He snarls. “Dude. You’re making me jelly. That still happens?”

  “Evidently. I know you’re the king of the dating apps and all, but I am all for meeting a woman without the smoke and mirrors of the Internet,” I say.

  Carter is easy to talk to about dating. He not only loves it, but he’s a spokesperson for romance. His partnership with the Date Night app is a perfect match.

  “So I was paddle boarding,” I begin, then I tell him the rest of the story of meeting Brooke, ending with, “And I’m going to see her Thursday.”

  “You suck,” he mutters.

  I give a smug smile. After Jenna, I’m going to take this piece of good-dating luck and clutch it tight. “I know.”

  “Seriously. You meeting a woman on the beach is like finding a Benjamin in the dryer,” he says, then glances at his digital watch. He jerks his gaze back in the direction of Santa Monica.

  I wheel around, and we start the return leg of our roundtrip jog.

  “Are you spending a lot of time looking in laundry machines for extra dough, Carter? If you need a loan, just tell me.”

  He flips me the bird. “Why do I even hang around with you when I’m in LA? You walk ass-backward into great sex and then, without any pain or suffering, land a date with a woman you like.”

  “Aww, tell me how hard your life is. Is it still rough after winning the Super Bowl?”

  He hums, a long, satisfied sound, then he raises his finger and scratches his jaw, showing off one of his fat rings. “Come to think of it, that was a sweet end to this season. An encore,” he says.

  Some guys have all the football luck.

  “There. So I will enjoy my dating luck, while I try to figure out what the fuck is going on with my football team. The general manager has been cutting guys left and right. Practice yesterday was miserable. No one knows what kind of shake-ups there could be before the season kickoff. And it starts soon.”

  Carter knows this. He splits time between Los Angeles, his hometown and where his family still lives, and San Francisco, where he plays for the Renegades. He’s in town since his team doesn’t have practice today, but he’ll be heading back later this week as we get ready for the regular season to start.

  “I feel for you,” my buddy says, then claps my shoulder. “I mean it. Even with my two rings, I still feel for you.”

  “Jackass,” I mutter, then we trash talk the rest of the way to the Santa Monica Pier. When we get there, we head toward Ocean Avenue, where I spot a familiar figure at a café at the edge of the beach. He sits facing our direction, arms crossed loosely, almost as if he’s been expecting us.

  I slow my pace, pointing. “Dude, is that our agent?” What the hell is Maddox doing here?

  “Whoa. He knows everything,” Carter whispers in admiration. “Maddox knew exactly where we’d be on a Monday morning. He’s a fucking genius.”

  I’ll say. The man is ridiculously good at his job and never stops working. Hence, his tracking us down at seven-thirty. The guy is the picture of cool and calm. Impeccably dressed in slacks and a tailored shirt, he sips a cup of espresso as he waits and smiles in satisfaction as I reach him and stop a few paces away.

  “I thought I might find you here when you didn’t answer your phone,” he tells me.

  I grab for my cell in my pocket, spotting the missed call. Weird. I didn’t think I turned off the sound. “Guess I put it on silent,” I say.

  Carter smacks my arm. “You missed a call from me last night too.”

  I shoot him a sneaky look. “I wouldn’t say I missed it.” Then I turn to Maddox again. “Good to see you.”

  Maddox gives an easy shrug. “Fortunately, I knew how to find you.”

  “I’m a creature of habit,” I say with a smile, eager to find out why he’s parachuted into my morning workout.

  Carter thumps our agent on the back. “So, Super Agent, are you here to see him or are you stopping in to see your favorite client while he’s in town?”

  “I love all my children equally,” Maddox teases.

  “You don’t have to say that just to make Carter feel better,” I say, then I cut to the chase. “What’s the story?” I point my thumb at my buddy. “Unless it’s top secret, Carter can stay. I’ll probably tell him anyway.”

  Carter cups the side of his mouth. “News flash—Drew got laid last night.”

