The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

7. Last Dude Syndrome

7

LAST DUDE SYNDROME

Nate

Four Months Later

I have lots of fantasies.

Some are big—winning a Super Bowl.

Some are little—not losing a game of golf.

Others are bigger than me. I’d like to save all the endangered animals in the world and see my sister find a guy who adores her.

And some are personal, as in I’d like to go on a date some time this decade.

Fine, fine, that’s a reach-for-the-stars goal.

But lately, that goal’s been getting a little more specific. I’ve been entertaining a fantasy of this irresistible guy I met four months ago at a carnival. Ever since I found out my football team would be spending a few extra days in London before our game there next week, I’ve been seriously wondering if I should text the guy who lives across the pond—someone I only spent a few hours with last summer.

Is it crazy to reach out even though we haven’t spoken since that day?

Maybe a little.

But as I run on a treadmill at the stadium a couple hours before our Thursday night kickoff, I can’t stop thinking of him.

I’m picturing a hot evening in Mayfair next week with the charming Brit.

And then a sleepy, sexy morning waking up next to the fun guy before practice.

Oh yeah, this is the hottest workout I’ve had in ages. I’m sweating up a storm as I run faster up this conveyor-belt hill.

Sure, I should be thinking about the lunch in Kensington my agent set up with my sneaker sponsor. Or that dinner meeting Vance planned with the organic energy-bar maker. And of course the game we’ll play in London’s Triumph Stadium next weekend against one of our league rivals.

But, oh well, I’m just not.

I’m busy imagining Hunter’s hell yes text and plotting the logistics of a date-slash-one-night-stand with Hunter Whose Last Name I Don’t Even Know.

But I know this—we were fire together when we afternoon delighted in June here in my hometown.

Except…

It is October now. A guy that sexy, charming, and outgoing is probably seeing someone four months later.

That’d be just my luck.

As I slow the pace on the machine, I slow my fantasies, too, chewing on the unpleasant possibility of a big fat no if I reach out. It’s not the first time I’ve contemplated the no option in the last week. More like the four hundredth. My fizzled marriage should have prepared me for any minor romance setbacks, and yet I’m still gun-shy.

That’s the big reason why I haven’t texted Hunter yet even though I’ve known for a while that I’ll be in London for longer than originally expected.

But the clock is ticking. I take off tomorrow to see a concert in Vegas, then fly across the ocean.

Should I try to see him?

On the one hand, rejection.

On the other hand, sex.

Fuck it.

The chance of sex wins.

After snagging the towel from the dashboard, I wipe it across the back of my neck, composing a text in my head as I finish my cooldown.

Hey there, Hunter. Want to go sightseeing with me next week? I hear the tourist attractions, specifically the one in the penthouse suite at the Luxe Hotel, are worth a visit. But try for yourself to be sure.

Perfect.

I stab the end button on the treadmill triumphantly as I hop off the machine, energized by my workout and my decision at last.

My teammate Jason raises a curious brow as he steps off his treadmill too. “What’s got you chuckling? Your strategy to psych out the secondary?”

That’s a damn good guess. Lately I’ve been messing with my opponents when they try to cover me by flashing them a smile or letting loose a laugh. It’s working too—can’t argue with my receiving yards. “The secondary doesn’t know what to make of it. But nope,” I say, grinning. “I’ve been thinking about the Duke of Hotness. I’ve decided I should reach out to him.”

Jason whistles approvingly. “I was hoping you were gonna say that soon.” He offers a fist for knocking. “You’ve been contemplating that pretty much twenty-four-seven since Reese told us last week they were sending us overseas early, haven’t you?”

Sounds about right. “But in my defense, I’m suffering from Last Dude Syndrome.”

Jason stops at the door, adding that up. “You haven’t been with anyone else since the Duke? No hookups? Nothing?”

I shake my head. “My solo streak has remained unbroken since he returned to England.”

“Man, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Imagine living it,” I say.

He shudders. “Don’t want to.” We head into the hall, and he adopts his play-by-play voice. “All right, folks. Chandler the Ball Handler is back on the field. What will be his plan of attack?”

I laugh at the not-so-subtle innuendo. “Maybe don’t use that nickname if you ever see me with him. Or with anyone else.”

