Chapter 4
Four
Finn
“So?” Jake gives me an expectant look.
I have to hand it to him. He waited a whole two minutes before pouncing, the nosy bastard.
“So what?” I maneuver my pickup around a plodding bus.
Jake snorts because he knows as well as I do that I’m stalling. “You tap that, Manny?”
“She’s not a keg, Ryder.”
“Okay, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Did you hook up with Ms. Chess?”
“Nope.”
“Bummer.”
“I told you I wasn’t trying to get in her pants.” I feel his stare drilling into me, and I glance over. “What?”
“You’re attracted to her. Anyone with eyes can see that.”
I give him a lazy shrug as we stop at a red light. “Not denying it.”
“You want me to believe that you’re fine with striking out?” He says it with such incredulity, as if the possibility of not
having sex with a woman is sacrilege.
“I didn’t strike out. I didn’t even try. She made it clear she wasn’t interested.”
“I’m pretty sure you could have persuaded her to change her mind.”
We pull up in front of a squat cinder block building on St. Charles. “I don’t want to persuade a woman into bed. Jesus.”
Jake nods. “You’re right. It’s not like either of us has to go searching for it.” He looks me over in clear confusion. “So
you just walked her home and that’s it?”
“You’re awfully curious about my business.”
“I know, right?” He grins happily. “I’m like a kitten over here.”
“I think I’m going to need an antacid. Where’s my bag?” I reach behind me to grab it, and earn a flick on the ear. My head
rears back. “You did not just . . .”
Jake flips me the bird. “Bring it, Manny pants.”
Things devolve from there as we give each other smacks on the head.
“Okay, fuck, I give!” Jake yells when I get him in a headlock. An older woman walking by peers into the cab of my SUV with
suspicion. I give her an innocent smile and let Jake go. He pushes off me, adjusting his shirt with a mutter. “Touchy priss.”
Grabbing my bag, I get out of the car. He follows, getting his own gear.
“When’s the last time you hung out with a woman?” I ask. “One that wasn’t trying to take a selfie with you or rifle through
your stuff when your back was turned?”
Jake’s expression scrunches up as we head for the building’s entrance. “Uh, freshman year.” He laughs. “Of high school.”
“Exactly.” I pull open the door, and we enter the freezing haven of air-conditioning. “Chess is just Chess. I don’t need to
fuck her. I just want to be and not have to explain it.”
“Frankly,” he says, as we jog up the stairs, “I’m more surprised she even talks to you. I could have sworn she hated you.”
“I grow on people.”
“Like fungus.”
My reply is lost to the ringtone blaring from my phone. Since I’ve assigned all the people closest to me a tone, I know who it is right away, and my insides clench at the sound of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
It’s an easy thing to hit Ignore, but it doesn’t halt the guilt. Jake frowns. “You ignoring your mother now?”
Yes, I am now the son who sends his mother straight to voicemail. “This from someone who ignores his mom all the time?”
“My mom usually calls to complain about my sisters, and I end up getting stuck in the middle of one of their heinous fights.
Have you ever had to deal with five pissed-off women? It’s not a pretty sight. Your mom, on the other hand, feeds me and tells
me how cute I am. She’s like Martha Stewart and Betty White rolled into one adorable package.”
I try to visualize that, but decide it’s best not to for the sake of my sanity. “All this because she sends you care packages
after you made up some sob story about being a starving bachelor.”
“It’s the truth. I am a starving bachelor.” He pulls open the door of the studio we’re going to spend the next hour in. “Her
snickerdoodles are prizeworthy. Besides, can I help it if she loves me? At this point, I’m fairly certain she wants to adopt
me. Hell, she needs to baby someone.”
His words send a bolt of pain straight into me. It squeezes my chest with hard hands, and I suck in a breath. Immediately,
Jake pales. “Oh, shit, man. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” I cut in, lifting a hand. I don’t want to talk about that.
Lips pinched, he nods shortly.
“She wants me to come home for Thanksmas.” There are some seasons when I’m stuck playing a game on Thanksgiving or Christmas. My mother came up with the idea of celebrating
both during one of my bye weeks and calling it Thanksmas. It’s a ridiculous name, but one that usually makes me smile.
Now I dread it. My mother always means well with her meddling ways, but she has all the subtlety of a bulldozer. “She married Glenn off, so now I’m her pet project. I do not have the energy to deal with it.”
“You want me to come with you?” Jake offers. “I’m an excellent distraction. I can moan about not getting enough to eat and
how I’m wasting away.” He runs a hand over his chest where he’s put on about ten pounds of lean muscle during the off-season.
Not that my mother will care; she’ll feed him regardless.
“Thanks,” I say, toeing off my shoes. “But that will only give her two of us to fixate on.”
