21. Make Me a Match
21
MAKE ME A MATCH
Beck
Football is a great sport for venting. A little anger goes a long way. During our practice the next day, I channel all my annoyance into a laser focus on the playbook.
When that’s done, I go home, shower, and change.
Need to look extra hot for this early evening meeting. I want Jason to know what he’s missing out on when some other guy or gal bids on me.
But as I stare at the relative sameness of my wardrobe, I draw a blank. Does he like me in black or white? Jeans or shorts?
Hell if I know.
I sigh in frustration as I flick through my clothes. Wait. I do know how to get a rise out of him.
You’re a genius, Beck.
I pick a short-sleeve button-down, then roll up the sleeves twice to show more of my ink.
The guy salivates for my tats. There. Let him enjoy the view. It’ll be such a shame if he pictures another person licking the art on my body.
On my way over to the meeting, I call Rachel to get some pointers. I need a killer bio, and she’s aces at dating. “I have to do this auction. They want to know what I like in a guy or a gal. What do I say?”
“Pfft. Easy. You like someone confident, outgoing, big-hearted, and who isn’t afraid to tell you when you’re wrong.”
Way to see inside my soul. That’s also perfect ammunition. “Thanks, Rach,” I say, then hang up when I reach the building.
I meet Carter in the lobby, right as Hayden and Isaiah leave their sessions. It’s like an assembly line of athletes. Jason’s in my session, and I join him in a meeting room. He’s already grabbed a seat. He’s wearing a deep blue shirt, so rich it’s like a sapphire, making his eyes look incredible.
But I won’t be swayed.
The firm owner is Jillian Moore, who commands the room from a high-backed chair at the head of the table. “Thanks for coming, guys. To prep for the auction, we’re creating a fun online catalog of all the players, with profiles and bios for your perfect dates. And we just want to go down the line with what you’re looking for in a match so the attendees can decide who to bid on.”
She turns to Carter first. “Carter, you said you date women. Tell me what you’re looking for in a lady.”
The Renegades receiver drags a hand through his hair like that helps him think harder about dating. “I’m kind of like Owen Wilson in Starsky and Hutch . I’ll take anything.”
Jason laughs, and I want to laugh too, but I don’t want to have anything in common with my rival right now.
Jillian smiles professionally. “Cute, but probably not the best answer.”
“You could say you’re easygoing,” Jason offers Carter.
Of course, Mister Likeable has a good answer.
Carter’s eyes light up. “Good one. I’m also laid-back and fun, but I’m honestly kind of fed up with the hookup culture. I want someone who’s a good person and likes to have a great date night.”
“You should be the spokesperson for that app,” I say offhand before thinking about what’s coming out of my mouth.
“Which one?” Carter asks eagerly, like maybe there’s an app he missed.
“That new one. Date Night. They want?—”
Oh, shit. I only know what Date Night wants because of Jason.
The guy in blue shoots me a look that says shut the fuck up .
I improvise. “I mean, I heard they want someone who wants that whole real date, real love thing, since that’s Date Night’s thing,” I say, a garbled and awful stab at recovery. “At least, I’m guessing they do.”
My cheeks heat as Jason’s expression turns stony.
Carter chuckles. “Dude, you never hear things. Where would you hear that?”
Like he’s giving me his beer to hold, Jason chimes in, “At the gym. I mentioned it when a bunch of us were working out,” he adds, covering up my gaffe. “Zena, the founder, is my neighbor, and I said no when she asked me to endorse her app, but I can hook you up with her, Carter.”
I seethe. He saved me again like he cares or something, and he’s still going to someone else at the auction?
Fuck him.
“That’d be dope,” Carter says.
Jillian turns my way. “And what about you, Beck? Are you open to men and women bidding on you?”
“Yes. Both are fine. And I’m interested in someone soft-spoken,” I begin, painting a picture that’s the opposite of the guy across from me. “Maybe even a little shy. Shyness is adorable in my book.”
Jason looks like he just drank a glass of bitter juice.
“Ideally a girl- or guy-next-door type. Someone not in the limelight,” I say, underlining my point for the other quarterback.
“That’s so sweet,” Jillian says, then turns to Jason and asks him what he wants.
He’s quiet for longer than usual. But then he answers in a cool, distant voice. “I like a smart, confident guy who knows what he wants. But, like I said when I signed up for this auction, I’m only going on a platonic date, so I’m good with a man, woman, or couple bidding on me,” he says, and I feel like a complete and utter jackass.
Jason looks at the clock on the wall. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have a dinner with my agent. I need to take off.”
As he leaves, a lead weight drops in my gut, sinking me to the bottom of the ocean.
I fucked up.
I send him a text as soon as I leave. I’m sorry. I can explain. I want to explain.
But my phone is quiet.
It’s fine. It’s no biggie. He’s just having dinner with his agent. He’ll respond later.
An hour ticks by, and I’m about to lose my mind. I pace around my home, trying to find a new word game that’ll excite my mind. I click over to my texts, sending a quick note to Drew in LA asking what he’s up to. He writes back quickly with Trying to be the best QB LA’s ever seen . But I can’t even trash talk so all I manage is a Good luck with that, before I pick up another Axel Huxley book. But the first page is gibberish. I can’t read, I can’t play games, I can’t do anything but wait. I go for a walk, but pounding the pavement does nothing to lessen the twisting in my stomach, so I return home and check my phone for the billionth time.
Still no reply. I write to him once more, desperation kicking higher with every second that ticks on the clock. Are you around ?
No answer.
I have to fix this. I get in my car and drive to Jackson Street, but once I turn onto his block, I feel utterly ridiculous.
I can’t stalk him. I can’t show up when I’m not welcome either. I hang a U-ey, drive home, and pull into my garage. When I cut the engine, I drop my head against the wheel, groaning. I drag myself out of my car, my gut twisting with misery as I walk from the detached garage to my door.
As I turn the key in the lock, I hear footfalls on the sidewalk behind me and wheel around, my heart sprinting. Jason’s walking toward me.
But his eyes are slits. He’s livid.