“Noted.” Jason crosses off an item on an invisible list. “Seriously, though. Are you going to take him out while we’re over there?”

My turn to shudder. Dating still feels a bit like opening a present of misery wrapped with a bow of dread and sealed with emotional suffering.

“I’m thinking more like a hookup. When I first saw the schedule I didn’t think I’d have a moment to myself, but now that the trip’s starting early, maybe I can slip in some me time.”

“I bet that’s not all you’re hoping to slip into,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

“That is true,” I say.

Jason pats me on the back with gusto, an encouraging signal. “All right. You didn’t ask, but I have a plan for you.”

“Lay it on me,” I say, seriously grateful for any dude guidance these days.

“Text him now before you invent another excuse. When you get off the field tonight, you’ll not only have a W but a plan of action to take care of all your dick’s woes in a few more days.”

“I really appreciate you thinking about my dick,” I deadpan.

He shoots me a searing stare. “I was not thinking about your dick. I was thinking that I’d like to see you happy again and some action might help.”

Huh.

Am I unhappy? I’ve always considered myself an upbeat guy. But have I been a sullen bastard since my marriage combusted earlier this year?

Well, divorce isn’t exactly a festive occasion. Nor are the aftereffects of a split, like the daily online confessions my ex vomits up detailing lessons learned from his marriage. He’s a personal trainer who’s been reaping the rewards of our split. He’s tapped into the whole this is the real me heartache in his social media feed as he serves up how-to-build-your-biceps tips right alongside how-to-be-a-better-man banalities. That’s real fun, getting tagged in his videos. I wonder what his legions of fans would say if they knew what really went down between us.

But I don’t split and tell.

I smile and shut up, like my agent told me to do when my ex started airing our dirty laundry.

Maybe a night with Hunter would make me happy in the midst of all this shut-the-fuck-upping. Hunter’s fun, lively, witty, and carefree—the opposite of my marriage.

As Jason and I head to the locker room, I grab my phone to look him up, but when I open his name, I hear footsteps behind me, the distinctive click of the owner’s shoes I can never spell. Louboutins.

I stuff my phone in the pocket of my workout shorts. Nadia is a cool team owner, but now’s not the time to be sliding into the messages of a hookup.

“Hey, Nate. Hi, Jason,” she says warmly. I turn around, greeting her with a composed smile. She takes good care of us. Because of that, I want to perform for her.

But she’s also the big kahuna and the buck stops with her.

Our head of PR is by her side, Reese Kingsley.

“Guys, are you all set for Europe? We so appreciate you being flexible and heading over a few days early,” Nadia says.

We’d better be set for Europe. This game has been on the schedule since the start of the season, when the league announced its plans to bring at least four games between American teams to European soil this season.

We’re slated to play against the New York Leopards next weekend in London’s Triumph Stadium, home to epic soccer matches and concerts fans talk about for years. And since we’re playing here tonight, that means we have this weekend off from football.

“Yep,” I say.

Jason chimes in with an “absolutely.”

“Fantastic,” Reese says. “And just so you know, we’re still juggling a few last-minute media events in England. If you can just keep your schedules open until we’re set, that’d be great,” she says, always practical.

There go my potential plans. But I put on a bright smile. “I’m your man. Ready as ever,” I say.

We chat for a few more minutes till it’s time to stretch and suit up for the game.

Bummed, I head into the locker room, making my way to my stall. Oh, well. Guess I’m still in a holding pattern. There’s no point texting Hunter that I’ll be in town since I have no idea when I’ll be free. Doesn’t sound like I’ll have much breathing room anyway. But if I can spare an hour when I’m there, I’ll just text him then.

After I put on my uniform, I set my phone in my stall, but it buzzes right as I power it off. Whoever is messaging will have to wait till the game’s over.

We’re one game away from going five and one in our first six games. That would be our best start ever, and I’m starving for it.

I want it so damn badly, especially after coming so close last season and then having the chance to play in the Super Bowl slip through our fingers in the championship game.

Time to devote all my energy to fantasy number one—playing the best football I can and putting my team in a position to win it all.

All those other dreams will have to stay on the sidelines for a little longer.