Forever Offsides
**Unedited and subject to change
Quinn
Dating in Boston is the equivalent of driving blindfolded through a minefield. Any date could blow up in your face at any second and you wouldn’t see it coming until it’s too late. Like this one.
“So I told my junior partner, ‘Doll, just get me the fucking contract the way I asked for it.’” He laughs. I don’t.
This is why I said I was done dating. Not just with dating apps, but the entire game.
Unfortunately, that manifesto is rarely heeded by people when you’re in your late twenties, have a very limited social life, and are single.
My intern was all, ‘Swipe right, he’s cute.
Come on, one date won’t hurt.’ Ugh. I should have known better than to listen to her.
The number of things I could be doing right now, other than suffering through this pointlessness, makes me wince with regret.
“Fascinating. Did she find the fact that you called her Doll misogynistic?”
“Huh?” It’s as if he’s never heard that word before, and I believe it. That or he doesn’t get my deadpan sarcasm. He wouldn’t be the first.
Lawyers. I mentally roll my eyes. I can’t even say men because I have male friends and brothers and a father who are the best men in the world. It’s not them. It’s likely this guy, but it’s not them.
It could be me too.
I pick up my glass and down the rest of my martini before I literally grab onto a waitress as she passes by and hold up my glass. “I need another. I don’t care what it is as long as it’s strong.”
She throws a fisheye to Mr. I’m-A-Senior-Partner, who is engrossed in his phone as he types away, and nods in understanding. I’ve already forgotten his name. James, Jimmy, Jake? Yeah. I don’t remember.
“You got it.”
Bless her. What a waste of a night off. I get like five of these a month, and I hate that I’m spending one with him.
I wonder if my best friends, Braelyn or Skylar, are around.
Maybe we could catch a movie or something.
I flip my wrist and see it’s still early.
My brothers, Crew and Mason, are out with their teammates, so that’s a big fat no.
I don’t date or fuck around with athletes anymore and certainly not ones on my brothers’ or father’s team, since our dad is the coach.
I go to pull my phone out of my purse to text my girls when he sets his phone down and smacks his hands together eliciting an annoyingly loud clap that startles me, along with half the people at the surrounding tables.
“Should we order?” He rubs his hands together like he’s attempting to start a campfire. “The night’s burning away, and I plan to have you naked in my bed within the hour.” He winks with a sleazeball grin on his face.
I lean forward and place my hands on the edge of the table. “It’s shocking to me that you’re still single, Jerry.”
“It’s James.”
“Oops.”
He’s unsure what to do with my topic changer, but he rolls with it. “I work a lot and prioritize my job over everything else. Women don’t understand that.”
“You mean like female surgeons who work eighty-hour weeks to save lives?”
He scoffs dismissively and rolls his eyes. “Come on. I have girls your age as subordinates. None of you works that hard.”
Just like that, his time on the clock is up. “James, can I be honest with you?”
He shrugs and adjusts his place setting just as my second martini is delivered.
Awesome timing. I hold up a finger to him, indicating that I need a minute.
I pick up my glass and down my drink in three large gulps.
This one goes down like butter off a lobster.
I think there’s tequila in there. Yum! I set my empty down, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and level him with the same expression I give a patient who isn’t compliant with their post-surgical physical therapy.
“I don’t think you’re single because you work too many hours or make your job your main priority.”
He’s hesitant to ask. I can tell. But the lawyer in him won’t be denied truths. Or answers at the very least. “No? Then why am I single?”
By third grade, most people learned how to hold their tongue and keep their inner monologues to themselves. I never did. It’s why I’m not so affectionately nicknamed Yang at work. As in Christina Yang from Grey’s Anatomy.
I clear my throat. “Because you’re a sexist piece of shit asshole who pathetically believes women are inferior.
Not only that, you feel emasculated by a strong, smart, successful woman.
That sort of self-imposed, intellectually unfounded superiority speaks to several different personality disorders in adult men, including narcissism.
Much of that likely stems from something in your childhood that’s grown into bitterness and the misogyny you now display.
Regardless of the root cause, women don’t stick around long because they quickly see through your thin veneer of good looks and money to the reality beneath.
I’d also be willing to double down that you’re a two-pump chump who wouldn’t know how to find a clitoris with a map and a flashlight, let alone deliver an actual orgasm to a partner, probably because you’re too lazy and selfish to be bothered trying.
But that’s just my guess after thirty minutes with you and one psych rotation in med school, so I could be wrong.
If you’ll excuse me, I have to use the restroom. ”
I grab my purse and stand.
“Wait. We haven’t ordered yet.”
Wow. Usually, a speech like that would have them pissed off and running. This guy is a cut above.
I return the wink he gave me earlier. “You go ahead. I’m sure a man like you could tell a girl like me exactly what I want for dinner.” I toss my purse on my shoulder and head toward the bathroom because I do actually have to pee.
The waitress who brought me my second drink high-fives me as I pass her. “You’re his third date here this week. Glad you’re walking out on him.”
No wonder she understood the assignment so well. “Hopefully I’m not the last to.”
I go straight for the restroom that’s located off the bar, but as I reach for the knob, someone’s hand covers it, and I end up gripping them instead of metal. Both of us jump back.
“I’m sorry,” we say in unison.
His hands shoot up in surrender, and he laughs. “My fault. You go first.”
I look up, and up since he’s so tall. I mean, I’m tall at five foot nine, but he’s got several more inches on me, and I’m in heels.
He’s broad-shouldered with a trim waist and the sort of musculature that speaks to either an intense exercise regime, being a former athlete, or both, visible even beneath his light blue button-up shirt.
Some black ink peeks out beneath his rolled-up sleeves, but I don’t focus on that.
I’m locked on his face with his short sandy-brown hair and well-groomed beard.
