Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  "Oh my God." She burst out laughing and the sound filtered through me like confetti. It was a sound like the ocean, like seagulls crying their freedom calls, like children playing in the sunshine. I thought I might want to hear that sound for the rest of my life. "Thank you," she said. "The bet wasn't a real thing, I mean, it wasn’t serious...it was just, it was stupid. It was a joke before I really got to know you."

  She hugged the huge wheel of cheese to her chest. I guess she really did like Wensleydale cheese.

  "I don't care," I said. "The cheese, the park, the job...I don't care about any of that. I just want to know one thing."

  She set the wheel of cheese on the coffee table and turned to face me, her face expectant. "What?"

  "Will you go out with me, Erica Johnson?" I was as nervous as I'd been when I'd asked my date to the junior prom. My hands were sweaty and I had a wild energy in me I didn’t know what to do with. I held my breath after the words were out.

  Erica answered by scooting closer to me on the couch and leaning almost near enough to brush her lips to my ear. "Yes," she whispered, and a shudder went through me as her hot breath tickled my neck.

  When her lips actually touched the sensitive skin beneath my ear, I felt like I might lose control completely. A half-growl rose from my throat and a second later, my arms were around her, my mouth on hers hungrily. As I began stripping off the crisp red suit, I asked, "Is Trace home?"

  She shook her head, the blush rising in her cheeks. "Not for hours."

  "Good." I dropped my head and went back to work, dropping kisses on every square inch of her skin.

  When I had her naked and panting on her back, I removed my own clothing and went immediately back to work, worshipping every centimeter of Erica's body. Her skin was velvet beneath my palms, her little breathy moans and cries were the sweetest song I'd ever heard. And when I wrapped her legs around my waist and paused to make sure this was what she wanted, she looked into my eyes and smiled, and I felt my heart swell inside my chest.

  Sex with Erica wasn't like any I'd had before. The way she smiled now and then, the way she wrapped her body around mine—it all combined with the slick tightness of her channel to take me higher than I'd ever been. And she was right there with me, like we were reaching some new height of pleasure that could only be achieved with the exact right person. With your match.

  As we each found our release, I thought of nothing but Erica, but as we collapsed on the couch in a satisfied sweaty heap, it occurred to me that Max Winchell really was a fucking genius.

  Finale

  Don’t Doubt the Match - Max Winchell

  Score another happy couple for Mr. Match.

  That one had me wondering for a while, but like I told you—the numbers don't lie.

  Erica and Fuerte probably had many more sexual encounters that I absolutely am not going to describe for you here before they joined the team out for the final pre-season happy hour before we headed to Vancouver for our first match of the real season. And some of us worried they might be planning to have yet another one right there at McDaughtry's.

  "Do you think she's choking?" Hoss leaned on his forearms against the bar next to me.

  I turned to raise an eyebrow at him.

  "His tongue is so far down her throat there's no way she can be breathing." We both stared over the bar to the other side of the bar where Fuerte and Erica were "dancing." In this case, dancing meant making out furiously.

  "She'd probably pass out at some point if she couldn't breathe," I pointed out.

  We watched with a combination of fascination, disgust, and envy as they finished their kiss and broke apart, laughing at some private joke. When the music changed, they came back to the bar, holding hands like teenagers. I almost regretted hooking them up, they were so disgustingly happy.

  But deep down inside, it made me happy too.

  "Is it time to get a room?" I asked them.

  "How do her tonsils taste, Fuerte?" Hoss threw in.

  "I don't have tonsils," Erica said, matter-of-factly, narrowing her eyes at Hoss.

  Trace had been the only one having any real trouble adjusting to the constant public displays of affection, and he seemed to be coping by drinking himself silly. Tonight he was in the middle of building a tower of shot glasses on the bar while the bartenders rolled their eyes.

  Erica caught sight of the wobbly glass tower and her spine went rigid. "Trace didn't drink all those himself, did he?"

  "I had three of 'em," Hoss volunteered.

  She looked around, hoping for more of us to admit to helping.

  "I'm sure a few went to the guys next to him," I said.

  As the tower crashed loudly to the bar and Trace bellowed out a laugh, Erica looked sad and turned to Fernando. "You guys are going to keep an eye on him this season, right?"

  "I'll look out for him," Fuerte promised her, squeezing her shoulder.

  "I'm going to worry."

  "That's part of your charm," he told her, and they moved together toward Trace.

  I watched them go, and raised a silent toast to Mr. Match. I'd hooked up people all over San Diego, but it was nice to be able to help out people I knew personally. It was good to see them happy.

  That said, I wasn't feeling much like hanging out and being jovial tonight myself. I slid my glass onto the bar and slipped out when Hoss got up to help Trace build his next catastrophe.

  When I got home, I checked in with my mom and my sister. When I was sure the women I loved were safe and happy, I slid into bed with a sigh and listened to the empty silence of my house move around me.

  It didn’t happen often, but now and then I felt a little sad to always be the matcher and never be the matchee. But that was for the best.

