“I’m happy for him, so I want to tell him. That’s the kind of guy I want to be. I’d rather be that guy than the one who can barely handle being around him,” I say.

  Time to stop running away when he’s near.

  In a few more days, I’ll see Jason at the auction, then the next morning, we’re doing an extra edition of Monday Morning Quarterback, a playoff preview.

  I’ll have plenty of chances to tell him I’m happy for him. I just need to find the right way to do it.

  But it’s not that easy, and that’s why I’m here. “I’m worried it won’t go the way I want it to,” I admit, feeling safe.

  “Then let’s work through some scenarios,” she says, and she takes me through my worries about the worst-case scenario versus the potential reality. Then she gives me homework, asking me to write down the anxious thoughts as they come to me so that we can work on replacement thoughts for them.

  “Since I know you like homework,” she says with a wry smile.

  “I do,” I say, then she says she’ll email me some worksheets.

  I leave that session exhausted once again. With Rosemary, I feel like I’ve started running a marathon. I’m at mile one, but I’m determined to finish all twenty-six miles. And maybe more after that, even if it hurts.

  38

  Can I Say Wazoo?

  Jason

  * * *

  My dad hasn’t knotted a tie for me since I was in high school. But for some reason, he’s doing up my neckwear tonight.

  “I know how to tie a tie,” I grumble in the kitchen of my home. He’s stubborn, though, and he insists.

  “Let your old man have fun,” he says.

  “Tying a tie is fun?” I arch a brow.

  “Helping you look dapper is,” he retorts with a cheesy grin.

  I groan. “Who am I even looking dapper for?”

  “Please. You’ll have bids out the wazoo.” He lets go of my tie with a quick frown. “Wait. Can I say wazoo?”

  I roll my eyes. “You can say wazoo.”

  He steps back, regards my attire. “You look good. How are you feeling?”

  It’s a loaded question. I take the first stab at an answer. “About the auction?”

  “Sure. Let’s start with that.”

  I count off on one finger. “Let’s see. I have to mingle with Beck at the cocktail hour. That’ll be fun. Not,” I mutter.

  “It’s hard seeing him, isn’t it?”

  Hard doesn’t even cover it. “He can barely stand being in the same room as me.”

  My dad tilts his head like he’s considering a puzzle. “His coping mechanism?”

  Hmm. I hadn’t thought about it like that. I’d only thought about it from my point of view, and his avoidance feels like a jab, then an uppercut, then a chokehold. “Maybe,” I say.

  “And how are you doing?”

  I square my shoulders, but what’s the point? I let them slump again. “Miserable. Awful. Terrible.” Then I affect a plastic smile. “But no one can tell.”

  “Jason,” Dad says, full of concern and love.

  I sigh. I’ve got no fight in me.

  “What if there was a way for you to be together the way you want?”

  I rub my ear. There’s no way Dad said that. “Like what?” I ask, incredulous. “What way would that be?”

  “I don’t know, but you can’t possibly be the only rivals in the history of the world who fell in love,” he says.

  I hold up a hand to object. “I don’t think he’s in love with me.” I certainly won’t let myself believe he is.

  My dad scoffs. “I’m not going to convince you. That’s his job. My job is to tell you what I’ve been thinking since you split. Think about whether you’d be willing to brave being together the way you want. Being together would be hard, but it’s possible.”

  I turn that word over in my head—possible. That’s how I felt on Thanksgiving. Like a future with Beck was possible. I’m intrigued that my dad can see it too. I want to sit down with a beer and dig into this conversation all night long.

  But I’m due to mingle soon. “I should go,” I say as a flash of black and white fur skids past me on the counter, stopping short at the end. Taco stares at me with big green eyes and unleashes a monster meow.

  “Oh, shoot. I forgot to feed him. Now he hates me more,” I say.

  My dad points to the door. “I’ll feed him. You go.”

  I take off, trotting downstairs to the garage, climbing into my car, then heading across the city.

