Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  “If you’re not too tired after the trip,” he said.

  We agreed he should come over, and I took a few minutes to unpack. It didn’t take Xavier long to arrive.

  He kissed me hello, and came inside behind me, stepping back to look around my house. "This is nice," he said. "Really open and cool."

  "Thanks. It makes me happy—feels like home I guess.” I gave him the tour—though touring four rooms didn’t take long, and then we sat facing one another on the couch. I felt awkward suddenly, until Xavier asked if I wanted to go out for a walk.

  We locked up and strolled my little Ocean Beach neighborhood hand in hand. He stopped me in front of another cottage about two blocks from mine, and mentioned off handedly that it was his house.

  The man of my dreams had been living two blocks away?

  "How have we not bumped into each other?" I asked, punching his arm as I gaped at the little cottage.

  He grinned at me. "I have no idea. We needed Mr. Match. Come in, I’ll show you the house."

  Speaking of Mr. Match, I was going to have to come clean.

  I followed Xavier inside, unable to stop myself from thinking about how completely out of the blue this had all happened, and how perfect we actually seemed for one another. Maybe my brother really was a genius.

  Inside, I found a cottage decorated very much like my own. Open, clean, airy.

  “Lunch?” he asked, and then set about removing things from the refrigerator when I nodded.

  "I need to tell you something," I said, standing uncertainly behind him in the kitchen as he fixed us sandwiches.

  He turned with one eyebrow raised, his expression worried. “Breaking up with me already?”

  My stomach did a little flip. "No, definitely not. But I need to tell you something about Mr. Match."

  He turned to face me now, interest clear in his focused expression.

  "He's my brother."

  "What?" He laughed. "Seriously?"

  I nodded and explained that we were the first match Mr. Match had ever successfully made, that I was his guinea pig.

  "I guess we're both guinea pigs, really."

  "I guess so. Are you mad?" I asked.

  Xavier stepped across the kitchen floor and pulled me into his arms, looking down at me with an expression so warm it would fill my dreams from now on. "Never," he said. "Thanks to him, I've found the woman of my dreams. Now I just have to spend every day from here on out proving to her that I'm the man she's been looking for too."

  Goosebumps raced across my flesh and I brushed his lips lightly with mine. "You don't have to prove anything to me. I already know."

  Chapter 8

  Secrets and Soccer

  Max

  And that, friends, is the story of how I became Mr. Match.

  I officially launched the service as a premium San Diego-only subscription matchmaking site offering no guarantees. The matches are determined by my algorithm, which I've made even more awesome over time, and I don't contact those who subscribe at all unless I've got the perfect match for them. But plenty of people subscribe.

  Because like I said, I’m a fucking genius.

  And my identity, by the way, remains a secret. That's part of the Mr. Match mystique.

  Plus, I already have a job. The fact that this secret side hustle has doubled my pro soccer income in the last year is just a nice little safety net and gives me enough spare cash to keep the site rolling nicely, maintain my rather opulent lifestyle, and take care of my mom.

  So now you know how it all works. If you ever find yourself in San Diego, you should definitely sign up. I'll see if I can find you your perfect match. It's just numbers, after all.

  And if you're wondering, my sister is still in the middle of her happy ever after. She and Xavier moved in together after like, a week. Okay, maybe it was more like six months. They’re happy, but the degree of public affection they're comfortable displaying has me second-guessing matching her in the first place.

  I love seeing my sister so content, and Xavier's a good guy. He's even a decent soccer player.

  And best of all? They've both sworn to keep my secret.

  But now? You have to keep it too.

  SCORING THE KEEPER’S SISTER

  Mr. Match, Book 1

  Prologue

  Max Winchell

  There are a few things you need to know about me. Besides the fact that my last name is the same as the once-ubiquitous and always-tasty doughnut chain, which is certainly an indication of my desirability.

