The Rules of Friends with Benefits

by Lauren Blakely

  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 has been specific—those eyes, that smile, that Crosby-ness.

  Our connection.

  But rippling out from that is a more general consideration.

  I want that connection.

  I want that connection plus all the things I suspect Crosby and I could be if we weren’t friends first, and if Eric wouldn’t have a cow, and if we lived less than a plane ride away.

  A matchmaker seems ideal. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”

  “Yes!” Stone slaps his hand on the bar. Either that was a generous pour of gin in his drink, or he’s on a post-performance high, or both. But the mood is contagious.

  We scoot our stools together and google “matchmakers in Vegas” on my phone.

  He’s right—there are a number of them. So we find the top one.

  “Samantha Valentine?” I say skeptically. “No way is that her real last name.”

  “No quibbling, Nadia,” Stone chides me, and clicks on the contact link. “Jump off that cliff before your better sense talks you out of it.”

  “That is the worst encouragement I’ve ever heard.”

  But under his watchful stare, I type out an email to Ms. Valentine, premier matchmaker in Las Vegas, and ask if she’ll meet with me to discuss her services.

  Samantha smiles warmly at me as her assistant ushers me into her classy, unassuming office off the Strip.

  Though younger than Meryl Streep, the matchmaker extraordinaire gives off a Devil Wears Prada vibe that says she gets stuff done.

  She appraises me from stem to stern—inoffensively—before I sit, and then she listens attentively as I tell her what I want in a man.

  Because that’s not awkward at all.

  “So . . . funny is great,” I say. “I do like to laugh. But mostly, I want someone with a big heart.”

  “Interesting,” she says, like no one has ever given that criteria before. She studies me over the top of her glasses then makes a note on her tablet. “What about income? Property? Investments?”

  “I don’t really care about that.” I shrug off the question. “I’m doing fine on my own.”

  Her eyebrow quirks. “But don’t you want him to be making a certain amount of money?”

  “Not really.” I hadn’t really thought about it at all. “I mean, a college degree is important because I’d like someone who values education. But as for employment, I’m not that picky. I think I would just like somebody who’s kind and caring.”

  She flashes a smile. “Wonderful. A woman such as yourself—twenty-four, running a football team, the toast of the town—it should be no trouble at all to find a man for you.”

  Famous last words.

  The first date I meet at Momofuku in The Cosmopolitan. He’s good-looking, a hedge fund owner, and we opt for the brussels sprouts and a bottle of red wine. We chat about the federal reserve and mutual funds, and just as my brain is about to liquify from boredom, he turns to me and says, “It’s been great meeting you, Nadia. But I’m going to pass on a second date.”

  Taken aback, I say, “Okay . . .”

  On the tip of my tongue is “Thank God for that,” but I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  Even though he’s already hurt mine.

  But he’s not done.

  “Don’t take it personally,” he says, laying his folded napkin across his plate. “I simply prefer to have the biggest wallet in the room.”

  I blink, taking a moment to assimilate that he really said that aloud. Then I smile sweetly and rise from my chair. “Well, then. Best of luck finding someone with a teeny wallet to match your teeny heart.”

  A few weeks later, I have dinner with a land developer.

  He tells me about some of the projects he’s working on.

  He says he knew Steve Wynn.

  He talks about watching the Stardust being taken down with a wrecking ball.

  “My God,” he rhapsodizes. “It was so satisfying. It’s everything I long for as a land developer.”

  This is by far the most interesting thing he’s said but for all the wrong reasons.

  “Destruction, you mean?”

  “No. Opportunity. When I see a wrecking ball hit a building, all I think is it’s going to be mine next. And in its place, I’m going to build it bigger and better than before.”

  Hmm . . . should I mention his obvious skyscraper envy, or go all out and suggest he’s compensating for something?

  But he saves me the trouble.

  “By the way, this is going to be our only date,” he says before we’ve even left the table. “I don’t really have any interest in seeing you as long as your title remains CEO.”


  I don’t bother to mention that CEO isn’t my title.

  That would be “owner.”

  The next month it’s a personal injury attorney, one of those guys who has billboards everywhere.

  1-800-I’ll Win Big for You. That kind of billboard.

  I’m beginning to think Samantha Valentine has something personal against me.

