The kicker stands and pulls at his cuffs. “Yeah, I get it, man. We’re a coupla rebels, out on the prowl when we should be restin’ up, right? Like I told Busch, I won’t tell anyone I saw you here if you don’t tell ’em you saw me,” he adds on a wink.
We give the guy a second to hear himself, during which time I try to be subtle about looking around the place for Mr. Tight End. Here? Seriously? I tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Aw, man!” Schoengert hisses. “I broke my promise to Busch.”
Jet laughs. “Anyone who follows Keaton on Twitter knows he’s not sitting at home tonight. See you tomorrow morning at the team meeting.”
“Cool, man. Hey, nice to meet you, ‘Jet’s friend.’” Todd shoots double guns at me and winks before sauntering back to the bar area, where he sidles up to an olive-skinned beauty in a sleek halter dress. She turns away from him and escapes to the other end of the bar.
“Sorry about that,” Jet says, wincing. “If I’d known half the team was going to be here, I’d have suggested somewhere else. And Schoengert…” He shakes his head and chuckles. “I hope you don’t mind I didn’t tell him your name. That’s probably not information you want him to have. He’s a blabbermouth.”
“I noticed.”
“And kind of a sleaze. But he’s an awesome kicker.”
“Right? He holds the current league record for successful consecutive field goal attempts,” I recite what I heard an announcer say last week during the Denver game.
Jet raises his eyebrows at me and grins. “Impressive, Richards!”
I pretend to inspect my nails. “I’m not one of those women who watches football to check out the players’ cute butts.” Not exclusively, anyway.
He laughs. “Anyway, you see why we all gladly put up with him and his annoying, random questions.”
“You’re only as good as your kicker, right?”
“Exactly! He’s worth his weight in gold. I just wish he wasn’t so socially backward.”
“What’re you talking about?” I dead-pan, swirling the ice in my glass of water. “You know, I’m beginning to think Rae’s right.”
“About what?”
“You’re a liar.”
He scrunches his eyebrows together and looks legitimately worried. And pale. “Excuse me?”
“C’mon, Knox. Everyone pees in the sink now and then.”
His nervous, over-the-top laughter makes me wonder what he thought I was going to say.
Eight
Inquisitions
I’m not sure how to feel about that date. It was… nice. Jet is nice. Really nice. The nicest.
And that’s such a bummer.
Because he’s so not the man for me.
I was already feeling inferior in the presence of someone as well-known as he is. Add to that his brimming confidence, and I couldn’t help but think, Should I be more like that? What’s wrong with me that I’m not? What’s it like to be so certain of yourself, your likes, your dislikes, and your goals? How does it feel to get up every morning and be excited about what the day has in store, especially if part of the day includes work? What if work didn’t feel like work, because it was something you loved doing?
What disturbed me the most was that he sounded like someone at a job interview. But I’m not hiring a husband. Or a sperm donor for my unfertilized eggs.
Thinking about it as I lie in bed this morning quickens my heart and dampens my skin, partly because I’m beginning to doubt my sanity. What other straight woman would feel like this after a date with Jet Knox? The strongest positive feelings I can muster about the situation are flattery and lust. I must not be right in the head.
That’s why I can hardly argue when Rae calls me as I’m eating breakfast at my kitchen counter and says as an opening, “Are you crazy?”
“I might be. But maybe not for the same reason you’re referencing.” I push the sugary cinnamon squares around my cereal bowl, then drop my spoon when I realize how nonexistent my appetite is.
“What were you thinking, going on a date with Jet Knox, two days before his playoff game?”
Immediately as defensive as a linebacker, I reply, “Hm. Let’s see. As I recall, I was thinking he called me and asked me out, and I didn’t feel like sitting home alone on a Friday night, so I went.”
“He’s supposed to be resting, eating well, and getting as much exercise as possible, when he’s not studying the playbook and watching video. He better not have had any refined sugar or alcohol on your cute little date.”
“Of course not,” I say without hesitation, immediately picturing the flourless chocolate cake we shared for dessert. She’s the crazy one if she thinks I’m going to tattle on him.
Her exhale is so loud, it hurts my ear. “Whew. I hope even he isn’t that dumb, to—”
“He’s not dumb!”
Whoa! Where did that come from?
Fortunately, arguing Jet’s IQ doesn’t seem to be of any interest to my friend. “So, spill it. What did he eat?”
“Excuse me, but you’re not my mother. Or his. Even if it was ‘wrong’ for him to be out, as you seem to think, I did nothing wrong. He’s a grownup. I’m not about to ask a guy if he’s making ‘good choices’ when he calls to ask me out. How do you know about this, anyway?” I already have a strong hunch where she got her intel, but I’d like confirmation, to ensure I kill the right person.
While I indulge in a fantasy that involves strangling Schoengert with his pink tie, she answers, “Did you really think you could go out with Jet Knox and not have someone—or several someones—take your picture with their phone?”
I mentally let go of the field goal kicker’s tie.
“It’s all over the Internet. Looks like you, Knox, Schoengert, and Busch had quite the night out together.”
“We weren’t together. It was a coincidence we were all at the same place. I didn’t see so much as a glimpse of Mr. Tight End.”
“Leave