  I park in a garage a block away from the Luxe Hotel and pep-talk myself as I cover the distance. I can do this. I can fake my way through any event.

  I’ll stride across the stage when the emcee calls my name. I’ll smile and wave like I haven’t been tunneling my way through cartons of small-batch ice cream and bags of habanero cookies for the last four weeks.

  Fine, fine. It was one night I did that. Maybe two. I have no regrets. Mostly.

  Every man has his own way of moving on. Beck has his, and I have chocolate peanut butter swirl.

  When I reach the hotel, Nate’s stepping out of a Lyft, dressed to the nines in a charcoal suit and a wine-red tie. That’s odd. He’s not in the auction catalog.

  I stride up to him. “You’re going to bid on me as a practical joke?”

  My buddy cracks up. “You wish.”

  “It’s not that funny. No points for you.”

  He straightens and claps my shoulder. “It’s a little funny.”

  I gesture to his fancy get-up. “What’s the story? Are you a last-minute entry?” I ask, a little surprised since he and Oliver haven’t finalized the divorce yet. I didn’t think Nate was ready to advertise his single status to the world yet.

  Nate shakes his head. “Maybe I’ll bid on Cafferty,” he says, an evil glint in his eyes.

  All the humor drains from me. I go stock-still. That’s not remotely funny.

  He points in victory. “I fucking knew it!”

  I roll my eyes. I almost don’t care that he’s officially figured it out. “Don’t bid on him,” I hiss out.

  My friend grabs my shoulder and hauls me away from the entrance, scanning the street left and right. It’s quiet enough for a night in late December. “I was right. You’re involved with him,” he says.

  At this point, who cares? Nate is a vault. “Correction: was.”

  He sighs heavily. “Shit, man. I’m sorry. Is that why you’ve been in a funk these last few weeks? You didn’t even sing karaoke when we went out to celebrate our playoff slot.”

  I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm for Frank Sinatra or Ed Sheeran last weekend. “Yeah, you’re right. And I didn’t say anything while it was going on, but we were together for . . .” I pause, blow out a breath, and stop lying. “Pretty much since a few weeks into the season until right after Thanksgiving.”

  “Wow. Man. That’s intense.”

  “I’m sorry I kept it a secret. I just didn’t see any other way.”

  He scoffs. “Do not apologize. I one hundred percent understand why.”

  I breathe, and it feels like the biggest breath I’ve taken in ages. Nate is a good friend. Of course, he understands. “Thanks.”

  “You miss him?”

  I just shrug. It’s answer enough.

  “Are you going to bid on him tonight?”

  I snap my head back and forth. “God, no. But you can’t either.”

  He chuckles. “You already told me that. I get it. You’re marking your man.”

  I wish I could slap an off-the-market sign on Beck. “Someone’s gonna bid on him,” I grumble.

  “You’re cute when you’re jelly,” Nate says.

  “Thanks. Appreciate that,” I say, then I let this whole moment with Nate sink in. He didn’t judge me. He’s on my side. We stop on the street corner, the mist of a San Francisco evening wrapping around us as cars and trolleys crank by. “Thank you. For not hating me for what I did.”

  He shakes his head, scoffing. “I’m not a hater. And hey, you love who you love,” he says easily.

  I sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

  “That you love him?”

  I gulp and nod.

  Nate spreads his hands wide like he’s lighting up a marquee. “Like a motherfucking billboard.”

  On that melancholy note, we turn around, but when we reach the Luxe, I realize I still don’t know why Nate showed up tonight. “Why did you say you were here?”

  He smiles like a devil. “I didn’t say.”

  I wiggle my fingers, determined to find out. “’Fess up.”

  “I figured you could use the moral support,” he says, then offers a warm grin.

  Ah, hell. I have great friends. “For that, sir, you get ten points in our tally.”

  He pumps a fist. “Yes! I remain in the lead.”

