6. Liana
Tate’s not anything like what I expected. He’s attentive. Most of his teammates would’ve spent the car ride buried in their phone, getting ego boosts from the likes and comments on their feeds.
When he wasn’t staring out the window like a schoolboy, all Tate did was send a few text messages. Forced to guess, I’d say he was texting the catfish.
Not that I have room to talk. I’ve been exchanging words with my own unknown entity.
Leonard stepped into my life when I needed someone most. Someone to talk to. Someone who wasn’t already married. Most importantly, someone who wouldn’t shoot me an image of his genitals just because he thought I liked him.
Don’t get me wrong—there comes a time in every relationship for a little sexting. I can’t count how many times I’ve wanted to show Leonard my face and maybe a little skin too.
I do like him. Or I like the guy I’ve pictured in my head. Honestly, if his face is even half as awesome as his personality, then Leonard might just be the guy for me.
Or so I thought until a few minutes ago.
There’s no denying the electricity I felt when Tate grabbed my hand. A swarm of butterflies is still circling my stomach as he lets go.
Following the hostess to our table, I shake my head and remind myself I’m here to work. Tate’s off limits. He’s not a guy I can date. He’s probably not interested in me anyway.
My mind shifts to what Leonard wants to tell me later. Maybe, just maybe, he wants to finally meet. A new flutter begins at the thought, but it’s not nearly as intense as when Tate grabbed my hand.
We’re seated in the exact middle of the dining area, almost like we’re out on display—which is probably what the manager was hoping.
Tate’s not the starting quarterback but he’s still a big name. No matter how fancy a restaurant is, they always fall over themselves for celebrity guests. This place is no different.
And it is fancy.
I’ve been in a hundred restaurants like it, and I never feel impressed. It’s the kind of restaurant where I know the portion sizes will be so small I’ll want to get a drive-thru cheeseburger on the way home.
A small candle burns at the center of a white linen tablecloth. It’s just enough light to catch Tate’s eyes studying my chest and not nearly enough to read the tiny scrawl on the menu.
Tate quickly glances away, struggling to read his own menu. He inches the paper so close to the candle I think he might catch this whole place on fire. As he reads, I watch the shadows play across his handsome face. A five o’clock shadow fails to hide a dimple in his left cheek. His normally pale blue eyes have taken on a softer, grayish hue.
He’s a ten, but he’s a man-baby.
A waiter takes our order. I ask for red wine, and Tate gets water because he doesn’t drink during the season. It turns out I was wrong about the menu. The special of the night is a cowboy ribeye, which Tate orders, and I settle for a much smaller filet.
With the niceties settled, there’s nothing left to do but get into it. I clear my throat, and Tate puts out a hand.
“I know what this is about.”
“You do?”
“Mal told me.”
“Mal?” The name pings somewhere in the recesses of my mind. “You mean Malakai Malcom.”
He nods. “Right. Mal.”
My heart seems to skip a beat. Leonard calls me Not Mal because of his friend Mal.
“It’s about my friend, right?”
“Your friend.” I smile. “That’s what you want to call her?”
“I don’t know what else to call her.”
“Does she have a name?”
“I’m sure she does, but I can’t say I know it.”
He isn’t giving anything away. “The GM thinks she’s a catfish.”
“She’s not a catfish,” Tate says defensively. Funny, I thought he played offense.
“Then what is she? Who is she?”
“She’s just a girl I’ve been texting with since this summer. I know she’s not a catfish because I’m the one who texted her on accident. Not the other way around.”
“You texted her?” I sound dumbfounded because I am. This can’t be happening.
“Yeah, she’d just gotten a new number. Why?”
“I’m having a little trouble with the details,” I say. “If you don’t know her name, what do you call her?”
“Oh, well, it’s kind of a funny story. I call her Not Mal.”
I know I’m red. My heart is going faster than it does when I do Pilates.
Even though I can’t deny the words he’s spoken, there’s still a part of me that won’t believe this unless I verify it somehow.
In my lap, I unlock my phone and do a quick internet search on Tate’s name. The player profile is the first link that pops up, and I tap into it. And there it is, right there at the top. Leonard Tatum “Tate” Rushmire.
Leonard’s a family name.
I want to kick myself. I want to scream. How was I supposed to know that Tate wasn’t Tate’s real name?
Thinking back on it, it all makes sense. Tate is a nickname.
Still, never in a million years would I think to link Leonard—my Leonard—to Tate Rushmire.
I grab my cup of ice water on the table and sip.
“Anyway, she’s not a catfish. She’s just a friend. We haven’t even met in person yet, but I’d like to change that.”
Mid-sip, the water goes down the wrong pipe, and I sputter and cough.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, but he has no idea. “You’re thinking it’s not a smart move. Maybe you’re right. But I really like this girl.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
So wrapped up in this conversation, we’ve failed to notice a gaggle of waiters and waitresses gathering around us. One holds two freshly poured glasses of champagne and thrusts them toward us.
At first, I think it’s a friendly gesture of the restaurant in honor of Tate. Then I notice the diamond engagement ring sparking at the bottom of my flute.
I gulp but not the drink.
So many eyes stare in our direction. Not just the wait staff but every table around us, too.