Chapter 3
Three
Finn
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Jake says after taking a long pull on his beer. “Baby oil is great for my skin. I should have slathered
myself in it long before today.”
I laugh. “I was going to mention the way your face now resembles a baby’s butt.”
“This face,” he says, “is going to get me laid after I finish my beer.”
I shake my head and relax into the booth. “Good thing you rubbed baby oil on it, then.”
Personally, I hate the lingering feeling of the damn oil. I’d just as soon forget the whole day. Even as I have the thought,
I know it’s a lie. Once the photoshoot got going, when it had been just Chess and me, it had been . . . I don’t even know
how to explain it. Different. Unexpected.
For a small while, I’d stopped thinking about my job, about the various aches and pains plaguing my body, about the press,
the team’s record, winning, losing. I’d stopped thinking about anything, really. Somehow, Chess had done what I’ve only been
able to accomplish on the field; she got me to focus solely on the moment.
Now it’s over. My time with the combative Ms. Chester Copper is done. I’m used to people drifting in and out of my world. I meet new faces almost on a daily basis. I shouldn’t feel any sense of loss.
I do, though. But why?
I’d blame it on attraction, but I’m attracted to women on a daily basis, too. I’ve learned to let it go and get on with my
life. Truth is, I’ve felt off and alone since the thing with Britt. Which is something I really don’t want to think about.
Ever.
I’m frowning when the waitress sets a heaping platter of smoked oysters on the table. “Here you boys go.” She adds a basket
of hush puppies and another basket of fried shrimp to the mix. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
Her smile is wide and accommodating. It pisses me off that I instantly wonder if she’s flirting, that I’ve trained myself
to immediately second-guess everyone’s motives.
“We’re good,” I tell the woman.
Her smile fades a bit then comes back brighter. “Well, holler if you need me. For anything at all.”
Jake tucks into the food, as she walks away.
“Was she flirting?” I ask him, as soon as she’s out of hearing range.
“Why?” He sucks down an oyster. “Did you want her to be?”
“No.” I run a hand over my hair. “I just can’t tell anymore.”
Hunched over his food, Jake looks up at me. “Messes with your head, doesn’t it?”
Relief that I don’t sound like a pompous asshole floods me. “Yeah, it does.”
“Well, for the record . . .” Jake points his beer in the waitress’s direction. “She was flirting.”
“Maybe you’re imagining things, too.” I pop a shrimp into my mouth.
“Finn,” he says with exaggerated patience. “You’re a starting pro quarterback in a town that loves its team. You can safely
assume that even the dogs on the street are flirting with you.”
“The landscape of your mind is a scary place, Ryder.”
He grins, his mouth full of shrimp. “But a lot of fucking fun.”
I’m laughing in agreement when it hits me: Chess didn’t flirt. Not in the usual “please do me and then sign my chest” kind of way. She didn’t try to get anything from me, other than a good picture, which was her job. She’d been utterly herself.
For a few brief moments, so had I.
“What’s that sour face all about?” Jake asks, cutting into my thoughts. “Got a bad oyster?”
I slouch back in my seat and toy with the soggy label on my beer bottle. Jake and I were drafted in the same year to the same
team. We suffered through having to do embarrassing singing skits during training camp, rookie hazing, fucked-up buzz cuts
with bull’s-eyes on our heads, and the mental mind-fuck of transitioning from being top dogs in college to holding on by our
fingertips as we made our way in the NFL.
He is my closest friend. If either one of us gets transferred, I might actually break down and cry manly tears of sorrow.
He’s also my sounding board, as weird as his advice usually is.
“I was thinking about the photographer.”
“Chester Copperpot?” He chuckles. “I don’t think she liked you.”
“She liked me fine.” While she hadn’t batted her eyelashes at me, there had definitely been moments of . . . something. I’ve
never had something occur with a woman before, so I’m not sure what the hell it is or what it means.
Jake lifts up a hand. “Okay, I need to amend my earlier statement. You can rest assured that everyone in New Orleans, including
the dogs, is flirting with you. Except for Chess Copper.”
I resist the urge to chuck a hush puppy at his head. “That’s the thing. I know she didn’t flirt. I kind of liked that.”
He rests his forearms on the table. “Dude, be reasonable. The One-Eyed Willie comment killed it for you. Move on and knock
on more welcoming doors.”
“Hell, I’m not trying to get into her pants—”
“Bullshit,” Jake coughs loudly.