  Once we reach the ballroom, Nate darts off to the bar since I have to mingle with sponsors. I head inside, where innocuous pop music plays overhead, and servers in black ties circulate with appetizers and champagne. Zena’s in the center of the ballroom, dressed in a black, sequined number and a feather boa. She chats with Nadia, and they clink champagne flutes. Wilder holds court at a high table. Dressed in a black tux, he’s deep in an intense conversation with a bearded man in black glasses. Something about the man looks familiar. I’m not positive, but I think he’s a minority owner of a baseball team.

  I tick off the cocktail hour, doing my thing, smiling, and making small talk. Nadia finds me and makes intros to various corporate sponsors and charitable donors. The whole time I keep my eyes peeled for Beck, but I don’t catch sight of him anywhere.

  No big deal.

  Maybe Beck’s chatting with Ding and Dine. Or with Renegades-only sponsors. Maybe Wilder corralled him.

  It’s not my job to look out for Beck anymore. Too bad, since I loved looking out for him. But life goes on.

  When the cocktail hour winds down, Reese weaves through the glittery room, coming to collect me. Maybe I can ask her if Beck’s here. But she’s smart, like Nate. She’d add up the clues.

  Besides, what’s the point? He’s probably here and avoiding me. He’s damn good at that.

  “Let’s head over to the hotel theater. Jillian is eager to review the lineup quickly,” Reese says, ushering me backstage.

  Jillian smiles professionally when I join the crowd of big men in tailored suits.

  “Okay, sharp-dressed men!” Jillian’s cheery voice rings loud and bright. “I want you all sitting in the front two rows of the theater during the Ultimate Player Auction, so the audience gets to be near their fave athletes the whole time. Then, when your name is called, you’ll come up from the audience. That means while you’re seated, no Instagramming, no scrolling, no texting. Be present with the auction for a couple of hours, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Carter says with a salute, and the rest of us nod our understanding.

  “Thank you. I just want to run down the order one more time.”

  She whizzes through the list of twenty-five, stopping after nine to point at Carter. “Beck’s not here, so we bumped you to tenth instead of eleventh,” she says to the Renegades receiver.

  Carter nods. “Right. Yup. He told me that.”

  My head spins around. What the hell? Beck told Carter he’d be a no-show and didn’t tell me? I stew on this nugget for a few minutes until I’m this close to marching over to Carter and demanding he tell me what the hell happened.

  But then, I’ve made assumptions about Beck in the past. I thought he didn’t show up for our second date because he was ghosting me. I was dead wrong.

  Beck’s not an asshole. He’s a great guy with a big heart. If he decided not to show, he has a reason.

  Oh, shit.

  My pulse roars.

  What if he’s having a panic attack? I need to reach out. See if he’s okay. Jillian ferries us toward the theater. I grab my phone right as she slinks over to my side.

  “Jason,” she whispers. “I need you to represent. It’s really important all the guys be engaged. Can you put your phone away?”

  Chastened, I turn off my phone and then tuck it into my inside jacket pocket. Beck will have to wait.

  39

  The Trouble with Skidding Cats

  Jason

  * * *

  When my name is called, I stand from the seat in the front row, turn around, and wave to the crowd in the theater. This place is jammed to the balconies, and it’s fantastic to see so many people showing up for charity.

  I bound to the stage, running my hand down my lapel.

  “And now we have Number Fourteen. Jason McKay, the quarterback for your very own San Francisco Hawks,” Jillian says from the podium at the edge of the stage. “Jason is a proud San Franciscan, loves spending time with his dad and brother, and still hasn’t gotten over what went down earlier this year in Unfinished Business. He has a cat named Taco who loves to knock things over, a deep love of smoothies, and a huge crush on a handful of TV shows. Someday he’d like to meet Mister Right. Can you tell us more about what he’d be like?” she asks, turning to me.

  I take the mic and picture Beck. My heart squeezes painfully as I answer in an upbeat voice. “He’d be kind, clever, inquisitive, an animal lover, and a huge football fan.”

  The crowd cheers.

  Jillian takes the mic back. “For now, though, Jason’s looking forward to spending time getting to know any of the fans here tonight who want to bid on him for a platonic date.”