  Epilogue

  Child-Bearing Hips - Erica

  Fernando and I had one week together before the season started—though we'd be together after that too, of course. But we set out to take advantage of the time when he was in town.

  And by take advantage, I mean that we had more sex than I would have said was possible in seven days.

  But we did take a break the Sunday before he left for his first away match in Vancouver to have dinner with his mother.

  "You ready for this?" he asked me outside the front door of a beautiful condominium in La Jolla.

  "I think so," I said. "She's your mom, so I'm sure I'll like her. I just hope she likes me."

  His brows pulled together and he looked down at me with a strange expression on his face. "As far as you know, are you fertile?"

  I couldn't help the nervous bark of laughter that escaped my lips. "As far as I know!"

  "Then you'll be fine," he laughed, taking my hand.

  "I guess her standards are pretty low."

  "It's only one of her criteria," he told me. "But she's been talking about grand babies a lot lately, so I'd say it's an important one."

  "Good to know," I said, the nerves I hadn't felt before suddenly swirling into activity inside me. All the stories I'd ever heard about girls being evaluated by potential future in-laws with phrases like "childbearing hips" were coming back to me. Did I have childbearing hips? My hips had certainly never borne any children that I knew about. I swallowed hard as the door swung open and plastered on a smile to cover my nerves.

  A tiny woman stood just inside the threshold, dark hair down around her face and shoulders, and chocolate eyes peering up at us. She gave me a friendly smile, and when her gaze fell on Fernando, she beamed, the eyes warming and her thin lips pulling into an even wider smile.

  "Nando," she said, clasping her hands in front of her. "And Erica. I'm so happy to have you here." She pulled the door open and waved us in, and I couldn't help but marvel that a man as big as Fernando could have come from such a petite woman. I was five-foot-six, and I would have bet she was barely five feet tall. Of course that was if I'd been a betting woman. And after the cheese incident, I was absolutely not a betting woman.

  "It's so nice to mee
t you," I told her. "Thank you so much for inviting me along tonight."

  The pretty woman took one of my hands and smiled up at me. "I had to meet the girl who's making my son so happy."

  It was straightforward and honest, full of truth and hope—it was everything I loved about Fernando, and now I knew exactly where it had come from. I'd be lying if I didn't say I'd been a little worried about the very close relationship between Fernando and his mother. I'd met other men who were close to their moms in a kind of off-putting, codependent way that meant they checked in with her about everything—including their girlfriend's opinion on something. But these two weren't like that.

  Fernando loved his mother. He worried about her and did his best to take care of her. But he didn't seem dependent on her for approval or to tell him what to do. The obvious love between them as the evening wore on made me wish I'd had more time with my own mother—though really, I wished that constantly.

  Mrs. Fuerte served us a stiff drink—something she called guaro—that was a little bit sweet and tasted like licorice, but burned like hell on the way down. "Now you are a Colombian," she told me after I'd taken a few sips.

  Fernando watched this with laughter dancing in his beautiful green eyes, his own glass of guaro in his hand. "Do you like it?"

  "I do. I've always liked black licorice."

  "Of course she does," Mrs. Fuerte said, looking almost offended that Fernando would ask otherwise. "She is made to be a Colombian."

  I wasn't sure what that meant—I'd definitely never been to Colombia, but I could sense the fierce pride in Mrs. Fuerte when she talked about her homeland, so I just nodded along and felt relief wash over me when Fernando finished my little shot and offered to open the white wine we'd brought.

  The night was easy after that. Mrs. Fuerte served Arroz Atollado, a dish that reminded me a lot of Arroz con Pollo—the chicken and rice dish served at a lot of Mexican and South American restaurants. Except this dish had pork instead of chicken, and it was delicious.

  "You must be special," Fernando said, smiling at me across the table Mrs. Fuerte had set on her outdoor patio. "Mama only makes this for special occasions."

  Mrs. Fuerte put down her fork and gave him a frank look. "Of course this is a special occasion. How many times have you brought a girl to meet me?"

  He didn't answer, but looked uncomfortable. I was suddenly very curious about the answer to the question.

  "How many, Nando?" she asked again.

  "Never," he said. "I've never brought a girl home before now." A light blush turned his cheeks rosy.

  I was surprised, and honored. I'd always thought of Fernando as a player—even after we'd gotten together, part of me figured I might just be the next in a long line of women. But now that I thought about it, he never referenced an ex-girlfriend, never talked about other women he'd dated. "You have had girlfriends, though," I said, not quite a question.

  Fernando shrugged. "I've had a few. Nothing serious. Before I was playing for the Sharks, I was focused on making it in soccer. I dated a little, but girls were a distraction. And once I signed..." he sighed. "Every woman I met was more interested in the team—in my position—than in me, really."

  That made sense. I'd seen that with Trace, too. Women threw themselves at soccer players. It was part of the reason I'd sworn never to date one. But Fernando wasn't full of himself. The fame didn't bother him, except when it turned on him like the situation with Marissa had. He was a good man. The knowledge warmed me inside and out and I couldn't help smiling at him across the table.