  Thing number one: I'm pretty much a genius. Yeah, I know that's not totally cool to say out loud, but here's the thing—staying humble about your rocket-science smarts doesn't make them go away. And it's not like I hang out in produce aisles chatting up women about my intellect while they fondle bell peppers, right? So it's cool.

  And if I was just telling you I was smart, that would be arrogant. But there's a point here. Which I'm totally getting to. Right now.

  Thing number two: I've created the single most successful matchmaking algorithm known to man. Or at least to the internet. And I've built it into a statistically reliable, money-back guaranteed online service, providing the lonely hearts of the greater San Diego area with dates that are practically a sure thing, not to mention excellent potential for the real deal—marriage and all that whiz. If that's your jam. All for the low monthly price of ... let’s just say its enough to cover my bar tabs when I go out with the team after games. And then some.

  And that's thing three...

  I'm the star striker for the South Bay Sharks, San Diego's league-leading pro soccer franchise.

  I like to keep my eggs in multiple baskets. You know, in case any of the eggs ever crack. Cuz in my experience? Eggs get cracked.

  But that's another story.

  Oh, and by the way? My identity is San Diego's best-kept secret.

  Chapter 9

  Hello and How Do You Do

  Fernando

  My friend Max Winchell is supposedly some kind of genius. At least according to him. But I don't give two squirts of piss about that if he's not focused on his main job, which is scoring goals. And tonight? He was not focused.

  We were still debating the last play of the game, where something distracted Max just as he was poised to score the final shot—losing us the opportunity, though not the game. That would have made this a far more serious discussion. As it was, we were rehashing the final moments over beers at McDaughtry's, our favorite Gaslamp District hang out spot.

  "What the hell was that, Max?"

  Winchell shook his head, gave me his trademark non-committal Winchell smile. "I felt sorry for them."

  "Bullshit," Hoss huffed out. He leaned in over the spot where Max sat at the bar, getting in his face. "You had it, Fuerte here was set to bury it, and then you blew it. And that's not your style, man."

  Max moved back, out of range of Hoss's angry glare and his even worse breath. "We were already ahead by three. And it’s pre-season."

  I shook my head. Max wasn't going to tell us the truth, which was par for the course. The guy got weirdly secretive at times, but I guessed we all had stuff we didn’t share. "Dude. I get being distracted, but not during a game, okay?"

  Max shrugged and downed his beer.

  In truth, it had been only a scrimmage with the guys from Los Angeles to warm up before the season really started. Still. It made me worry about the season to come. I looked around to make sure no one else was nearby. "Please tell me it wasn't that website distracting you."

  Max narrowed his eyes and looked offended. He straightened up, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes. "First, don't make me sorry I told you about that. You are literally the only person in town who knows. Well, besides my sister and my mom. And Xavier, but you’ll never hear it from him since his lips are permanently attached to my sister, which can make it hard to talk. Second, the thing runs itself, I don't need to worry about it."

  "Must be nice," I scoffed. "Taking mo
ney from all those poor lovesick fools month after month."

  Hoss had sauntered off to talk to some of the other guys who were busy hitting on anything with breasts that moved inside the radius of the bar, and Max turned to me with a quizzical look on his face. "If you're so skeptical, why don't you try it, Fernando?" He asked.

  I choked at the suggestion, which led to a coughing fit, and I was forced to apologize to Erica, one of my teammate's sisters, after coughing loudly pretty much in her face.

  "Nice," she said, glaring at me with icy blue eyes. Erica's brother was keeper, and Erica was hot. But she was also a royal pain in the ass, had announced publicly that she would never date a soccer player (like any of us had even asked... though, really, we would have. Did I mention how hot she is?).

  Erica ran public relations for the team, so actually, it made sense that she was in a perpetually bad mood, especially given the owner's recent divorce and his ex-wife's attempt to muddy anything related to the Sharks. Some of her trouble might have been related to me, too, but honestly I didn’t feel like that was my fault.

  "You're disgusting, Fernando."

