* * *

  Drew: I walked right into that. I know. Anyway, were you at the game?

  * * *

  Brooke: I was. I was in the team suite.

  * * *

  Drew: Ooh, fancy!

  * * *

  Brooke: Yes, I wore a suit. So fancy.

  * * *

  Drew: Wait. For real? Also, pics or it didn’t happen.

  * * *

  Brooke: I think you have a thing for a sharp-dressed woman.

  * * *

  Drew: You don’t have to think that. You should know that. That whole boss-lady look from the other night worked for me big time.

  * * *

  Drew: But wait. Hold on. So did your bikini when I met you.

  * * *

  Drew: And the sundress when we got drinks. And the T-shirt after I made you come so hard you saw stars.

  * * *

  Brooke: Cocky much?

  * * *

  Drew: Just all the time.

  * * *

  Drew: But admit it. There were stars?

  * * *

  Brooke: Maybe cosmic dust?

  * * *

  Drew: Well, I better try again then ☺

  * * *

  Brooke: I mean, it’s not a bad idea…But seriously, I wore jeans and a nice blouse. And everyone was excited about your performance.

  * * *

  Drew: Did you tell anyone I’m an excellent performer in other ways too?

  * * *

  Brooke: No, Drew. I kept that delicious tidbit to myself.

  * * *

  Drew: If you must.

  * * *

  Brooke: I must.

  * * *

  Drew: I know, but I’m psyched you were there. Too bad you aren’t here though.

  * * *

  Brooke: Yes, it is too bad. But I was proud of you. What a great game.

  * * *

  Drew: Thanks! Not gonna lie—it feels good to start the season this way. I really want to impress the team and the fans.

  * * *

  Brooke: You absolutely will.

  * * *

  We text a little longer, then we do it again a few days later, then she wishes me luck before I fly to Seattle for an away game. Before I board the flight, I do some interviews with the local media, as per Stephen’s request, then do some more in Seattle before the game there. He’s keeping me busy, but the chance to talk about the game I love is one I relish.

  And I’m happy on Sunday when we win that game in Seattle. As we head off the field, helmets in hand, Gabe hoists the red hacky sack high. “Streak. Don’t mess with a streak,” he says.

  “As if I would.”

  When I board the plane home a couple of hours later, I text Brooke with Two in a row!

  And when I land in Los Angeles, my phone serves up her reply.

  * * *

  Brooke: Two in a row! Much better than two-a-day ☺

  * * *

  Drew: Well, not all two-a-days.

  * * *

  Brooke: You couldn’t resist that either?

  * * *

  Drew: Nope. I could not.

  * * *

  Brooke: I walked into your hardship.

  * * *

  Drew: You could walk right onto my hardship too.

  * * *

  Brooke: Drew!

  * * *

  Drew: I meant sit on it. My bad.

  * * *

  Drew: Fuck it. Run over and sit on my face. Then on my hardship.

  * * *

  Brooke: You are the naughtiest.

  * * *

  Drew: Yes, and you’re still not sitting on my face or my hardship. But maybe my doorbell will ring when I get home in an hour.

  * * *

  Brooke: I wish I were ringing it…

  * * *

  Drew: And then? Work with me here, woman.

  * * *

  She’s quiet for a beat as I make my way past security at the airport, Gabe by my side. His head’s bent over his phone. The smile on his face tells me he’s likely texting a woman too.

  When he looks up, I catch his eye. “Who is she?” I ask.

  He just laughs. “Just someone.”

  “Oh well, thanks for that deep insight.”

  He shrugs, but his dark eyes are playful. That signature take-no-prisoners look has vanished. “Someone I knew long ago.”

  “Is she the one who got away?” I ask as we reach the street.

  “Long ago we never would have been a thing,” he says.

  “And now?”

  His curious look says yes before his mouth says you never know.

  Once we’re in a Lyft, he’s back on his phone and I’m on mine, reading Brooke’s reply.

  * * *

  Brooke: And then I’d unzip your jeans and get to know your innuendo better.

  * * *

  I haul in a breath. We have a winner. She’s feisty tonight.

  * * *

  Drew: I’m in a car with Clements, but just know that later on, when I’m alone, you’re going to do unholy things to my innuendo with your mouth.

  * * *

  Brooke: Yes. Yes, I am.

  When I’m home alone, I place an order for Vietnamese noodles from Ding and Dine, then I return to the thread with Brooke.

  * * *

  Drew: Hey. Are you still up?

  * * *

  Brooke: I am. I’m reading a book. Almost done with it though.

