Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  "It is," Max said, seeming to get hold of himself. "Poor Megan."

  He sank into a chair across from me and we met eyes, each of us acknowledging the awful humor in poor Megan's situation without saying anything else. It was strange, but in that moment, we had a conversation, it seemed. Neither of us said another word about it, but I felt like we'd each acknowledged the humor of it, the guilt we felt at finding it funny, the sympathy we had for poor Megan, and the need to push the moment aside and focus on business. When he dropped my gaze, it was strange, but I felt like I knew Max Winchell better than I had before.

  I'd never experienced a full eye-conversation with anyone before, even my husband. Part of me wanted to ask him about it. But maybe it had been just me. Maybe Max had thought I was just staring at him. That probably happened a lot.

  He was famous after all. And really, really good looking.

  Have I mentioned his hair? It was dark with a little wave over his forehead, and it had never looked anything less than perfect, even when I'd seen him sweaty on the beach.

  But, I reminded myself, Max was a client. And there was no reason to think there would be any hair-touching or any more eye-talking.

  Or any sex. There would certainly not be sex.

  Oh my God, get a grip!

  "So I've pulled a list of potential executives in Southern California that might be interested in Mr. Match," I told him. "But unless you're interested in expanding the business or potentially taking it public, I don't know if there's enough here to entice them."

  "Ouch," Max said.

  I backpedaled quickly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "That was meant to be a compliment. The business is performing well, it's essentially self sustaining. Most of the executives we source are looking for growth and a challenge."

  "I'm not opposed to growth," he said, his voice softening as he thought. "Maybe a line of Mr. Match underwear or something?"

  I laughed, forcing away thoughts of Max in his underwear, Justin Bieber or Marky Mark style. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but it's not a horrible idea. Merchandising a successful brand is often a lucrative side business."

  "Mr. Match T-shirts," Max said. "Or housewares. Pots and pans?"

  "I'm not ruling out merchandise, but I think staying in the realm of dating might be a good idea." I tapped my lips with my pen, trying to keep my focus serious. "Cologne? Lingerie?"

  "Underroos!" Max laughed. "Unicorn Mr. Match underroos."

  I squinted at him, imagining this. "Like the tank-tops and tidy whities?"

  He nodded. "With unicorns. Emo gothic unicorns."

  I shook my head, at a loss for words. Max had a hidden sense of humor. I liked it. A lot.

  "Trust me, they're very me."

  "Please tell me you're not wearing emo unicorn underwear right now." I tried not to picture this. Or Max in any underwear. Or Max without underwear.

  Yum.

  "Wouldn't you like to know?" Max laughed, and something intimate and warm wrapped around us, beckoning me to lean in, to settle into this flirtatious banter.

  But Max was a client. And this was not a date. I straightened up and cleared my throat, and for the next hour, we managed to structure the direction the business would take as we embarked on the CEO search and sought to expand the company through strategic investment.

  And as I was getting up to leave, congratulating myself for not considering what kind of underwear Max might actually be wearing for at least an hour, Max invited me out. Kind of.

  "So there's an exhibition match tomorrow," he said, as we walked past Megan's office again on my way out. "For the Sharks."

  "Oh," I said. "Okay."

  "Sorry," he grinned at me. "That was an invitation. I'm evidently not good at those. Would you and your mom like to come? You could sit in the box seats up front."

  I thought about that, and a twinge of deep sadness went through me. Dad would have loved to go to a Sharks game, sit up close. It wasn't fair that the opportunity was coming up now. Now that he was gone.

  Max leaned his head toward me, his voice softening. "You're thinking of your dad."

  I met his eyes, noticing the little rim of gold around the dark brown center for the first time. There was understanding there, and a little sympathy. "Yeah," I admitted. "But I think we'd like that. Let me ask Mom, okay?"

  "I'll put the tickets at will call for you. Game's at six," he said. "Let me know if you're coming."

  "I will," I told him. "I'll give you a call tomorrow either way. I'll call back to the office with some of the work we've done, get some input on investors."