  “Hey now. It was more than sex. I have a date with her.” I

  don’t want to sound like a playboy.

  Maddox just grins, shaking his head like we’re a couple of clowns. Which, admittedly, we are. “Glad you met someone you like, Drew.” His smile disappears, and he’s suddenly serious. “I have big news, Drew. Now, let’s talk.”

  6

  One Horchata Latte for Me

  Brooke

  * * *

  I yank open the kitchen cupboard in Cara’s apartment on Thursday morning and stare at the nearly bare shelves.

  “How do you not have coffee?” I whine.

  “There’s this thing called coffee shops,” she calls breezily from the other room. Her shoes clack against the tiles as she marches into the kitchen, her blonde hair swishing in a high ponytail. “You go in, order your drink, and voila. The barista serves it.”

  “But you need coffee for meeeee,” I say, more dramatic than I need to be. But hell, I need to be.

  “Tell you what. I’ll splurge and take you out for a coffee on the way to class. How’s that?” she asks.

  “I can’t let you do that. The fact you offered, though, is proof I don’t deserve you.” I drag my hands through my hair, exasperated.

  She comes up behind me. Rubs my shoulder. “Hello? Earth to Brooke. Coffee is not cause for drama. I may be broke, but I can afford a coffee. But maybe it’s not coffee you want?”

  I want to go back in time to Sunday and not give Drew my number. Then I wouldn’t be wondering why I haven’t heard from him.

  Not a single text since he left my home. Since we made a date for tonight. His silence wouldn’t be a problem except that on Monday, my boss told me he needed me to attend this charity event that went until seven p.m.

  I texted Drew asking to meet me later than we’d planned, but he never replied. That was three days ago. We’re supposed to meet tonight.

  He’s ghosted me, I know it.

  Why, universe, why did he keep up the ruse all of Sunday night?

  Oh, right. He wanted to get laid.

  I take a deep breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let go of my frustration. “I think I woke up on the wrong side of the week,” I tell my sister.

  “It’s that guy, right?” Cara asks as she grabs her phone from the counter and tucks it into the back pocket of her skinny jeans.

  I look at her in surprise. I’m that obvious? “How did you know that was why I was annoyed?”

  She laughs knowingly. “Because the second he left the other night, you called to tell me what an amazing time you had.”

  Of course, I’m that obvious. Like a starry-eyed teen, I gushed about Drew. So much for the tough girl routine I try to foster at work. Outside of the office, one fantastic night turned me into a marshmallow.

  My throat tightens with a stupid lump. “I feel so foolish. I was so sure we’d have a second date. And I wanted that,” I say, a sob threatening my composure. “After the work thing and everything…”

  But I press the brakes. I don’t want to indulge in a pity party over a man I had a one-night stand with.

  I’m here this morning for Cara—to drive her to class on my way to work since her car is in the shop. She’s finishing her master’s degree to become a special education teacher, and I couldn’t be prouder of my little sister.

  I swallow the threat of tears and raise my chin. “Forget it. It’s no biggie. Tell me more about what classes you have today,” I say as we walk to the door.

  She tugs gently on my hair, something she always did when she was little. “I will, but I can’t thank you enough for driving me. My car is asking for a knuckle sandwich these days.” She holds up her fist to demonstrate what she wants to do to her little Honda.

  “You’re not that far from me, and your class is on my way in.” I like helping her, and the reality is, I’m her third parent.

  We head down the steps of her building and slide into my car, then pull into sluggish morning traffic. But we don’t have far to go—just a couple miles.

  As I slow at a light, I hear Cara hum to herself, something brewing in her big brain. That’s my sister—always thinking. Revisiting. Trying again.

  With a laugh, I say, “Spit it out.”

  She screws up the corner of her lips, then looks at me, her blue eyes intense. “You could call him.”

  I answer with a scoff.

  “You could, Brooke,” she insists.

  “I’m not going to chase a guy who doesn’t want to be chased,” I say as the light changes and I hit the gas.