  We go out to a steakhouse next to Caesars, and he orders the most expensive thing on the menu, which makes me think of Crosby and our lunch together. The memory is literally the most enjoyable part of this meal.

  Mr. 1-800 changes things up from my last dates by saying he’d love to see me again, which makes one of us. Especially when he adds, “But I just want you to know that I’m always going to wear the pants in the relationship.”

  I glance down at my cute red pencil skirt with white polka dots and sigh loudly as I look back up and meet his eyes. “That’s too bad, because you really don’t deserve to see these legs or this adorable skirt except when they’re walking away from you.”

  And that is my new most enjoyable part of the meal.

  When I walk into the office the next day wearing a new pair of black Louboutins, Matthew, my CEO, arches an eyebrow. “Dare I say, your last date was rubbish?”

  I set down my bag and face him, hands on my hips. “I can’t tell if you’re being snarky or if it’s just your accent.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m British.”

  “So . . . a bit of both, then?” He acknowledges that with a hint of his oh-so-charming smile.

  “What gave it away? The bad date?” I ask. “Or are you predicting based on my luck so far?”

  “The new shoes.” He points at my feet. “I know those are your solace.”

  Sighing heavily, I fall into my desk chair. “Shoes have never disappointed me.”

  “Sorry you’re having a rough go of it out there, love,” he says.

  I swat the whole subject away like the pesky thing it is. “Enough about my dating woes. Tell me about yours.”

  He looks sheepish, spearing his fingers through his dark-blond hair. “Will it make you feel worse if I say mine aren’t woeful at all?”

  “Really?” I sit up with interest. “Restore my faith in dating humanity. No pressure.”

  Chuckling, he shakes his head then lets loose a bright smile. “Things with Phoebe are great. I’m very, very happy with her.”

  “Oh?” I lean forward, my elbows on the desk. “You’ve seen her a lot in just a few weeks. Do you think it could get serious?”

  “I think I have a seriously good time when we go out together,” he says, evading the question.

  “That’s good.” If someone is going to have fun falling in love while I’m in some kind of romance torture experiment, it definitely should be Matthew. He’s a good guy, and gorgeous, and then there’s the accent.

  If only I wasn’t against dating at work . . .

  No. When I picture an “if only” guy, it’s not Matthew I see. It’s the San Francisco Cougar ballplayer with a crooked boy-next-door smile and let’s-get-into-trouble eyes.

  3

  Nadia

  A few more months later

  * * *

  Something I love about my job?

  Awards ceremonies.

  Big, splashy events with red carpets, flashing cameras, and everyone in tuxes and formal wear.

  I love pretty dresses, and these galas are that, dialed up to eleven. Satin or silky, floor-length and flowing or short and sassy—I like to change it up, keep the press guessing.

  But for some reason, I’m having trouble picking a showstopper to wear to the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala. I have plenty of gorgeous dresses in my bedroom-sized closet, but none of them are grabbing me. As I hold one after another up in front of me in the mirror, I keep wondering what Crosby would think of them. Then I tell myself to stop trying to impress him, which only makes me think of him more.

  Finally, I follow the prompt from my subconscious and call him. We exchange pleasantries like it’s been days instead of months since we talked, then I say, “Rumor on the street is you’ll be at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala.”

  “The rumor, huh?” Crosby’s warm, gravelly voice, full of humor, makes me smile. “That’s me, I guess. Everyone’s favorite topic of conversation.”

  I don’t know what I was worried about. Calling him was absolutely the right thing to do. My shoulders unknot, and I appreciate my clothes the way they should be appreciated.

  Heading out to my living room, I sink onto the couch in my apartment, and let myself enjoy the phone call. “So, you’re going?”

  “I’ll definitely be there. How about you?”

  “Same.”

  There’s a slight pause. “Are you bringing anyone?”

  “No. Oh, well, Matthew will be there, but he works for me. Otherwise, it’ll just be me, my designer clutch, and enough cash for the bar.”

  “I can spot you for a drink. Assuming it’s not an open bar. I don’t remember. Maybe that’s the Sports Network Awards. Or I’m thinking of a wedding I went to.”