  "Hey, I did apologize. Winchell made me choke and you just happened to be right in front of me. I wasn’t aiming at you.” I was honestly sorry. Even though she gave me the cold shoulder more often than not, I kind of liked Erica. I respected her at the very least.

  “He did apologize,” the girl standing directly to my right said, leaning toward Erica to make her point before turning to smile up at me. “I heard you,” she said. Then she stuck out a hand with long pointy bright red talons to shake. “I’m Sandy.”

  Erica watched all this with something like hatred bubbling in her narrowed eyes. “Do me a favor, Fuerte,” she said. “Try to keep whatever this is—” she waved between me and my new friend Sandy, “—out of the media.”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Fair enough.” Erica probably did spend more time than she should on cleaning up some of my image issues, though I honestly thought the media treated me a little unfairly. Any time I was seen with a woman, someone sent a photo to the press and it was a guarantee that the slimiest shiny tabloid would run some incendiary story within the week:

  Sharks Striker Fuerte knocks up local waitress and leaves! (If by “knocked up” the piece meant “ordered food” then it was factual.)

  Fuerte Fire strikes again, seen with three women at once in downtown club! (Three drunk girls were leaving the club at the same time as me and I helped them into a cab.)

  Love ‘em and Leave ‘em Fernando Fuerte…a retrospective. (In this one, they dragged out every photo they’d ever shot of me with a woman.)

  “He’s a player,” Erica said to Sandy. “You’ve been warned.”

  Sandy grinned at that, potentially thinking Erica meant “soccer player” or possibly finding the idea of “landing the player” a compelling challenge, and wrapped her taloned hands around my arm.

  “It’s nice to meet you Sandy,” I said, stepping out of her grasp. “I’m just hanging out with my boys tonight though. Can I maybe get your number?” I had to ask. It was the only way to let her down easy. But I had no intention of using the digits she typed into my phone with a sly smile.

  “Call me,” she said, and slinked away, back to a table of girls on the other side of the bar.

  Erica had already moved away, going to stand with her brother Trace near the bar. A little flicker of fire lit inside me when she swept her long dark hair over her shoulder and turned away from me, stomping off with her crew of friends in tow.

  "Such a charmer," Max said. "I can see you don't need my help."

  "It's just her. She hates me no matter what I do," I said. How could I explain that the girl who loathed me most in the world also starred in my dirtiest fantasies? The way she hated me turned me on—there was nothing for it.

  "You just met Sandy, right? I do just fine," I told him. It was true. I had no trouble getting dates. That seemed to be the case when you played pro sports. At least it was true with soccer. Definitely baseball and hockey and football, too. Maybe not bowling. Not sure—are pro bowlers hot? They've got those fancy hand guards and usually bring their own balls in that shiny big purse. "Hey, Max," I said, wanting to share my thoughts with a like-minded teammate. "Do you think pro bowlers do as well with the ladies as we do? You know, they've got the balls, and the..."

  "They've definitely got the balls," Max said, giving me his what-the-fuck face. "Stop dodging the subject."

  "What? You think you can find me one woman who will make me want to settle down?” In truth, it sounded kind of nice, but so far I’d never met a candidate. “There’s no match in your little database for me, dude. Plus, if you put me in there, it won't be fair to the other guys. All the ladies will want some of the Fuerte Fire." I waggled my eyebrows at Erica, who was looking at me over the tops of her friends, and felt a rewarding little flip in my stomach when she lifted a hand to give me the bird.

  "That," Max said, watching us. "Is not a rewarding interaction with a woman. I dare you to try Mr. Match. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up like Isley over there." We both glanced over to the corner table where Adam Isley sat with his wife as they both nursed beers and gazed at each other over the tabletop. She'd had a baby just a month or two before, and they were like a friggin' Hallmark movie every time they were together.