  I still can’t believe I misread Drew Adams so badly. But he played me, and that’s just part of modern dating.

  Ever the optimist, Cara goes on, “Maybe something legit happened. You really liked him, and you guys had a good connection. You’re a confident, single woman, and you don’t need to wait for a man to call you or respond to a text. There could be a simple explanation for him not answering your text.” She snaps her fingers. “Like he dropped his phone in the shower.”

  I crack up. “Why on earth would he be using his phone in the shower?”

  “Watching the news obviously,” she says. “He’s so worldly and concerned about the state of global affairs that he watches the news in the shower.”

  “And then he slipped and broke his phone?”

  “It was a very intense news story.” Her eyes widen as she embellishes the tale. “Or maybe the phone shielded his fall!”

  “Or maybe you’re reading too many news stories yourself, Miss NewsHound. You love little facts about all the terrible things that happen.”

  “No, I love to be prepared. And that’s why I always have bathmats on the tiles, since lots of accidental injuries occur in the bathroom. Things get slippery in the shower. All I’m saying is it’s possible there’s an explanation for him not texting.”

  “Explanations like that only happen in the movies. Real life is men saying they’ll do one thing, then doing another,” I say crisply, gripping the wheel tighter, focusing on the road. Men need to stay in the rearview mirror. I have to learn my lesson from Sailor. “Look. It’s all for the best. It’s going to be a busy season. The more I focus on doing my best at the office, the greater the chance I can have at landing the next job.”

  “Have you decided what to do yet? About the work thing?”

  I’ve cooled off since last week. I’m determined to impress Stephen and win the next promotion. “It’s a small world, and I think I’ll just keep trying hard with the Bandits,” I say, but then I flash her a devilish smile. “But obviously I’ll keep my ear to the ground for better opportunities.”

  “Obviously. You’re always strategic. And I love that plan,” she says.

  I reach her building on campus. “Love you. Get out of here.”

  She leans across the console to give me a sloppy kiss on the cheek and then grabs her bag and heads out.

  I watch her go, feeling warm and fuzzy as she heads into the building. Proud too. We spent many nights hunting down scholarships in her field. She nailed a handful and only has to pay a few thousand dollars a year. Loans are no fun. I’m still saddled with my law school loans, though I’ve been steadily chipping away at them. Another couple of years and I can pay them off.

  Then, maybe I can help my parents out. Dad’s a high school football coach. Mom is a bank teller, and the last recession took a bite out of their retirement funds. I’d love to take care of them in little ways.

  But first things first. Pay off the rest of my loans.

  And I can do that as long as I keep this job, which means focusing on work—not the date who’s ghosted me.

  I tap the gas and take off for the Bandits facility, ready to put Drew in the rearview mirror.

  Sports have been a part of my life since I was a kid, thanks to my dad. We had some of our best father-daughter chats while throwing a ball in the backyard. He’d share his playbook for upcoming games, and I’d pepper him with questions. I analyzed everything about how football was played, fought, and won. I learned the formations, the types of coverage, and when to go for a forward pass, a screen pass, or a play-action pass.

  Sometimes, he’d ask me what to do in an upcoming game, and I’d weigh in with suggestions based on the opponents and their style of play—their skills at running and passing, or whether they were defensive-minded, and so on. Dad would take all my feedback seriously, even though with a winning record of over thirty years, he hardly needed my help.

  I’m still grateful for those chats now. Being a lawyer is all about strategy, and those sideline talks with Dad made me a very good lawyer.

  My work lets me apply my questioning mind to something I love—sports.

  When I arrive at the ballpark, I head to the executive suites, saying hello to my colleagues along the way.

  There’s Nancy in publicity, who wants to know when I’m going to do an interview with Sailor.

  Felipe in college scouting, who watches all of Sailor’s videos.

  Abby in analytics, who has a crush on Sailor.

  Before I reach my office, my phone buzzes with a message from Stephen. Brooke, can you come to my office when you arrive? I picked up lattes.

