He lifts his glass too, and we clink.
Over our lunch, we chat, laugh over shared memories of high school, compare notes on our favorite new music, and discuss whether we should buy him some new lucky socks, since he has a thing for socks. We taste each other’s entrées and share a dessert that he eats most of, and I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal so much.
I’ve definitely never been on a date where I’ve been this at ease, or where the conversation flowed so freely. Maybe it’s because of our shared experience, or maybe it’s because this isn’t a date and there aren’t any expectations, that I can relax.
We’ve got a good thing going on. When we’ve finished up and made our way to the front to meet my driver, Crosby leans in, brushes his lips to my cheek, and says, “I should go join the guys.”
“You should,” I say. We’re already on the Strip, not far from where he’s staying at The Extravagant.
He seems to linger a little bit when he hugs me, holding me close, murmuring how good it is to see me, then running his hand lightly over my hair.
My stomach flips.
That was not a friends-only thing. But was it deliberate?
Does he know how good that felt? Did he mean for it to?
Impossible.
He clearly meant nothing.
He’s simply friendly.
Crosby, the outgoing guy, the affable guy, is a tactile guy too. I’m sure he hugs a lot of women—he’s always involved with a gorgeous one, and he’s never ignored that I’m female. I love that he can be friends with a woman without pigeonholing her as “just one of the guys.”
Some part of my brain helpfully points out that he’s not involved with any gorgeous women right now.
That changes nothing.
I kick all these flickers of feelings to the back of my mind, where they’ve had their own shelf since high school, and make them stay there.
Even when Crosby presses one more kiss to my cheek, then says, “It was so good to see you, Nadia.”
He loosens his arms, and I slide out of them. “I’m so glad you called while you were here,” I tell him sincerely.
With that crooked smile, he heads down the hotel concourse, turning back before he’s out of sight to wink and wave.
I don’t know what to call what I’m feeling. Can I say I’ll miss him when I don’t see him that often? Or say that I’m nostalgic for what-might-have-beens?
The latter would be pointless.
The former, well, I’ll just have to make a point of meeting up when our paths cross.
I’ll see him again.
Though I do hope it doesn’t take winning another Super Bowl to make that happen.
2
Nadia
A few months later
I am the luckiest girl in this city that revolves around luck.
Why? Because all my life, the only thing I wanted to do was run a football team, and that’s my actual, legit, pinch-me-I’m-dreaming occupation.
It does keep me busy. I inherited the team from my father, and ran it briefly with another co-owner, but I bought out my friend Eliza. Since then I’ve had to work hard to prove I can follow in his footsteps and run it solo. But now the evidence that I’m up to the task is sitting on my office shelf, so I can add a new area of focus.
All things considered, I have no complaints about my life. But, like a lot of people, I wouldn’t mind sharing it with someone.
So, that’s my new goal. If only I had a clue how to go about it.
That’s what I’m discussing with my friend Stone at Speakeasy after his show at The Extravagant. He’s in Vegas for a concert series, and we always get together when he’s in town—to talk about anything and everything, work, life, love.
And often, dating and mating.
“So, say you’re a woman who wants to meet a guy,” I posit.
He quirks his brow but humors me. “A bit of a stretch, but I’m creative.”
I pat his hand. “Those multiplatinum albums have to come from somewhere. But what does a woman do when she wants to find someone right for her?”
He scratches his jaw as he considers. “Tinder?”
I laugh. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to resort to Tinder.”
“I bet you’ve never had to go on Tinder either.”
“Touché.” I sip my drink. “But seriously, is that the answer? Online dating? Should I use my real name, even? Because football fans can be crazy.”
His tone goes thoughtful, practical too. “Have you tried just meeting people through work and business and stuff like that?”
“Um . . .” I grimace at all the ways that could go horribly wrong. “I don’t think I should be dating anyone I work with. I’m the owner of the team.”
“Good point. That’s a terrible idea.” He drums his fingers on the bar, and I appreciate that he’s taking this seriously. But high profile and successful, he’s probably had some of the same challenges of meeting someone without all the . . . rock-star-ness . . . getting in the way.
He snaps his fingers, startling me. “There is a way. What you need is a matchmaker.”
I stare at him. “Do those even exist anymore?”
“Of course. The matchmaking business is thriving. It’s hard meeting people even when you’re not working and/or traveling all the time. And online dating sites involve a lot of time spent sifting through frogs to find a prince.”
“True. That does make sense.” I nod, warming to the idea. “Like, Amazon is a lifesaver when you know what you’re looking for, but sometimes you need a personal shopper to narrow down your choices.”
“Exactly. I have a performer friend who hired one. Because who can make a connection with someone when you’re never in the same city for three days in a row?”
Never in the same city . . .
I’ve been thinking a lot about Crosby since his visit. Some of it