  "Great." Max held the door open for me and I stepped past him, getting a whiff of something I'd been noticing in the conference room too, something clean and a little bit like leather. "Talk to you soon."

  I smiled at him and went out to my car, a strange mixture of focus and giddiness warring for space inside me.

  But it didn't matter how handsome Max was, or how something about his quiet demeanor made me wonder if he was sad. He was a client, and I needed to remember it or risk everything I'd built in the last decade.

  "A very attractive single client," Mom said nodding, when I told her where my focus needed to remain later over wine. "One who invited you out to a game."

  "In which he will not be sitting at my side holding my hand," I reminded her. "He's a player. He was just being friendly. This is no different than when Dad was doing some work for the Giants and he got to go to a couple games. It's a perk." I considered reminding Mom about Austin, but decided not to go down that well-trodden path today.

  Mom just smiled, looking unconvinced. "If you say so."

  Charlie bounded toward me suddenly, eager to contribute his thoughts to the conversation. He dropped his big head into my lap, gathered a few pets from me, and then wandered away to continue patrolling the little yard. I looked down to find slobber smeared across the front of my pants.

  The joys of dog ownership, I thought.

  As I went inside to clean myself up, I forced my mind to avoid focusing on the idea of watching Max play soccer. Close up. Close enough to see those muscles his clothes hinted at working, to see that intense focus I found so appealing. I could not get distracted, no matter how sexy or interesting I found Max Winchell. I wanted to be partner. Foster was retiring, and I was going to be his replacement. I needed to keep my eyes on the prize.

  Chapter 122

  Nostradamus and Ricky Ricardo

  Max

  It was good to be back on the field, another team staring us down from across the line.

  The off-season wasn't long really, but when your life was driven by something like soccer, you lived and breathed it. I'd talked with guys like Fuerte and Hamish about it before; we all felt more "right" somehow when the season was on. Like life was more balanced.

  The game was just getting underway, and my focus narrowed down to the green of the pitch, the men who were standing at my back, and the guys across the line. One guy in particular, Seattle's infamous trash talker, Greg Lewis. I'd heard the announcers call him "Garbage Greg" for all the shit that spewed regularly from his lips, and I think he was the only guy in the league to ever get a red card for a verbal foul. That particular gem was directed at a ref and was captured by the television cameras. Plenty of guys cussed and threw tantrums, most of us were just smart enough to keep it on the down low. Lewis didn't seem to have the smarts to fly under the radar, and as we'd lined up to take the kickoff after winning the toss, Lewis was at it again.

  "You sack of shit, Winchell," he was muttering before the whistle. "I'm going to grind you into the pitch. I'm going to push this ball so far up your ass, you'll need a surgeon to get it out, I'm going to—"

  I was pretty sure this was how Lewis psyched himself up for games, which was unfortunate, because while he was a good player, he wasn't as good as I was. And talking a ton of shit just before getting beaten mercilessly by the Sharks offense had to be embarrassing.

  Within seco
nds of first touch, Fuerte shot me the ball, and as Lewis came at me, I faked, passing back to Fuerte as he streaked downfield. I managed a casual foot out to the side as Fuerte took the play, and Lewis went down hard, tripping over my foot. He rolled around for a minute whining and hoping the ref would call a foul, but no card came, and a wash of satisfaction flooded into the already rampant adrenaline in my system. Man, I loved this game.

  Today's match felt different, in a way, because I knew Tatum Archer was in the stands. She'd called last night to confirm that she'd be coming, and I'd managed a couple glances at the box. She sat there with an older woman I assumed was her mother, both of them looking engaged and excited as the game got set up. I didn't go say hello—I couldn't afford to let anything distract me. But it was interesting knowing she was there. I felt a bit like I was under a spotlight. More than usual, I mean.