  "I don't think I could handle throwing up in my mouth that often," I said, faking a gag as I turned away from them. In reality, I did want what Isley had. But I doubted Max's site could do it when twenty-eight years of touring the country and old-fashioned dating hadn't. Girls figured out who I was, made the assumptions that go with pro sports figures, and that was pretty much the end of any potential for anything real. They sought me out for the photo ops, the car, and the money. It had been years since I’d met a girl who didn’t know I was the Fuerte Fire, and I'd decided that was okay with me. If they wanted me for what I offered on the surface, I'd be happy to take them for the same thing. Surface was easy. Surface kept your heart safe, too.

  "Tell me you doubt my algorithm can find you the perfect match."

  "God, you're sexy when you talk about math."

  "Shut up," he said. "I dare you to let me match you."

  "Oh, you dare me, do you?" I swigged my beer. I was actually tempted. What was the worst that could happen?

  "If it doesn't work, you can hold it against me for the rest of my life. Wouldn't that make you happy?"

  I squinted at him. "Winchell, I don't want to hold things against you. I don't swing that way. And if this thing is so fucking foolproof, why are you still single?"

  "This isn't about me," he said, his voice low and dark. Kind of like Val Kilmer's Batman voice. Weirdly off-putting and awkward enough to make you never want to hear it again.

  "Okay fine," I said, putting my empty beer on the bar and signaling for another. "Sign me up, Winchell. But I promise, I'm going to break your little matchmaking algorithm. You'll see. There is no match for me."

  "You're so fucking full of yourself, Fuerte. You’re on."

  “One more question though,” I said, leaning against the bar as I looked at him. “Why do you care?”

  Max shrugged, “I’m a nice guy. What can I say?”

  I laughed. “Fine, but if I do this, you quit getting your heart all hurt when the other team’s losing. No more sacrifices, Max.”

  Chapter 10

  Hate is a Strong Aphrodisiac

  ERICA

  The bar was getting loud, and my brother Trace was getting drunk, which meant it was just about time to leave. I stepped up close to him, taking a shot from his hand and replacing it with a glass of water, and whisper-shouted, “Time to go!”

  He turned sad eyes on me and was about to say something in protest when two girls and a guy approached us, smiling and holding out a phone.

  “Hey,” one of the girls said, staring up at Trace with adoration.

  “Hey,” Trace replied, sounding impressively sober.
/>   “Any chance we could get a selfie with you?” The guy asked.

  I sighed, summoned up a smile, and put out my hand. “I can take it for you,” I said.

  “Oh, that’d be great!” The little group crowded around my brother and I moved away, framing the shot and snapping a few photos for them. This happened at least three times every time we were out in public. I was used to it.

  “There you go,” I told the guy, handing his phone back.

  “Awesome, thanks,” he said. “Great game tonight, Trace!”

  “Thanks man,” Trace said. When they were gone, he turned back to me. “What was I saying?”

  “You said you wanted to go home,” I told him.

  “Right, yeah. We should go. In just a minute.” He stepped away from me and I sighed, returning to sit next to my best friend as the team celebrated their win.

  You probably think I'm some kind of soccer groupie, hanging out with my brother's team after games, working for the team, no less.

  But you're wrong. And thanks a lot for jumping to conclusions.

  I know how it looks, though. I'm never far away from all things South Bay Sharks, no matter how far away I might like to be. My brother Trace is keeper for the team. And in some ways, I'm his keeper. We're twins. And it sounds weird and needy, I know, but we don't like to be too far apart. It was just how things had always been—the two of us together. It worked.

  Getting the job wasn't tough—I've been working in sports public relations since my sophomore year at UCLA, when I landed a prime internship in the school's athletic department. There was a major kerfuffle the following year involving some basketball players, a lot of alcohol, a few *ahem* older working ladies (if you know what I mean) and some cars lit on fire down in Westwood. We worked overtime trying to spin that one, and in the end all the players came out looking like heroes, saving those poor scantily clad ladies from those burning vehicles like that. There was a fair bit of luck involved there, I'll admit, but it pretty much sealed the deal as far as my career went. So when I got Trace's agent to pitch us as a package deal when the Sharks wanted him as keeper, it wasn't hard to manage.