  His mother caught my happy smile, and reached over to squeeze my hand. "You are special," she told me. "And I expect to see you next Sunday, even though ‘Nando will be out of town. Sunday dinners are for family."

  A little spike of surprise tempered my smile for a second. Family. She had no idea how loaded that word was for me. Family was the one thing I'd never had. The thing I'd always yearned for. "Okay," I managed. "Thank you, I'd like that."

  "And when your brother comes back the week after that, I'll expect to see him, too."

  "Mama," Fernando said. "You can't order people to dinner."

  "You can when they're family," she said lightly, and smiled at him before returning her attention to her meal.

  Later that night I lay in the circle of Fernando's arms, the moonlight streaming over us from the high windows facing the expanse of the Pacific reaching westward.

  "I wish you weren't leaving," I told him. They'd head to Vancouver and then on to a match in New York before coming home. He'd be gone almost two weeks, and so would Trace. I'd be lonely, though I knew I'd be busy, too. My new job had kept me jumping, trying to learn everything I needed to know to succeed.

  "Me too," he said. "But we'll have lots of time together when I get back."

  He'd be back in town for two weeks before they traveled again. I ran a hand over his smooth hard chest, loving the silky feel of his skin beneath my palm. "I'm going to miss you."

  "I'll miss you too," he said, lifting my hand to his lips and pulling me closer.

  We lay quietly after that, and I tried to memorize the way it felt to be in Fernando's arms, to breathe in the masculine scent of him, to feel surrounded by him.

  It was the happiest I'd ever felt in my life, and though we'd really been together only a week, I knew I'd finally met my match.

  THE END

  SCORING A FAKE FIANCEE

  Mr. Match, Book 2

  Prologue

  MR. MATCH INTAKE QUESTIONNAIRE

  INSTRUCTIONS

  Gird your loins and grab yourself a snack, lonely heart.

  This form is going to take you a while to complete. And should you lose faith in the process while you're digging up your answers to these questions, just remember that Mr. Match has successfully matched more than eight hundred happy couples in the San Diego area since our inception just under two years ago.

  So hang in there, it could be worth it.

  That said, remember that you aren't guaranteed a match. Or anything at all.

  You are guaranteed to spend almost twenty dollars a month to remain part of the Mr. Match universe, making you a potential match for the other hopefuls who take the time to complete this form in its entirety, but that's it. You may never actually hear from Mr. Match again except when we make our monthly withdrawal from your bank account. It's a gamble of sorts, but isn't the potential of meeting your perfect match worth it? The twenty-two thousand people who've already signed up believe it is.

  Got a comfy chair? Let's get rolling.

  Name: Trace “God of Goalies” Johnson

  Date of Birth: 4/23/1993

  Place of Birth: Los Angeles

  Delivery Method (Vaginal or C-section): Not a damn clue

  Length of Labor: Seriously?

  Blood Type: A Pos

  Vaccinations on Schedule: Yes __X__ No _____ (If no, please detail variations from CDC schedule found here) DUDE…I have all my shots.

  Number of siblings and separation in months from your date of birth: One sister. Twin. 4 minutes apart. (I’m the baby).

  Parents' dates of birth:

  Mother __?___

  Father __?___

  Were your parents married at the time of your birth? OMG

  If yes, are your parents married to one another now?

  If no, date of separation/divorce/death: ____________

  How many times did you move between the ages of four and seventeen: __________

  Did you have childhood pets? If yes, species and YOUR age at the time of their inhabitance of your household: _____________________

  Grade point average in elementary school: ______ high school: ___________ college (if applicable):

  Number of sports played at the varsity level in high school: __________

  Number of sports played at a non-varsity level from ages 10 - 17: ____________

  Number of musical instruments attempted between ages 10 - 17: ____________

  Number of
musical instruments mastered currently: _____________

  Do you have any allergies: Yes ______ No _________

  If yes, detail here - allergy and severity:

  Political party affiliation: _______________

  Do you prefer odd or even numbers? _____________

  What is the optimal number of floors for an urban apartment building, in your opinion? ______________

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  Chapter 39

  Co-Dependency is a Lifestyle Choice

  Trace

  "Erica, this is ridiculous." I got up from the computer for the seventeenth time to pace the living room. My sister was forcing me to fill out the stupid Mr. Match profile, and the damned thing wanted to know literally everything about me. "I'm pretty sure its gonna ask me to jizz into a cup and then take a whiff and categorize the aromas any second here."

  "That was definitely not one of the questions, Trace. I'd remember," she said from the couch, where she was watching some house-related HGTV show. House porn, basically. Ever since she and my team's striker, Fernando Fuerte, had hooked up, she'd become weirdly domestic. I hated it. I missed the old version of my sister from a couple months ago, the one who was always game to go grab a beer or some wings, the one who was pretty much always around. Now I rarely saw her, and when I did she was with Fuerte and pushing me to find the same kind of romantic bliss she and Fuerte had.

  "Just sit down and go through it question by question. You can take breaks," she said. "But it's totally worth it."

  "Yeah, if you want to spend the rest of your life making out with Fuerte in public and forcing everyone else to practice not throwing up."