11. I’ve Got His Number
11
I’VE GOT HIS NUMBER
Jason
The second I pull into my garage and cut the engine, I call my brother.
He answers right away. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say as I unlock the door to my house and bound up the steps. “Just wanted to say hi.”
“Aww, you miss me already, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours,” he says before a siren drowns out his voice.
“Are you going to a new restaurant?” I ask when the sounds of the city lessen.
“Emerson and I are on our way to do a piece on The Automat,” he says as I turn into the kitchen.
The news delights me. I love knowing we tried the place together, and now it’s part of his show. Makes me feel like a part of his daily life. “Because I approved it first,” I say, as I yank open the fridge and grab a bubbly water.
“I owe it all to you,” he says, then his tone shifts. “Did you sort out your thing with the guy?”
Well, we cracked open his painful past, I apologized from the bottom of my heart, then we made out like thieves in the stairwell, and if I could invite him over tonight, I would.
But I can’t.
“I did. I talked to him. It’s all good,” I say, and that covers the Beck situation well enough. I head to the couch and flop down with my LaCroix. Taco jumps on me, making use of my lap as a bed.
“Good for you. Now you can watch Unfinished Business again.”
I smile. “Yes, I can. But not with Dad.”
“Dude,” he says knowingly. “Never violate the universal rule—thou shalt not watch a sexy scene with a parent in the room.”
“You know it,” I say, then sip my drink.
We chitchat as he heads to The Automat, then he says, “I’m here. I have to go.”
“Love you, Nolan.”
“Love you too, Jaybird,” he says, and we hang up.
I don’t want to ever regret not saying I love you. I don’t want to imagine how it would feel if I never had the chance to again.
I sit in the quiet for a bit, petting the cat more than usual, maybe needing more affection than usual too.
Big brown eyes are working overtime on me tonight.
I grab a handful of popcorn from the red bowl, then sink onto my dad’s cushy couch. His dog sits at my feet, staring at me with a forlorn puppy-dog gaze, melting my resolve in seconds flat.
This Min Pin has my number.
“How do they do it? How do dogs just work me over every time?” I ask my dad as I toss a kernel for his pooch.
Snickerdoodle leaps for it and catches it midair. “Good boy,” my dad calls out. Then to me, he says, “You’re a sucker for eyes.”
Damn. Way to see inside my soul. “Guilty as charged.”
My heart still feels a little tender tonight for my family. Are Beck’s parents around? Is he close with them too?
I could ask him next time I see him at the studio, but that’d be weird. I’ll just hope he has people in his life who matter to him. “Thanks for having me over,” I tell my dad.
With a warm smile, he laughs. “You did grow up here, Jay. It’s your home too.”
“I know. I’m glad,” I say softly.
His casted foot rests on the coffee table, his hand on the remote. “Now, give my third son another piece of popcorn before I turn on the show. He’s hungry.”
I toss a piece to Snickerdoodle and scratch the dog between those big bat ears as he chomps the treat. “You love your third son the most.”
“Well, he doesn’t talk back,” my dad deadpans.
“I’m twenty-seven! I don’t talk back.”
Dad raises a gotcha brow.
I roll my eyes and then grab another handful of the snack.
He points the remote at the TV. “Ready? Or are you going to chat more and ruin my show?”
“Oh my God, the abuse,” I tease as Snickerdoodle hops onto the couch between us. The three of us settle in to watch an episode of Privilege , a family dynasty drama on LGO that has “I want an Emmy” written all over it.
It’s downright addictive.
Until . . .
No fucking way.
The heroine strips off her shirt. Her dude tears off his jeans, and he’s down to boxers.
It’s business time.
I have nothing against bodies on TV, male or female. But rules are rules. I jump up from the couch. “Goodbye,” I say, and I hightail it out of the living room.
Laughing, Dad calls out, “You still can’t handle sex scenes.”
“Not with my dad!” I shout from the kitchen. As I wait, I return a text from my writer friend Hazel, who’s coming to town in October for a book event. We make plans for golf and pinball, and thirty seconds later, Dad calls me back. “Coast is clear.”
I return, and we finish the show, my eyes unscathed.
Once it ends, I gather the empty popcorn bowl and head to the kitchen to wash the dishes from our takeout dinner. Dad follows, crutching his way behind me. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, trying to shoo me away.
“I want to, and you won’t win this battle.” I point to the kitchen table. “Sit.”
He grumbles but complies, his dog trotting gamely along, plunking down at his feet. I’m finished a few minutes later, so I dry my hands and join him.
“It’s nice to watch TV with you,” I say.
Dad is a softie too. “It is, kid. It really is.”
With both of us squishy and the mood relaxed, I take the chance to bring up an old subject in a gentle way. “But I do want you to think about slowing down,” I say. “You worked so hard when we were kids. I want to see you enjoy yourself.”
He studies me, taking his time before he answers. “Would you think it was crazy if I enjoyed my work? Does that sound like someone you know?” he asks gently, but his point is clear.
Pot. Kettle.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. But I won’t be playing football at sixty-two,” I say.
He pats my hand. “Bet you’ll be doing something with football. There’s nothing you’ve loved like being active. Did you know you crawled at five months? You walked at nine months? You ran around the block at age two?”
He’s only told me these stories ten thousand times. “And I threw my first touchdown pass at six.”
He smiles proudly. “Yup. You love the sport.” He takes a beat and meets my gaze. “I love Mister Cookie.”
“I know you love work. But don’t you want to have fun? Maybe date again?” He’s had a few serious girlfriends over the years but never remarried.
He waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, it’s hard out there. With the phone and the apps and the misery.”
I groan, dragging a hand along my chin, shaking my head in faux annoyance. “Dad, let me tell you something you are never allowed to complain about.”
His expression is dead curious. “What?”
I fix him with a tough stare. “Dating is never hard for a good-looking, well-off, straight man.”
“Fine, you have me there,” he concedes, drumming his fingers on the table. “Speaking of good-looking men, what about you? You haven’t introduced me to anyone since Wyatt.”
I growl. “He was the worst.”
“A man who gives you an ultimatum is pretty much the worst. So... anyone on the horizon?”
I picture Beck and our kiss this morning. I haven’t stopped replaying it. Guess I learned I was wrong about my attraction. It’s not a one-way street at all. But if I think about Beck too long right now, I’ll get aroused. I can’t even watch a sex scene with my dad on TV, so I’m not going to linger on how my rival felt pressed against me in the stairwell.
“Not really. There’s a guy... but nothing’s going to come of it,” I say, a little resigned.
“Why not?” Dad asks.
“A lot of reasons,” I answer. Beck is dangerous. Our situation is too risky. Teammates would be pissed, fans would cancel me, and Coach would ream me. Getting involved with Beck in any way would be a huge mistake. I sigh, then stand, and nod to the door. “But mostly, our jobs don’t align.”
“Sounds complicated,” he says.
That’s putting it mildly. “And after Wyatt, I sure would like something easy.”
“I hear you,” he says.
“I should go. Early practice tomorrow. Love you, Dad.”
He hugs me before I go, saying, “Love you, Jay. And maybe someday, it’ll be easier with your jobs.”
The only way that would happen is if we didn’t play pro football.
And I do love my job so damn much.
When I return home a little later, I turn out the lights for the evening and head upstairs. In my bedroom, I check my phone, some part of me foolishly hoping for a message from Beck.
Like, today was hot.
Want to do it again?
Can I come over?
But there won’t be a message. I blocked his number.
I flop onto my mattress, a silly awareness hitting me. I can unblock it too.
I scroll back to my texts from a year ago till I find it.
With one simple swipe, I unblock his number.