  Seattle lost, predictably, and some of the best plays of the game had been made by a couple of the new guys on our roster, who got a bit more time on field during exhibition than they might during the regular season. We'd picked up an Italian guy named Maestroduomo, though as soon as Trace Johnson had heard the guy's name, he dubbed him Nostradamus, so none of us had managed to figure out exactly how to pronounce the poor guy's real name. I just called him Ricardo, but a lot of the other guys called him "Ricky" and there was a good chance that would stick. Ricky Ricardo rolled off the tongue easier than Nostradamus, despite Trace's whining that he never got to come up with the names when we got new guys.

  None of that mattered a ton. What mattered was that the guy, a mid-fielder, was fast and fierce, and had an instinct for exactly where he needed to be and when.

  "Nostradamus," Trace shouted in the locker room after the game. "Nice moves out there, man."

  "Thanks," Ricardo said. He was a soft-spoken guy. We hadn't learned a whole lot about him yet.

  "Do you see how that was hard to say?" Hoss asked him. "Nicknames should be short. Punchy."

  "Yeah? Punchy, huh?" Trace collared Hoss with an arm around his neck and lifted his other fist in mock threat. "I'll show you punchy."

  "Children," Fuerte chided.

  Ricardo watched all this looking slightly shocked.

  "Was football a little more serious in Italy?" I asked him.

  He shook his head. "Not serious, no. Maybe less ..." he searched for a word.

  "Fun," Trace suggested. Trace was standing there naked, grinning at us, and waiting casually for Ricardo's response as if he wasn't giving us all full frontal at that moment.

  "Dude," Fuerte growled. "Go take your shower."

  "Only if you join me, 'Nando," Trace said, his falsetto voice and eye-batting targeted at Fuerte's last nerve.

  "You're lucky we won today and that I'm married to your sister, or I'd beat the silly right out of you," Fuerte said.

  Trace flounced off to the shower, and I dug my phone out of my locker. I had a text from Tatum, and I realized that was exactly what I'd been hoping for.

  Tatum: Great game. Thanks for inviting us. That was a lot of fun.

  Max: Glad you made it. Any interest in grabbing a post-game drink at the team bar? It's not far away.

  I had no idea if she was still around, but given the chaos in the parking lot after games, I had a feeling she probably hadn't managed to get too far. I didn't know if her mom would be up for a drink, though. And if I thought too hard about it, I knew it was probably a bad idea to invite Tatum out. But I wanted to see her again. I enjoyed her company, and there hadn't been a woman in a long time I could say that about.

  When Tatum texted back agreeing, I gave her directions. Then I had a little chat with myself about how we could have a drink together because we were friends and associates, and how I was definitely not asking her out in a date-like way.

  Because men and women can be friends.

  We could totally be friends.

  Chapter 123

  Drowning Feelings with Vodka

  Tatum

  Mom and I arrived before Max, and took two stools at the long wooden bar inside McDaughtry’s. I had paused for a few seconds before accepting Max’s invitation, the warnings I gave myself about becoming personally involved with a client ringing in my mind. It was fine for men to meet up at a bar like this, but for women in my field, it could mean trouble. However, I had my mom here to ensure things stayed firmly out of potentially difficult territory.

  McDaughtry's was a little bit loud and crazy by the time Max appeared with two other players. He spotted us at the bar and nodded to the men, who moved off toward the noisiest crowd in the back of the bar—the Sharks, I gathered—and came to greet us.

  He smiled, and for a moment before I could check myself, the entire bar narrowed down to that handsome face, the self-assured way Max Winchell came across the floor toward me. He practically radiated magnetism, and I had to swallow hard and chant inside my head “client, client, client.”

  “Hi Max,” I said, standing as he approached and trying to force a natural expression to my face. After seeing Max play, there was a little swirl of the old hero worship I used to feel for him mingling with my general acknowledgement that he was handsome. I was feeling a little unsteady.

  "Tatum, hello. It's nice to see you again." He rolled his shoulders as he stood, as if maybe he was feeling a bit awkward too.

