.
Or maybe he’s just late. That happens. That’s way more likely than him standing me up. After all, the guy did ask me out.
I flop down on the couch, all casual and chill with my cat, certain Beck will be here any minute.