  * * *

  Drew: Is it good?

  * * *

  Brooke: Terrific. It’s the new Axel Huxley.

  * * *

  Drew: He’s my cousin!

  * * *

  Brooke: For real?

  * * *

  Drew: I swear on my right arm. He lives in New York, and he’s scowly, and sarcastic, and funny as fuck.

  * * *

  Brooke: Talented too.

  * * *

  Drew: Well, yeah, that. I finished his newest a couple weeks ago. Good stuff! (Well, I listened to the audio. Does that count?)

  * * *

  Brooke: Why would it not count? Of course it counts.

  * * *

  Drew: Some people think that doesn’t count.

  * * *

  Brooke: Some people are jackasses.

  * * *

  Drew: True words.

  * * *

  Brooke: Are you home now?

  * * *

  Drew: Yup. Just ordered some food. I’m hungry. But I’m no good in the kitchen.

  * * *

  Brooke: I’ll teach you someday ☺

  * * *

  I wish we were having that someday now—for the cooking, and the hardships, and the talking.

  Since we keep talking for another hour.

  12

  Harshing on Muffins

  Drew

  * * *

  On Wednesday night, I catch up with Patrick in Santa Monica for dinner. Maddox recommended a new Indian food truck for us to try, and since it’s in my neighborhood this week, I leave my condo and head out to meet Patrick.

  But when I’m a block away from our meet-up, I spot Ruby’s Taco Truck before the Indian truck. My doubt-meter spikes once I spy Patrick chatting with the guy at the window.

  Why do I think my buddy’s going to milk the whole taco spankings thing?

  Oh, because he has.

  The fucker has sent me several gifts in the last few weeks.

  First, the day after the ultimate text trick, as he called it, he sent licorice to my home along with this text. Bought some licorice tonight, hottie. I’m practicing hitting myself with it. But they keep breaking. Got any tips?

  Hit yourself harder, I’d replied.

  The day after my first win, he sent an order of pancakes to my house with syrup on the side, along with a text: I wore these today on my tits. Hope you love your brekkie, hot-stuff stud-muffin.

  I ate the pancakes. They were tasty. But not as tasty as getting back at him by snapping a picture of myself on the beach with a clown and tagging it with his name—Hanging with my finance wizard, Patrick.

  I’m waiting for the next installment. It’s got to be coming tonight. This taco truck has setup written all over it.

  He strides over to me, whipping off his aviator shades. They complete the look he’s working—the pressed pants, the polished shoes, and the tailored white shirt. He probably came from the office. By contrast, I’m in jeans, a T-shirt, and a ball cap.

  He flashes me a grin. “Two in a row, man. That’s the way to do it.”

  Hmm. I’m not picking up on a prankster vibe. I peer around. “Did you bring a bag of skittles? You’ll give me some then say you licked them all?”

  He pulls a face like that’s ridic. “Who has time for that?”

  “Fair point.”

  I glance at the yellow truck. “Did you hire a stripper to jump out of a giant taco while wielding a starter spanking kit?”

  Patrick scoffs. “Starter? I’d figured advanced for you. Also, don’t try to guess my next move. This won’t end. Ever. And you don’t want it to.”

  Truth. We’ve played so many pranks on each other over the years that it’s our love language. “But when I can predict your next move, I win the round,” I say, seizing a chance to take control of the game. I do like control—almost as much as I love winning.

  “Fair enough,” Patrick says, then clears his throat, nodding to the nearby truck. “In all seriousness, the owner of Ruby’s Taco Truck loves you. I had lunch here the other day, and you came up. Hope you don’t mind if we skip the Maddox rec and go here? The tacos are huge. You only need one.”

  Boom. I spot my opening. “Hold on. You just reminded me I forgot to reply to Maddox’s last text.”

  I grab my phone, and type out a quick message and send it, but not to my agent.

  Rejoining the conversation, I tell Patrick, “Tacos sound great. Just make sure it’s big enough for me.”

  “That’s what she said,” he quips without missing a beat.

  I smirk, feeling smug. “Check your texts, asshole.”

  He does, and his eyes widen as he lets out a long “Fuuuuuck” as he reads my note to him: You’re going to say this in five seconds.

  I blow on my fingernails. “Don’t forget I play to win.”

  “You bastard,” he mutters.

  “You mean you fucking steely-eyed, brilliant bastard who just schooled you in your game?”

  “Yes,” he grumbles, then adds, “I’m not worthy.”

  “That is true. But I’ll treat you to tacos anyway.”

  We reach the truck, which features an illustration of a Chihuahua holding a big taco. “Is that the owner’s dog?”