  I study the note with suspicion. After all, this is the man who sent flowers when he passed me over for a promotion.

  With dread coiling in my gut, I walk the plank to his office.

  Even though I was frustrated with my job last week, I don’t want to lose it. I can’t afford to lose it.

  I reach his door. It’s ajar, and he’s typing on his phone from behind his desk, expressionless.

  “Good morning, Stephen,” I say cheerily.

  Putting his phone down, he looks up. “Come in,” he says, laissez-faire as always.

  I step inside the pit of doom.

  Taking his time, he stands, walks around his desk, and grabs a cup. “Remembered you liked horchata lattes,” he says. Most of the time, the man talks in phrases. “When you indulge, that is.” He taps his temple. “Filed every team member’s coffee preference. Comes in handy.”

  Is that the secret to being an EVP? Memorizing the staff’s coffee orders? Is that handy when you need to fire them?

  “Stopped by the Cuban café near the ballpark and picked some up for you,” he says and holds the cup out for me.

  “Thanks,” I say tentatively, taking it.

  He takes one for himself from his desk too. “Try it.”

  I lift the cup and down the hatch it goes. And wow. That is tasty, warm, and cinnamon-y.

  And damn him for his well-honed strategy. Making an employee feel good before you drop the hatchet.

  “Sit,” he says, gesturing to a chair. I obey.

  He parks himself in the chair across from me. “Wanted to take you out to lunch to tell you this,” he says, and I brace myself. It’s coming.

  Oh yes, it’s coming.

  “But…I couldn’t wait till lunch. So horchata it is,” he says, then his gray eyes dance and, wait. Is that a hint of a smile too, to go along with a full sentence? “The reason you didn’t get the promotion is…we have a brand-new job for you instead. And you’re the only one I trust to do it.”

  A few full sentences.

  “I am? You do?” Wait. No. I shouldn’t be speaking in question marks. I clear my throat. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”

  “We’re adding new responsibilities to your plate. Along with a hefty raise,” he says, then shares the dollar amount.

  I purse my lips so I don’t drop my jaw.

  But holy ovaries. That’s a twenty percent increase. It’s like a hazard-pay level raise. “That sounds terrific. And what are the added responsibilities?”

  Stephen beams, something he rarely does. “We want you to handle legal work for both the baseball and football teams that Carlisle Enterprises owns.”

  I nearly jerk back in my chair. I did not see that coming. Of course I know Elizabeth Carlisle also owns the Los Angeles Mercenaries, but the day-to-day operations are run separately. “That would be great,” I say, trying to strike a balance between gobsmacked and appreciative. I’m not the overly effusive type, even though I want to overly effuse right now.

  Because I love football.

  And responsibility.

  And I really like more money.

  Stephen exhales, as if relieved I said yes. I mean, how the hell was I going to say no to that?

  Fine, the Mercenaries are a bit of a poster-child team for bad boys, but I won’t be managing the players or their hard-partying reps. That’s for the press department and the GM, frankly, or should be.

  “When can I start?”

  “Today,” he says.

  I sit up straighter. “I’m ready.”

  “Great. As part of your new responsibilities, we want you to review all the press releases and statements for both teams, especially with the heat the Mercenaries have been under due to the, how shall we say, player fuckups in the last year.”

  And I guess I will be helping manage the bad reps after all. But in a hands-off way.

  “Of course. It’ll be wise to have legal eyes on those,” I say.

  “You’re my best eyes, Holland,” he says, using my last name. “Tonight at the charity event, I’ll introduce you to the players you’ll be working with.”

  I fasten on a smile. “I’ll be ready.”

  This takes the sting out of a guy ghosting me before our second date.

  I didn’t get the promotion. I got an even better job.

  I spend the rest of the day getting up to speed on the Mercenaries, but I’m pretty dialed in already as a fan. Also, as someone who works for the parent company, it’d be hard to miss any of the notorious scandals the team has been involved in.