To prevent inciting more of my friend’s wrath, I change the subject—somewhat. “So, other than throw ridiculously early Christmas parties, what else does the team do during its bye week?”
She frowns. “Most of the guys ignore their diets, stop working out, and open the door for injuries and illness, especially when the bye falls this late in the season. But supposedly, we maintain a training schedule and use the extra time to prepare for our next opponent. In this case, San Diego.”
“San Diego. Nice,” I say, as I stare at the naked trees lining the highway.
“I guess,” she grouses.
I roll my eyes. “What is your deal tonight?”
She muffles, “It’s nothin’,” then removes her thumb from her mouth and glances over at me, but her eye contact is brief and returns immediately to the road in front of her. “Okay. Fine. Everyone thinks I’m a loser, like I’m a workaholic and a slave driver. I’m just the hag who wraps their sprained ankles and tapes their broken toes and nags them about their diets and workouts.”
“So you thought cutting out of the party to work would prove you’re not a workaholic?” I chuckle and push on her shoulder to soften my blunt assessment of her silly logic.
She grunts but smiles. “He needed help, but the other trainers—”
“Were busy having a good time with their guests and co-workers?”
“Yeah! Everyone knows they can rely on me to take care of things, even when it’s not convenient.”
I think about that for a second. “You know, your work ethic is admirable. But it’s not winning you any popularity points, and that seems to be what you want the most right now.”
“Maybe not the most, but equally as much.”
I drum my fingers on the dashboard. “You can have both, you know.”
“I don’t know…”
“You can!” Warming to my topic, I swivel in my seat, pressing my back against my window so I can see her better. “This is your first season with the team. Maybe they just don’t know you well enough to joke with you. How do you act when you’re around them?” Carefully, I clarify, “Are you always so business-like?”
“I have to be professional. Do you know how hard it is for a woman to advance in this career? No matter how much people go on and on about equal opportunities and blah, blah, blah, you know what the reality is. I have goals.” More quietly, she says, “I realize that’s a foreign concept to some people.”
Gritting my teeth, I let her comment slide and try to stay on topic. “You’re not going to be passed up for promotion because you get along too well with the guys. If the guys like you, they’ll request to work with you when they’re hurt. Sounds like you need to make the first move. Maybe they’re… intimidated by you.”
Instead of contradicting me, she asks, “You think so?”
My heart breaks at her hopeful, approval-seeking expression. “Maybe.”
“How do I break the ice? I feel like we have nothing in common.”
“You like women, and so do most of them,” I blurt, then laugh. “Sorry! It was the first thing that popped to mind. Probably not appropriate, though.”
“Probably not,” she says. “Seriously. What did you and Jet talk about? Maybe I can get a hint from that. A starting-off point.”
My mind’s a blank. I suddenly can’t think of anything besides the one thing I can’t tell her. My mouth works open and closed a few times before I finally admit on an uncharacteristic giggle, “I don’t know! I remember him talking, but I was… gaga, I guess. I can’t remember any of it. He smelled amazing, though,” I mutter.
Since the majority of my statement is true (especially the last part), it passes muster with Rae, who laughs and says, “You’re useless. Dangle a nice-smelling guy in front of you, and you turn to jelly. I guess I’ll have to pay more attention to what the players say to each other on the sidelines.”
“There you go!” I say, grateful to shift the focus of the conversation back to her. “When you’re in the PT room or the locker room, or whatever, after the game or practice, and you’re working on the guys, you can initiate some chit-chat. The weather’s always safe. Hobbies? Significant others? Kids? Pets? After all, they’re just guys.”
How soon I’m able to spout that flippant advice after admitting how star-struck I was by Jet Knox. But that’s different, because I like football. And hot guys. And sex with hot guys. Even if all I’ve done lately is think about sex with hot guys.
“Hello! Paging Maura Richards. We’ve reached your stop.”
I shake my head and smile sheepishly at myself. “Sorry.”
“Dreaming of Jet Knox’s hard body?” she asks.
I reach for the door handle. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder what he looked like in—or out of—a towel.”
“I’ve seen nearly every one of those guys naked. Including Knox.” Her tone is bored.
“And?” I barely catch the drool before it falls from my lower lip.
“Meh. He’s cut—and hung. But it doesn’t do anything for me, obviously.”
“It could do something for me,” I mumble, indulging in a mini-fantasy, then allowing myself to get a tiny bit excited at the thought of my number nestled in his cell phone. “All right. Well, thanks for taking me to the party. It turned out to be a decent time.”
When I pop open the door, Rae grabs my left hand. “Hey.”
I half-turn.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight. You made it more fun. Even though your taste in men is questionable and concerning.”
Snatching my hand away from her, I playfully swat at her shoulder. “Shut it. Nothing’s going to come from a couple of dances at a silly holiday party.”
“Wanna bet?”
I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet, but rather than argue, I merely shake my head at her and exit the vehicle, tossing a “Good night!”