  A lovesick part of me is hoping Beck will pop up from the back row, raise his hand, and stride to the stage, bidding on me. He’d say, “Number Fourteen is mine,” then rush to my side and kiss me like crazy. Fans would boo, and my teammates would blow their tops, but at least I’d have the guy I love.

  I scan the room, hoping hard that the fantasy will come true. Instead, a sea of strangers bid on me, the price going higher and higher.

  Then a familiar voice calls out, upping the ante by five thousand dollars. I search for the soprano voice and recognize Cheyenne from the boba shop in the fifth row. Her husband is right next to her.

  “Can anyone top that bid?” Jillian asks, scanning the crowd. Paddles go down, and the theater turns quiet. “And the winning bid for a night with the Hawks’ quarterback is Cheyenne and Mitch Simmons.”

  I smile, a genuine one because Cheyenne’s bouncing on her toes, and her husband is hugging her hard.

  I return to my seat next to Nate, and we watch as Xavier, Carter, Devon, and the other guys strut their stuff. I keep peeking at the doors, hoping Beck will show.

  He never does.

  At the end of the auction, we all make plans with our dates, I exchange emails with Cheyenne and Mitch, then pose for pictures, with them, and with all the winners and all the guys.

  When the night finally ends, and I say goodbye to my friends, I make my way to the garage, powering up my phone as I go. I’ve got to see if he’s okay.

  Before I get to my car, I fire off a text. Hey, there. Just wanted to check in and see if you’re doing okay. I heard you decided not to do the auction. Everything all right? I’m here if you need to talk.

  I want so much more than talking. But mostly, I want him to know I still care.

  My phone is quiet the whole drive home. As I pull onto my block, I’m hoping he’ll be waiting at the door in a tux, like in the movies.

  But that’s a farfetched idea, and my porch is empty.

  I make one last foolish wish that he parked in my garage. When I open it, the garage is as lonely as me. I cut the engine and go inside.

  My home is silent. So’s my phone. I toss it on the kitchen counter and trudge upstairs.

  I strip off my suit, fall into bed, and crash, wishing this night had gone differently in every single way.

  I open my eyes and look blearily at the clock the next morning.

  I’m so late.

  I jump out of bed, power shower, and dry off in record time. I yank on clothes, then bound down the steps, grabbing a banana and chowing down.

  I toss some kibble into a bowl for Taco, then check the time again.

  I have fifteen minutes to get to the studio. I’m never late. But I don’t usually have Monday Morning Quarterback on a fucking Friday, and I slept through my alarm.

  I grab my phone from the counter, and I’m headed for the garage when I see a message from Beck. I didn’t get your text till late. I had an appointment in the evening with my shrink. But . . . I’m afraid to ask. Did you get my letter?

  “What letter?” I blurt aloud. I stop and whirl around the living room like maybe the letter will skid under the front door like magic.

  I write back, stat. In my mailbox? Or email or something?

  His answer lands seconds later. I stopped by right before the auction. Your dad was there. I gave it to him to give to you.

  “There’s no freaking letter anywhere,” I moan to no one, anxious as fuck for this letter. I’m about to call my dad when a furball rushes past me, skidding into the kitchen.

  I smell a rat. “Did you take my letter, Taco?”

  He says nothing, the sneak. But I know his routine. He jumps on stuff and knocks things over.

  My dad would leave a letter on the living room table or the kitchen counter. I check the living room, but I don’t find anything there.

  Heart jackhammering, I hightail it to the kitchen, circling the island counter, then I spot a rectangle of white wedged under a stool.

  “Taco,” I mutter.

  I pick up the letter. My name is written on the front in neat, blocky script.

  Check it out. I never knew what Beck’s handwriting looked like till now. But why the hell does this personal detail thrill me?

  Because this letter thrills me. It might explain why he wasn’t at the auction. But what if it’s more?

  I hope it is.

  I head to the garage and slide into my Tesla. I won’t even read it till after the show.