  "This is my mom, Rose Archer. Mom, this is Max Winchell." I turned to my mother, whose natural smile and shining eyes put me at ease a bit. Mom looked happy.

  "Mrs. Archer, it's a pleasure." Max shook my mother’s hand. "Who's looking after Charlie this evening?" he asked.

  "Our landlord, actually," I said, laughing lightly. "He came over to say hello this morning and I think he and Charlie struck up something of a romance. The guy was on the ground, rolling around with the dog within five minutes of meeting him." It had been surprising, actually. Peter had made some small talk with Mom, and then had gotten down on the ground, and seconds later he was Charlie’s new best friend, rolling in the grass and wrestling.

  Max glanced at the busy bar, and then at me. "Want to grab a table?"

  I felt bad keeping Max from the victory celebration going on behind us with the other Sharks players. "Do you need to be with your team?" I wanted Max to stay, but figured it might be better all around if he said he needed to go.

  "I see plenty of those guys," he said, glancing at them. “Let me get you a drink, and then we’ll head over there where it’s a little quieter.”

  Mom placed her order with Max and went to hold a table for us, and a few minutes later, I followed her with Max at my back, carrying his drink and Mom’s.

  "How did you enjoy the game?" Max asked Mom.

  She smiled graciously over the rim of her daiquiri. "It was exciting," she said. "I haven't been to a sports event in person in years. But my husband used to watch your team play."

  I smiled at Mom, sadness ebbing around the shimmering spots of happiness I felt. It was hard not to think how much Dad would have liked to be here. "I thought it was incredible. I've never seen soccer live,” I added.

  "I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves. I made sure we won. It's no fun watching your team lose."

  "Thanks," I laughed. "Does your team know that was your call? And don't you always try to make sure you win? Or only when you feel like it?"

  Max chuckled. "Most of the time I try to have us win. Sometimes the other team doesn't cooperate the way I'd like. Turns out the entire world isn't under my control as I once believed."

  "Only the dating lives of the greater population of Southern California and Arizona," I suggested.

  "Right." Max glanced at my mother.

  "I told Mom a little about the business you run,” I told Max, wanting to let him know I didn’t tell her specifically that he himself was Mr. Match. “But not everything,” I said. Max’s worried expression cleared, and he nodded.

  “Of course.”

  Mom’s attention was pulled across the bar where a small group of men sat around a t
able. The guys were older, they looked like maybe they'd been golfing or something, dressed in polo shirts and slacks. "I think I know that man," she said, her eyes narrowing either to help her see better or to help her remember.

  This was surprising. I felt myself stiffen. "You do?" I followed Mom’s gaze. "Which guy?"

  Mom might not have heard me, or else she was very distracted by whoever she’d recognized. "Excuse me for a moment," she said, standing up. She touched my shoulder briefly and whispered, “Be right back,” and then she took a moment to smooth her black pants and touch at her hair. A moment later, she approached the small group, pulling their attention with a word or two of greeting.

  The man she'd been watching, a slim tanned man with hair that was touched with grey around the temples, stood, his eyes wide and friendly. He said something to her, and then they both opened their arms and embraced.

  A little thread of worry wound itself around me. Who was that guy? Did I need to go insert myself and make sure he knew Mom was not here alone? I was staring as Mom chatted with him, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t think of a time I’d ever seen her talk to a man like that, her face bright and cheerful, her posture demure, almost flirty.

  "Do you know who that is?" Max asked me.

  "I have no idea," I said. "Mom lived in San Diego years ago, but I didn't know she still knew people here. She left before I was born."

  We watched them chat for a moment. Though they stepped apart, their hands remained clasped on one side, as if they couldn't bear to let go completely. Mom said something while pointing back at our table, and the man glanced our way with a smile and a little nod before falling back into conversation with her. A moment later, she was seated with the group, and laughing at something the man had said.

  Mom was flirting. And picking up men in bars. I pushed down the sense of disloyalty to Dad. "I guess she's happy," I said, turning back to Max. "Who knew Mom was the type to pick up men in bars?"