6. When You Assume #2
“Also, that’s two mentions of your parents disowning you so far this evening.
Are they really that strict?” I ask, genuinely curious.
My parents didn’t really give me too many rules growing up.
It was all keep your grades up and make sure you’re on top of your training regiments.
They knew it was my dream to go pro, so they gave me the resources and freedom to get there.
They allowed me to make the mistakes any teenager does, but also taught me the accompanying lessons.
Her eyes dart away and she chews on the inside of her cheek like she’s picking the right words.
“Not really? I mean I guess there’s a little bit of pressure because I’m the oldest and first generation born here in America.
And that stereotype of how hover-y Italian parents are?
Yeah, it’s entirely accurate. They needed to know everything.
Every little plan and move. It gets exhausting.
But at the same time, I don’t want to disappoint them, you know?
Once I graduated, I combed the job listings out here in LA, and the second I landed my job with Boseman I packed up my life in New Jersey and came out here.
They’re still not entirely pleased I’m so far away, but they’re starting to come to terms with it. I hope.”
“I get that. My parents are still out where I grew up in New York. They hate that I’m on the opposite side of the country, but they come visit when they can.
Plus, I always try to see them whenever we’re in town for a series.
But they’re also not as ‘hover-y’ as you so eloquently put it.
” I snicker as I take the last bite of my burger. “Tell me about them, your parents.”
She drags a fry through the sauce before popping it into her mouth.
“Well, my dad runs his own auto shop and Mom was a stay-at-home parent for a good while to raise my brother and me, but now she’s a teacher.
There’s not much else to share really. They’re both from these humble, American dream beginnings.
I feel like I owe it to them to succeed, you know?
The pressure that comes with being the first born.
” She taps at her chin, narrowing her eyes on me. “Let me guess, you’re an only child.”
I make an imitation buzzer sound. “Incorrect. I’m one of three actually.”
“Oh, oh! I know! You’re the middle child,” she says with an accusatory finger pointed at me.
I hold a hand to my chest in offense. “Excuse me? I resent that! I’m the youngest, if you must know. I have two older sisters, both married with kids and living the suburban dream.”
She tilts her head, examining me further. “You know what? The more I think about it, youngest sibling makes sense.” She clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “Alright, now that we’ve got the heavy shit out of the way…” She trails off with a smirk. “What’s your favorite color?”
I bark out a laugh at her unexpected line of questioning. “Really? My favorite color? That’s how you thought you’d shift the conversation?”
“Got a problem with that?” She raises an eyebrow in challenge.
“Not in the slightest, firecracker.” She rolls her eyes at the nickname. It’s the only reason I keep using it. I know she secretly enjoys it even though she tries to act like she doesn’t. “Let’s see…” I tap my finger on my chin as I think. “Probably LA Suns black.”
“Of fucking course it is.” She scoffs. “Also, black isn’t technically a color.”
“Fine, what’s yours then?”
“Purple,” she says with zero hesitation. “But my favorite is a pastel sort of lavender.” She stabs some fries onto her fork.
“Like your suit from that first game?”
Her fork halts halfway to her mouth as she stares at me. “You—” She clears her throat and looks away for a moment before returning her attention to me. “You remember that?”
“Of course, I do. You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Plus, not everyone rocks a pastel suit like that very often.” I wink at her and watch as the blush climbs her cheeks.
“You can’t say things like that, Fletcher,” she mumbles as she shoves the forgotten fries into her mouth. She fixes her gaze on the remainder of food sitting in front of her.
“Things like what?”
“That I’m the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen. You can’t say that.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it feels like you’re flirting with me, and we just talked about the no fraternization rule.”
“I’m not flirting.” At least not explicitly. “Simply telling you the truth.” I lean back into the booth and cross my arms over my chest. I’m finished with my meal, but Isa is still working on hers. “Alright, it’s my time for a subject change. What’s your favorite movie?”
“Oh, that’s such a hard one…” She trails off as she thinks it through. “I’m not sure I have a favorite movie. I have ones I’ve seen several times and can quote nonstop, but I don’t think any of them really take that top spot. It’s too tough a competition.”