Jake stows his gear in a cubby and stretches his arms overhead as three women walk in. Barely dressed, their bodies lithe
and graceful, they eye us with familiar, playful interest. Jake tracks their movement through the room. “Best fucking day
of the week,” he says with a feral grin.
“I enjoy coming here, Ryder. So don’t fuck it up by dipping your wick in this particular wax.”
Jake snorts. “Too late.”
“Jesus. Who?”
“Rachel.”
Which would explain why the little blonde keeps sending covert glances our way. “And Sheila,” he adds, as Sheila of the bouncy
curls and death glare stomps by.
Thankfully, a guy can’t actually lose his balls with one look, or we’d both be hurting right about now.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re a fucking menace.”
He laughs, totally unrepentant. I wonder if this is how I come off to Chess. It isn’t exactly flattering. If that’s the case,
I can’t blame her for wanting to stay away.
Shaking my head at Jake, I pull out my phone. Thoughts of Chess make me want to talk to her. We’d agreed to be friends, exchanged
numbers, and then I’d left her to her night. Not an easy task, considering she’d said she was going home to soak in a tub.
Would it be within the bounds of friendship to ask how that bath of hers went?
“Who are you texting?” Jake tries to peer over my arm.
I elbow him away. “Isn’t there another female you could be posturing for?”
Jake squints as if contemplating. “Probably not a good idea. I think I’m pushing it as it is.”
“Oh, now you come to that realization?” Snorting, I tap out a message to Chess.
She answers immediately. We fire a few texts back and forth. No matter what I throw her way, she volleys right back with sass.
“You should see your face right now, Manny,” Jake says. “You are in total smit.”
“Smit?”
“Yeah, smitten. Totally fucking smitten.” He looks almost sorry for me. Chess pings me back, and I grin and answer, only half-aware
of Jake.
“This does not bode well for you, my friend,” he says. “Clueless shits like us should stick to hookups.”
“Not everything is about sex,” I tell him, only half believing it. I type another message to Chess, as Eleanor spots us and
heads our way with a look in her eye that promises she’ll be making us sweat and burn.
“You’re right,” he says with a grin. “There’s football. Sex and football. What more could a guy want?”
Six months ago, I’d tell him nothing and give him a high five. Now? I don’t know the answer.
Chess
I’m putting on my makeup when Finn texts me.
GQ: Hey. Who are you shooting today?
I can’t decide if it’s the fact that he texted me or that I’d named him GQ in my contacts that makes my day suddenly a little sunnier. But there’s a smile tickling my lips as I pick up my phone and respond.
CC: Porter. Worchowsky. Redmond. Phillips, Mr. Nosy.
We’re doing two calendars. One featuring the offensive team and the other with the defensive team. Today, I’m working with
guys on the defense.
GQ: I don’t know this Nosy. Careful. He might be a spy.
CC: Very cute.
GQ: I try. ??
CC: Aw, and you do emojis too. Such a cute QB.
GQ: Am tempted to send the finger emoji . . .
My laughter rings out in the relative silence of my loft. I find myself unable to sit still anymore and head for my balcony.
CC: ??Where are you?
GQ: On my way to ballet class.
Okay, what? Not what I was expecting.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Yes. Ballet.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Are we talking in circles here?
Biting my lip against a grin, I rest my forearms on my balcony rail and answer.
CC: No. I’m trying to convey my skepticism.
GQ: You know, for an independent career woman, you’re awfully old fashioned in your outlook, Ms. Copper.
CC: Fine, I’m exposing my double standards. Send a picture as proof.
GQ: So untrusting. Here’s your proof, Mrs. Doubtfire.
He sends me a selfie. Wearing a tank top and baggy gym shorts over tight compression shorts, he’s in front of a mirror wall
with a barre bar attached to it. Jake is with him, and they’re both making goofy faces, their tongues sticking out like Gene
Simmons from KISS. Between them stands a thin and elegant older woman in a leotard. She grins with pride, her arms around
the two men as if they’re her boys.
I laugh, and tap out a quick message.
CC: My mind is officially blown.
GQ: Is that all it takes? Should have done a pirouette for the shoot.
CC: Fairly certain would have resulted in panties going up in flames when that got out.
GQ: You say the nicest things, Chester.
Since I know he’s doing it to irk me, I let “Chester” slide.
CC: I’ll bite. Why are you taking ballet classes?
GQ: Jake found out about it when he pulled a hamstring and had to limber up. It’s great for flexibility, balance . . . stamina.
GQ: It’s GREAT for stamina.
CC: You keep repeating that like I’m supposed to be impressed.
GQ: Oh, you will be.
Cheeky, little . . . I start to type out an answer but he sends another text.