The Catch

1. Chapter 1

Saint

After three dates, it's time to end things with my current situationship and move on.

As soon as Rebecca leaves the bed and goes to the bathroom, I jump out of the nest of sheets we slept in and put my underwear back on.

Wearing only boxer briefs, my diamond earring, and my chain, I trot to my semi-professional kitchen.

The elaborate fruit tart I made for her waits in the fridge, and I place it carefully on the white stone of the kitchen island.

A maximum of five dates or one week, whatever comes first— that's my dating style.

Secretly, I ask subtle questions about what type of flavors they like on our first night together, then design desserts inspired by them.

I have this process down to an art. If I make something special with their favorite treats in mind, I can guarantee they have at least one good thing that day.

Even if it's the pleasure of stuffing it in a trash can.

I'm adding the last swirl of fresh cream when Rebecca appears.

"So the legends are true," she says. "You never date for long, and you always end it with pie. "

She wears the same impeccable black dress she wore last night, and stands by my marble island with a cocked hip. Her arms crossed, she stares at me with a raised eyebrow.

Her eyes take a long gaze down my body. My underwear is a dark navy with a gold, geometric pattern. It's bold enough that I don't feel underdressed.

Technically, a tart and a pie are not the same, but I don't correct her.

I smile. "Baking for others is a gesture of goodwill. Is there anything cozier than dessert?"

The precise art of flour, sugar, and fat calms my mind. My mom taught me as a teen, and I never gave it up. Muffins, cookies, pastries, and baked bars are for friends. Cakes and pies are for break ups. It's the lore.

The way Rebecca reacts, she's not taking my gesture as a sweet one.

"Yeah, cuddling," Rebecca says.

I place the tart in a carry-out container and close it. "I'm sorry. I'm not the kind to cuddle."

I casually re-arrange my gold chain around my neck.

I'm on a schedule. The first order of business is to let Rebecca down gently.

Next, run to training. We're in the middle of an important football season.

We almost got to the biggest sports event in the country last year.

This time, we want to not only make it, but win.

Ah, getting the ultimate trophy. The reason for all of my and my parents' sacrifices. The one thing that will prove that the devotion they had to my career since elementary school— and their support since— was worth it.

"Right." Resignation shows on her face. "I should have known… but you've been so sweet with me… I thought maybe…"

I push the container to the edge of the kitchen island, where she can take it easily. She doesn't.

I step closer to her and give her a kiss on the cheek. "I told you this was casual. That it wouldn't last."

"Doesn't mean I didn't have hope. "

I let my smile intensify. I know my dimples will help my case. "Look— you're gorgeous. Your laugh is brilliant. Going out with you was lovely and fun… you're quite the catch."

" You are the catch, Saint."

It's funny. I'm a wide receiver. Catcher is a baseball term, but it has followed me around anyway. I think one of my many exes came up with the term and it stuck. Catching the catcher has a nicer ring to it, they say.

"That's kind, but what I'm trying to say is— You'll find someone. It just won't be me. I'm not looking for anything long term."

Rebecca is nice to hangout with, but there's no spark. That's okay. Sparks are hard to come by. In fact, in my twenty-nine years of life, I've only felt them once.

So I call a car for Rebecca. Soon she takes the tart and steps into the hallway, sighs, and waves goodbye. The door closes behind her and I lean on it. I release a sigh of my own.

When I felt those sparks all those years ago, I couldn't follow them. Not without testing myself first. No way I would mess things up with her .

The best solution I could come up with in college was finding someone else to try— really try— to go steady with.

She was in a relationship, anyway, and I couldn't get in the way of that.

Could I get to the sparks with someone else, if I gave it time?

Could I make it work? All I needed to do was take a break from dating half the girls on campus.

Pick someone I liked, and give it a real chance.

The person I tried to date, Kylie… I gave her everything I thought would make me a good boyfriend.

Dates, flowers, and cooking for her. I ran her a bubble bath with candles, wine, and sprinkled rose petals.

Only to have her flat-out laugh at me. She said not to ruin it with promises I couldn't keep.