  Patrick nods. “Yup. Roman’s pup is Ruby. She has a dog bed attached on the side of the truck. That way she won’t get in the way of the food, but she can hang with Roman.”

  I walk around the truck, smiling when I spot the cute min-pin critter sleeping in a comfy-looking bed. I snap a shot of the truck and send it to Milo in New York. He’s obsessed with his pooch too, and his dog goes to work with him every day at his bike shop.

  When I return to Patrick, he says, “Roman will probably want a selfie with you. You cool with that?”

  “Always,” I say.

  “Good. I figured the team would be happy as well, since they love your good-guy-about-town image. They released some shots of you from that charity thing you did the other week.”

  I don’t follow that stuff too closely, but I know Maddox does, and if there were a problem, he’d have told me. Still, I’m curious. “What sort of shots?”

  “Just you shaking hands, chatting with donors and such. Oh, and like you asked me to, I got in touch with the org about you doing volunteer work and making a donation.” He confirms the amount we discussed and suggests we meet with Paul. “You’re still good with that?”

  “Absolutely. Thanks for making that happen.”

  “And that was a nice shot of you and the babe from the front office,” he says offhand as we move up in line.

  Wait. Hold the hell on. “What do you mean?” I ask cautiously.

  “You and the blonde. There was a shot of the two of you in front of the banner,” he says, and instantly, I relax.

  “Oh, cool. Yeah, she’s fun to chat with. We’re buds,” I say, not quite making eye contact.

  Carter’s the only one who’s privy to the full truth. But there’s no reason to tell Patrick the details since nothing is going on with Brooke and me. And he doesn’t know Brooke is my IOU. He thinks the woman I was texting was just a random hookup.

  It’s better that way. If I tell him, he’ll worry. He has ever since college when I was involved with Marie my senior year. The guy has never forgotten what went down when I dated her, so I don’t need to stress him out until there’s something to tell.

  I shake off my worries, too, when we reach the window and Patrick drops a hand to my shoulder and introduces me to Roman.

  A tattooed but baby-faced burly man extends his hand from behind the window. “Good to meet you. Big fan. Whatever you want. It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, man, but I’m more than happy to pay for your fine food. And I appreciate the compliment.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you could bring a ring to Los Angeles,” he says with a wry smile.

  “I will absolutely do my best,” I say, and when the food is ready, Roman refuses the cash, so I stuff a fifty in the tip jar.

  Roman grabs his phone, and we smile for the camera.

  After we eat, Patrick and I wander along Ocean Avenue. When we near the old parking garage, that was converted into a movie theater, my gaze snags on the marquee for Silver Screen Theater. A wave of nostalgia crashes into me. “It’s tonight. Fake Play.”

  I’d forgotten the showing was this evening.

  Patrick knits his brow in question. “That old flick?”

  “That old flick is a good flick, man.” I check the time. It’s almost seven. Perfect.

  “You and your love of old movies,” he says, shaking his head, amused.

  “Me and my love of old movies are going in. See you later.”

  I give Patrick a tip of the cap, and head for the ticket counter, when he calls out, “Dude, I’m going with you.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “To see that old flick? I don’t want to cramp your new, flashy style.”

  “I’ll just pretend I don’t know you. It’ll be fine.”

  “Too bad I was going to treat. Not so sure I will now,” I say as I slap some bills at the counter and buy the tickets anyway. I like to treat, especially after college.

  “Now I do owe you,” he says with a smirk as we head into the lobby.

  “I’ll be sure to send a clown to collect.”

  He growls. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I might,” I say as I catch sight of a woman at the popcorn counter who looks a lot like Brooke.

  And then…Brooke.

  Wowzers.

  She wears a pink sundress and strappy sandals. Her hair falls loosely over her tanned shoulders.

  She must be with her sister.

  Brooke’s eyes catch mine and she smiles warmly—a colleague smile, but that’s cool. “Hey, Adams,” Brooke says, using my last name like most people in the organization do. “Good to see you.”

  “And you too,” I say, going along with the just friends bit.

  I mean, we are friends-ish.

  The last few weeks of dirty texting aside.

  Brooke gestures to the woman next to her. “This is my sister. Cara.”

  “And you two must be the guys planning clown pranks,” Cara says with an I-caught-you expression.

  Patrick adopts a serious look as he eyes Brooke’s sister. “For the record, I am vehemently opposed to clown pranks. And to clowns.”

  Cara nods sagely. “I get that.”

  “Well, clearly this was meant to be,” he says with a smile now.