“Okay, well what’s one you’ve seen enough to be able to quote then?”
“She’s the Man.”
“A sports movie? You’re joking.” I slap my hands down on the table and lean forward so I can get closer to her, my cheeks starting to ache from how wide my smile is.
“It’s not a sports movie!” she argues. “Or I mean, I guess it kind of is.” I can see her questioning her knowledge. “But it’s not all about the sport. It’s a Shakespeare retelling for fuck’s sake!” She throws her hands up in exasperation.
“It is?”
“Yes! You didn’t know that? It’s loosely based on Twelfth Night.”
“Huh. I had no idea. That’s interesting. But I still can’t believe one of your favorite movies is a sports movie. You’re a secret sports fan and you know it.” I smirk at her.
“Certainly not. I barely understand your games as it is. There’s no way I’m a secret fan.”
“Oh no. That’s not happening. We’re changing that for sure. I’ll make sure you understand it. You need to know how good I am, obviously.”
She rolls her eyes. “Never.”
“Never say never, firecracker.” I wink.
One look at the table tells me we’ve both absolutely demolished our food. “You ready to head out?”
“Yes, please. I have a bunch of emails I still need to deal with before bed.” She sighs as she pulls herself out from the booth.
We both head out to the car and within twenty minutes, I’m pulling into the visitor lot for her apartment complex.
“Um, what do you think you’re doing?” she asks as I turn the car off.
“Walking you inside. What else would I be doing?” I say with the duh implied.
“No, you’re not.” She crosses her arms over her chest and refuses to get out of the car.
“Isa, please. It’s late. Let me make sure you get inside safe. Okay?”
She watches me for another few moments before she lets out a sigh and gives in. “Fine. But you’re leaving the second you reach my door.”
“Aye aye, captain,” I say with a mock salute as I climb from the car.
I trail behind her as we enter the building and jump into the elevator up to her floor. When we reach her door, she turns to look at me, a single eyebrow raised.
“One last question for you, then I’ll go,” I rush to say before she tries to start physically pushing me toward the elevator.
“What is it, Fletcher?”
“So, you’re not allowed to fraternize with the team…”
“Is there supposed to be a question in there somewhere?”
“Would friendship be considered fraternization?”
She looks taken back by my question. “Considering I’m friends with Elizabeth Harding? No, I wouldn’t say so. You want to be friends?” She tilts her head, her question laced with skepticism.
“Yeah, I do,” I say seriously.
“Why?” I can tell she’s still skeptical, but she’s also curious.
“You’re one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.
I don’t think I’ve laughed with anyone as much as I’ve laughed with you.
And you’re real. You’re not trying to sleep with me, or date me because of my job, and it’s refreshing honestly.
I don’t meet many people who treat me the way you do, and when I find that, I like to keep them around me. ”
She tilts her head and examines me as if she’s staring into my soul.
With a shake of her head, she finally speaks up.
I can already tell I’m not going to like what she has to say.
“Listen, Ryan.” Her use of my first name shoots straight to my dick, which completely contradicts everything I’ve just said about wanting to be her friend.
“I’m flattered, once again. But I don’t think it’s a good idea.
A friendship wouldn’t be as big a fraternization issue compared to if we were fucking.
” Her hypothetical about us fucking has my brain running off to play in the gutter and create so many fantasies about us doing exactly that.
Me on top. Her on top. From behind. In the shower.
On the kitchen counter. In my car like a pair of horny teenagers.
Even in the fucking locker room. “But it’s also a thin line between friendship and…
more. And that’s not even to say how it would look being friends.
The appearance alone could come across as more friendly than it really is.
” With a sigh, she pins me with a sympathetic expression.
“I think it would complicate things too much and I can’t risk my job—my promotion—for the sake of a friend.
I’m really sorry. You seem like a great guy, Fletcher, but I don’t think I’m the friend you need.
” Her reverting back to calling me Fletcher cuts deep.
Except she is.
I just need to find a way to make her see that.