“I just want to . . .” I trail off, not really knowing what the fuck I want. Being with Chess had been one of the most real
moments of my life, and yet it also feels like a strange dream.
“Have a meaningful and deep conversation with the woman who took pictures of your junk all day?” he supplies. Not at all helpfully.
A hush puppy pings his forehead dead center. My aim is a thing of beauty.
Laughing, he flips me off and wipes the grease spot from his head. In turn, I give him a salute with my beer bottle.
“Look at it this way,” I say. “At least she won’t be distracted by trying to picture me naked.”
“Worse, she’s already seen you naked. If she’s not trying to get you there again, you know she found you lacking.”
“Why do I tell you anything?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going to sell it to the tabloids later.”
It might be wrapped up in a joke, but he’s giving me a good reminder. Our lives aren’t like normal people’s. Finding someone
to hook up with is easy. Having an actual relationship is a minefield. You might never know whether the person likes you or
your fame. Plus, there’s the hassle of easing someone into a life where they’re under a public microscope, and you’re either
on the road for most of the season, or training, making appearances, and basically having no personal time. That’s why most
smart guys either marry their college sweethearts or connect with someone famous who knows what to expect.
That’s also why I’ve never sought a relationship, and rely on hookups for my sexual release. One and done is as easy as it
can get in our world. Usually.
Since I really don’t like the direction of my thoughts, I move on to discussing simpler topics with Jake, such as college
football and who will likely be a real pro contender once drafted. QB August Luck might be a threat someday.
Jake and I eat our food and drink our beers. Every so often, fans come up and ask us for an autograph or thank us for a good game. This is my life. It’s fucking fantastic.
I tell myself this as we leave the restaurant and walk down Iberville Street. I could have bought a house somewhere in Uptown.
But it’s just me, and who the hell wants to rattle around in a big mansion on their own? So I bought a condo just at the edge
of the Quarter.
“Man.” Jake nudges me on the side. “Never say I don’t support you. Look over there.” He points to a restaurant across the
street. Sitting at the bar is Chess Copper, her long purplish hair glinting in the low light. She’s traded her black tank
for a silky gold top that clings to a firm pair of tits I could easily engulf with my hands. The thought flickers to life,
and my fingers curl in response.
She isn’t the sweetly pretty or stunningly beautiful kind of woman I usually spend time with. She’s severe, elegant. It would
be easy for me to say she isn’t my type, and I’m fairly certain that goes both ways. But I’m beginning to think my “type”
has changed.
“I think fate is tapping on your shoulder,” Jake says in a stage voice.
A weird surge goes through me, but I ignore it. “More like telling me to piss off. She’s on a date.”
Hard to miss the guy sitting with her, his body turned her way. He’s just the kind of guy I’d have guessed she’d go for—beard,
multiple tats and piercings. Hell, he looks like a skinny version of Dex.
“Maybe he’s trying to pick her up,” Jake points out.
“It’s a date. They’re settled in. Her bag is on the back of his chair, and he’s completely at ease.”
Reading body language is second nature to us now. Jake nods. “Good point.”
I shift my weight, ready to move on. “Let’s go, before she spots us gawking like a couple of—”
Chess turns her head away from her date and hides a yawn in her hand. It could be that she’s simply tired, but I see the boredom in her expression, and that strained when the hell is this going to be over look in her eyes. I know that look, because I’ve worn it, too.
“You know,” I say, still watching. “It would be rude if we didn’t go in and say hello.”
A slow grin spreads over Jake’s mouth. “After we’ve spotted her and all.”
I match that grin. “And we’re nothing, if not polite.”
“Perfect gentlemen.” Jake tugs the brim of his cap down farther over his brow. “I’ll take care of the date.”
I clasp his shoulder. “Good man.”
Chess
There has got to be a better way to find love. I take an anemic sip of my watery vodka tonic and try to search for something to say to Evan, my date. As dates go, this isn’t
the worst one I’ve had. Not at all. It’s just off.
Which is disappointing. I had high hopes. Physically, Evan is exactly what I look for, with his soulful brown eyes, full tattoo
sleeves, thick but trimmed beard. He caught my eye last week when we both stopped to listen to a zydeco band playing on Royal
Street. He’d been engaging then, witty enough to have me agreeing to this date.
Now?
I give him a smile that feels strained. “So, you’re a tattoo artist.” Great, you’ve only mentioned his job twice already. “How is that going?”
Oh, holy hell, maybe I’m the boring one.
His pinched expression pretty much agrees. “Can’t complain. I live for skin.” That probably sounded better in his head.