I had always been a playboy, so why pretend that I suddenly wanted something else?

Playing make-believe would only hurt people.

Everyone knew I would never be Mister Right.

She wasn't wrong. Kylie had known me for nearly two years at the time.

She knew what I had to offer. I'm a guaranteed nice time, not the subject of happily ever afters.

When people like Rebecca tell me I am a catch, I know what that means.

It's all the external stuff. Success? Check.

Fame? Double check. Money? Triple it. But those aren't the things that keep a couple together and in love.

Now I'm stuck breaking up with people I feel no sparks for, because without those there's no future. Just like no one seeks real love with a man they don't believe is truly relationship material.

It's fine. Fun flings are what I'm good for.

I'm a great time. I let my dates charm me, and I show them interest. We flirt.

We take that to bed, and have mind-blowing sex.

Do the same once or twice more. Then I let them go, before they think they will be the ones to tame the receiver.

After a week it will only hurt them a little.

Much better than breaking it off after years in an empty, unhappy relationship that leads nowhere.

Pretending I can go long-term makes me a selfish asshole who doesn't care if things go wrong and people get harmed. I can't imagine anything worse than wounding someone because of it.

My watch reminds me it's time to get ready and go to the Thunderdome, the team's training facility. I sigh again and push myself off the door. Coach Clark won't tolerate any of us being late when the ultimate trophy is at stake.

Right as I take a single step, the doorbell rings.

Fuck. I thought Rebecca had left graciously. It's always awkward when I have to break up with them twice.

I don't have time for this. I flip through tactics to send her on her way gently— and fast. My mouth already sets in a half smile, ready to be conciliatory and ask Rebecca to go.

Except Ames stands across from me when I open the door.

My heart stops.

Ames, who taught me what a spark was. Who has a thing for artist types and is a serial monogamist. The one that inspired me, once upon a time, to test if I could ever offer a long-term relationship .

She's my friend Pablo's sister. She went to college at the same place he and I got a football scholarship.

While Pablo and I hit it off from the start, two Latinos dreaming of rings and championships, I didn't meet Ames until the start of my third year.

Pablo and I shared an apartment at the time, and she joined us for dinner one evening.

My sister is dropping by tonight, was his text to announce her first visit. Her name is Amelia, but call her 'Ames', said like aims . Don't get it wrong, or she'll put you on her blacklist.

I didn't get it wrong. In exchange, she gave me a look that ambushed me. Her smile burrowed into my chest. Her vivid brown eyes lit a fire in my belly.

Shit. Today there's no smile. A suitcase waits behind her in the hallway. Her wavy hair is messy, wind-blown and down to her shoulders, and her eyes are rimmed in red. Ames' beauty shines through, but I don't let myself think about it. Her gaze is heavy on me.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Her lips press together, like she's holding back tears.

"Ames—" I take a step forward but she doesn't move.

It took me years to silence my heart when it asked me to follow that spark and see where it led us. I had to be cruel with myself at times, and pay close attention whenever she met someone else and fell for them.

The tallies were clear. She melted for the English majors.

There was a philosopher once. Never an athlete, and never did I get her eyes on me.

Eventually, I learned I'm simply not her type.

Considering my reputation and what people made of it, and the fact she was in search of her forever, I couldn't say I blamed her.

No way she would look at me and say, him.

I want him . And if she couldn't, and if I tried anyway, all I would do is cause her pain.

I never knew if I had what it takes to give her what she sought, anyway.

She firms up and swallows the tears that never make it down her face.

"I didn't know where else to go," she says .

Her words sucker punch me. I'm breathless. Those feelings I learned to suppress shake at the core of my foundations, because she's here. Whatever is going on, I'm the answer.

Belatedly I move away to let her in. All at once, I'm hyperaware that I'm only wearing my jewelry, my watch, and my boxers.

She moves slowly but comes in. "I'm sorry I showed up like this. You're probably busy—"

"Are you okay?" I take her suitcase and guide her to the guestroom. "What happened?"