And the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Damn.
He’s older. Definitely older than me. Maybe late thirties?
“No, it’s fine,” I tell him. “You got here first.”
He smiles, and deep dimples sink into his cheeks, framing his perfect white teeth. “I’d say it was a tie, so how about ladies first?”
“I believe in equality, and your hand hit the knob before mine. That means you were safe, and I didn’t get the out.”
His head tilts, and he does a slow rake of me, his eyes burning a path from my heels up my calves to the hem of my cute dress, where it meets my thighs, on up to my waist, and the peekaboo of cleavage I have at the square neckline, all the way back up to my face.
“You like baseball?”
“I can take it or leave it. I’m more of a hockey or basketball girl. The Sox are on in the bar.” I point to the TV that’s visible from here. “The analogy felt appropriate.”
He doesn’t bother to turn to look. His gaze is squarely locked on me. “What about football?”
I squint, wondering if he recognizes me somehow. Being a Reyes in this town comes with a lot of notoriety, whether you want it or not. That’s what having a famous and beloved professional football legacy as your immediate family gets you.
It’s yet another reason why football is… “Not my sport,” I tell him.
He grins. “What’s your name?”
“Quinn.”
“All right, Quinn with the beautiful green eyes, I can’t go before you. Equality or not, which I firmly believe in, I was raised with the manners of a gentleman.”
I fold my arms. “And I was raised that a win is a win, so I insist you go first.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
I smirk and shrug.
He steps forward until he’s somehow almost hovering over me.
He smells good. Like men’s bodywash and musky cologne and bourbon.
Smooth with a sexy bite on the end. My heart starts to beat a little faster, and my blood heats.
I crane my neck and cock an eyebrow at him.
Most people don’t invade a stranger’s bubble space so quickly.
All I get in return is more of that sexy, somewhat cocky smile.
“How about we flip for it?” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a large coin.
“Is that your good luck charm?”
“Something like that. You in?”
I nod, and he tosses it in the air before he catches it and flips it onto the dorsum of his other hand.
“Call it.”
“Heads.”
He lifts his hand and frowns. “Shit. I always win that one.”
“Sucks to be you, I guess. Go on. You’re first. Rules are rules.”
His eyes flicker between mine for a long beat before he huffs out a resigned sigh and heads into the bathroom.
I pull out my phone and shoot a quick text to my intern to let her know that my date was a dud, and I already ended it.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since this morning, and I’ve already had two martinis I’m feeling the effects of.
I need food, and the serious question is, do I grab something here and take it with me, or do I pick up a burrito on my way home? What a busted-up night. At least the bathroom guy is hot. That’s a fun little bonus.
I snicker to myself just as the bathroom door opens and he steps out.
“Your turn.” He holds the door open and tosses the paper towel he was using to dry his hands into the bin just inside the bathroom door. He used the towel to open the door instead of using his clean hand, and the surgeon in me loves that.
“Thanks.”
I go to scoot by him when he shifts in front of me, blocking my entrance and making it so that I almost bump into him. “Are you here with someone?”
I step back from his chest and peer up. “Huh?”
“I’m asking because if you are, I’ll go back to the bar and leave it at that. If you’re not, then maybe when you’re finished, you’ll come join me, and I can buy you a drink or dinner.”
Well then.
I debate this. It’s already been a long day and a long evening, and there’s no way this guy will turn out to be anything as great as he seems. He’ll be yet another disappointment I eat a king-sized Snickers over. At least the Snickers leaves me satisfied.
“I’m here with someone.”
He studies me for a moment before he nods and steps to the side. “Shame. Enjoy your night, Quinn.”
“Thanks.” I race into the bathroom and lock the door. I catch my reflection in the mirror and fan my red face while I giggle lightly to myself. That man gave me butterflies and hard nipples. Maybe I should go meet him at the bar. Lord knows I could use some sex.
I snicker, the alcohol having fun with me. I do my business and wash my hands, and when I exit the bathroom, he’s still there as if he were waiting for me.
The door shuts behind me and I fold my arms again, giving him an impatient look. “This is stalking.”
He laughs and holds out a hand to me. “Nah. It’s simply seeing if you’ll reconsider my offer. Your date just left, by the way. You know, the one you walked out on.”
“How did you know I was on a date or that I walked out on him?”
“You caught my eye when you came in tonight, and I saw you shake hands with that douchebag before you sat across from him. I also watched you get up and leave him.”
“So you saw me coming for the bathroom and decided to intercept me?”
He hitches up a shoulder and rubs the back of his neck.
“This is sounding bad, and yeah, maybe it does make me come across like a bit of a stalker. I assure you, I’m not.
I’m a totally normal guy. I just wanted to talk to you.
That’s all. You’re beautiful, and as I said, you caught my eye, and held my attention, and that’s not something that happens very often to me.
Then you opened your mouth, and you’re smart and interesting, and I didn’t want to go back to the bar without giving it another shot. Just a drink and dinner. I promise.”
Those butterflies are back.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Rhett.”
“Like Rhett Butler?” Gone with the Wind is one of my grandmother’s favorite movies.
He gives me a closed-mouthed grin that makes his dimples pop. “Will you make fun of me if I tell you my middle name is Butler?”
I gasp. “It is not.”
He nods in a self-deprecating way. “It is. My mother had a big thing for Clark Gable and therefore loved Rhett Butler. She felt Scarlet did him dirty and he deserved better.”
“Interesting.”
“Not as much as having dinner with you would be. What do you say?”
I hold in my smile even if the butterflies are having their way with me. “Sure. I’ll have a drink and dinner with you.” And hope this night turns in a better direction than it started.
Want to find out what happens next for Rhett and Quinn? Get your copy of Forever Offsides and dive into this football, ex-boyfriend’s father, workplace, forbidden romance.