  “Probably the latter.” I lean back on the couch, stretch out my legs, and fold them back up, all before I ask, “Will your date mind you buying me a possibly free drink?”

  “No date for me either. So no problem.”

  I snort. Obviously no problem. No woman is going to tell him, “Sorry, sweetie, but you belong in the kitchen,” or feel emasculated by his salary.

  My desire for companionship isn’t about the event; I like going solo. It’s my regular life that feels kind of . . . partnerless.

  “What’s that sigh for?” he asks, hearing more than I wanted him to.

  “It wasn’t a sigh. It was a snort.”

  “Okay. Then what was the snort for? Is something on your mind?”

  I don’t want to unload on him, certainly not about my dating woes. He doesn’t need to hear that finding a date is harder than finding a quarterback, and there’s literally nothing harder than that in the NFL.

  “Oh, it’s just been a long day,” I fudge. “Contract negotiations.”

  He makes a purring sound. “Oh, you’re so sexy when you talk about contract negotiations.”

  I laugh. “You want me to whisper sweet nothings about mediation?” His purr gets louder. “Free agency?”

  “Oh, baby.”

  This time I snort with laughter, and he breaks too.

  “Real talk though,” he says. “Tell me what you’re working on. I’m in baseball, so nothing you say will do me any good.”

  I wiggle more comfortably into the couch cushions and update him on the team, then I make him tell me about his upcoming home stand, the games he’s playing, the pitches he’s connecting with this season. An hour goes by in a blink, and before I know it, I’m yawning at the end of a second one.

  “I can’t believe I’m keeping you up this late,” I tell him without an apology.

  “You are,” he says with gravel in his voice. “You’re a night owl, and I’m not.”

  “I bet you’d be a night owl if you gave it a chance. You can practice at the awards.”

  “Well, they’re in LA, so same time zone. Don’t worry. I won’t fall asleep next to you in the theater.”

  I guess we’re sitting together. No complaints here.

  “I can nudge you if you start to snore.”

  “Counting on it,” he says.

  We end the call, and I trip along to the closet to finally pick a dress, as excited about the event in LA as if it were a date.

  And, well, it feels a little bit like one.

  But it’s not.

  The night of the awards, I absolutely cannot resist watching Crosby Cash from across the ballroom.

  I’m trying not to be too blatant about it as Matthew and I lean against the bar, surveying the guests in their lavish clothes and glittering jewelry. I love that some of the male players wear as much sparkle as any woman here. Blingy bow ties, fantas
tic kerchiefs, and occasionally a suit the color of sapphire or amethyst.

  “Shame that our job sucks so much,” I say.

  “It’s the worst,” my right-hand man agrees, lifting his glass of champagne.

  “Watching sports. Going to awards. Vying for huge trophies,” I sigh.

  “Having fun is a curse.”

  “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  “Oh, but here’s something!” Matthew straightens from the bar like something caught his eye, then leans in to whisper, “Somebody is heading toward you.”

  Someone is.

  Crosby.

  Looking fantastic with that launch-a-thousand-ships smile, those carved cheekbones, that sturdy jawline with just the right amount of stubble. And his body, built by baseball, broad shoulders, strong pecs, and doubtlessly fantastic abs under his formal jacket.

  “Some men were just made to wear tuxes,” I say.

  Matthew rolls his eyes. “I have no opinion on the matter. On an unrelated note, I’m going away to go talk to Phoebe.”

  “Have fun.”

  “I will,” he deadpans. “And have fun with your third baseman.”

  Finally, I drag my gaze from Crosby and look at Matthew—and his smirk. “It’s not like that,” I protest.

  “Of course not.” He waits a beat. “That was sarcasm, if you were wondering.”

  He’s off before I can reply, and then Crosby saunters up to me. He brings me in for a huge hug, holding me tighter, embracing me closer than I expect.

  “Oh.” I’m breathless when he eases up. “That was quite a hug.”

  “I can’t resist. You’re easy to hug, Wild Girl,” Crosby says, using his nickname for me from when we were kids.

  “I didn’t say I minded.” My eyes float closed, and ever so briefly, I let myself inhale his clean, showered scent, since he’s still close.

  It should be illegal for a man to smell so good.

  Crosby nods at my champagne glass. “I see you already have your drink.”