The drive to Voltaire’s Steakhouse was a smooth one, and I pulled straight up to the valet, tossing him my keys and thanking him in one smooth motion. I headed up a flight of stairs and found myself face to face with the front desk hostess.
“Hello, Mr. Ferrari,” she said.
“Hi,” I said as I checked the time. Five minutes to eight. I had done my part in showing up early. Would Izzy?
“Shall we wait for your accompaniment to arrive?”
“Oh, no, that’s quite all right, actually. The surprise is in her coming. So let me show you a picture…”
I felt slightly silly at the fact that if the hostess looked closely, she would see the photo I was pulling up of Izzy was not something I had on my phone, but something culled from Google. If this didn’t scream “pro athlete out of his mind,” or, worse, “pro athlete rich and shallow enough to bring people in from a Google search,” then I wasn’t sure what did.
But, in true professionalism, the hostess simply smiled, said, “I’ll bring her back when she arrives,” and led me to my seat, a quiet table tucked into the corner of the place.
For some reason, up to that point, I had just taken it for granted that Izzy would show up at eight. It wasn’t like I was cocksure about it; I just genuinely believed that there was no reason Izzy wouldn’t show up.
And now that felt like the dumbest assumption I had made since I just assumed my Fresno State coach would give me a starting job freshman year for how hard he’d recruited me.
The main waiter brought out some bread and water, and again, true to his professionalism, he never seemed to judge, even when I saw him looking at my table out of the corner of the eye. But as the clock ticked closer to eight, as looking outside the window provided no clues about potential arrivals, it didn’t matter what he or the front desk hostess would have done, because I was giving plenty of judgment to myself.
What, you think just because you’re a pro athlete she would have said yes? Don’t you think she’s getting hit on all the time by guys like you?
I tried to laugh the concerns off. This was so unlike me. I felt a temptation to just text three different girls about being available and see who wanted to come over the most, just so I could have something to fall back on if Izzy fell through.
But that just felt like I was about to text another team that I was going to join them in the off-season for leverage when I never had intentions of leaving the Bay Area. Maybe someone would have called it properly balancing, but I just called it unethical.
Eight o’clock came.
And Izzy did not.
It’s OK. How often have your dates shown up exactly on time? How often does it turn out that they are just a little behind? You know how California traffic can be. You got lucky. Maybe she didn’t.
I just wanted desperately to shut up that stupid voice in my head. I was so damn good at it during games that my grandfather could have grabbed the PA microphone, announced to the crowd of tens of thousands that I was single, and I’d still have the concentration to hit home runs or at least get on base against some of the best in the game. But put me in a restaurant with only one person to impress and no one else watching…
Five minutes passed.
I told myself that if she didn’t show up within ten minutes, my stunt failed. I’d tell Marcus that I got ghosted. I would slink back to everyday life hoping that this story didn’t somehow start circulating in the media.
But most of all, I’d be left wondering what it was about Izzy Saunders that turned a pro athlete into an amateur player.
Chapter 6: Izzy
“I’m not going.”
I said those words out loud to myself as I stood before my mirror. I already had on a pearl necklace, a beautiful, tight red dress, heels that matched the color of my necklace, and more makeup than I had put on in a long, long time. I was alone in the house, having already sent Ryan to stay with my mother for the evening.
“I’m not going.”
The past two hours had felt like a burst of energy, a dragging of fear, followed by a burst of energy, then a dragging of fear, then another burst…and on and on and on. In the moments of energy, I felt maniacal—I felt like the only person who would have the balls to pull off a stunt like that was Nick Ferrari, for no one else I knew of would pull a gutsy move like that. I was a worn-and-torn princess discovered by a prince who would take me in…hopefully even after he learned of all of my baggage.
In the moments of fear, I wondered what it said about whoever had done this—I no longer assumed it was Nick when the darkness hit—that they would not ask me out face-to-face.
Why would it be any different than Malcolm? In fact, why wouldn’t it possibly be worse than Malcolm? He’d at least first asked me out to my face.
Maybe this guy thought he was being charming but was actually incredibly creepy. Maybe it was someone at the office, someone who was unattractive, awkward, creepy, and possibly even dangerous, just not in the overt, man-in-a-dark-alley kind of way. Maybe he thought he was being so nice that he deserved to have me sleep with him, and when I wouldn’t…
“Goddamnit, I guess I’ll go.”
And there was that burst of energy.
And now, I really had nothing left to do in terms
