Pick Six

by Max Monroe

  She rolled her eyes. “Pretty sure there are no locker rooms in an airport.”

  “Men’s restrooms, then.”

  “No,” she declared unequivocally, completely rejecting the good-natured bait I’d left in an attempt to inject some humor. “I’m not interested in having our picture everywhere.”

  “Embarrassed to be seen with me?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not normally. I mean, it’s not you. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I earned by working hard and not by fucking one of the players. I’m not too keen to give that all away to tabloid fodder claiming otherwise. And yes, I am sure it would end up in a tabloid. I’m not stupid. There are cameras everywhere.”

  “All right,” I finally conceded. I wanted to extend our time together, but not at the expense of her career. I wasn’t that big of a dick. “I guess this is it, then.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and caught the familiar black of a full uniform. The officer was working his way up the line of cars, telling them to move on, and I knew I had to usher in a sense of urgency if this goodbye wasn’t going to be a total letdown.

  “Come on, baby. The cop is on his way. When he gets to us, he’ll make me drive away whether you and your bag are out of the car or not.”

  Forward and without warning, Six leaned into my space and sealed her mouth to mine. The line of her lips was pliant and accommodating, so I sank my tongue into the deepest part of her mouth and savored the taste. With a flavor of apples and crisp water, Six tasted fresh and uncomplicated, unlike all of the other women I’d ever met. She didn’t have a fancy flavored lip gloss, and her face wasn’t overdone. She was natural beauty personified.

  I watched achingly as she walked away, telling myself it was the fault of a sexual connection. The two of us fit, harmonized, and elevated one another.

  But our fun would be brief, though a little longer than the rest, and when she was done filming us at the end of the year, I’d say my goodbye without hesitation.

  It was imperative for my focus and relevant to what I wanted out of life. I didn’t need distractions and bitter feelings clouding my game, and I didn’t need a woman who lived on the opposite side of the country.

  Still, the goodbye nagged at my insides as I pulled away, and I got lost in a series of daydreams. The sex we’d had and that we hadn’t. I ran through every interaction I’d had with Six and then some. She was dynamic and bold and unchallenged by the idea of knowing how much she had to offer.

  She forced me into humility on nearly every occasion she could manage, and yet, I still felt better about myself around her than I felt anywhere else.

  I glanced up as I pulled inside the parking garage, startled to find that I hadn’t exited the airport as intended.

  Instead, I’d circled, finding the most convenient parking for short-term visitors and set about doing it.

  Committed, I didn’t give myself the chance to rethink before finding a spot, shutting off the engine, and speeding inside.

  I scoured the ticket counters to no avail and immediately rerouted to the security line. Cognizant of her wishes, I pulled the ball cap lower over my eyes and stood to the side, waiting for her to weave back in my direction to get her attention.

  I didn’t think shouting her name would win any awards with her or airport security.

  She finally noticed me ten minutes later, and when her eyes softened and the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile at my subtle wave, I knew it’d been worth it.

  No words were spoken and, materially, nothing was gained. But that one moment had confirmed to me what she refused to make known—whether she wanted to or not, she liked me just as much as I liked her.

  Six’s face was vibrant and engaging as she interviewed each of the players for the opening segment of the Mavericks series on her YouCam channel. Since the first episode released this morning, it’d already seen over five hundred thousand views, and the comments were overwhelmingly positive—aside from the normal number of trolls.

  I, however, was reliving the first day we’d really interacted with each other and thinking about how cute she’d been while giving me a hard time.

  Backing out of the app on my phone where I’d been working on my latest architecture project, I moved into the messages and typed one out to her.

  Me: I look fat.

  Six: Um, what?

  Me: On camera. The first episode of your series. My abs aren’t being showcased properly.

  Six: Why? Because I made you wear a shirt?

  Me: Yes. I feel oppressed.

  Six: Hey, I told you to do the segment in your underwear.

  Me: No! You joked about it, but you shamed me with your eyes. I saw them. Judgy, chocolatey, shame eyes.

  Six: Really? You could see all that through your pouting?

  Me: You forgot about me!

  Six: You’re very forgettable.

  Me: So you say. And yet, you keep sleeping with me.

  Her response was nearly immediate.

  Six: Convenience.

  I laughed out loud. Even in text message form, she had a quick wit.

  Me: There’s an awful lot of B-roll in this episode featuring me, though.

  Six: Joe has a crush on you.

  I laughed out loud at her easy deflection and settled in to see how she was faring out in California without the important things. New York…and me.

  Me: How’s California treating you?

  Six: Pretty well. I’m getting a lot of work done on my other segments that people expect from me. I went to Target this morning and did a dance video on overspending. Then I went to Toys R Us and sent them off with a Broadway-worthy We’re Closing number.

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I pushed.

  Me: And your sex life? How’s that?

  Six: Busy. Hard to find a spot that’s not filled.

  I smiled despite her words, knowing something so brazen had to be a lie.

  Me: You’re cruel.

  Six: Yeah, I am. And I’m sure you’re celibate.

  Me: I’ll have you know I might as well be. Without your little pussy pal, I’ve been living the life of a recluse.

  Six: Yeah, right. What are you doing right now?

  Knowing she didn’t believe me, and wouldn’t via text, I backed out of the messages and dialed her number on FaceTime.

  Her eyes were covered as she filled the screen. “What are you doing?” I asked with a laugh.

  “I don’t want to be blinded. Tell me there are no dirty things. Tell me I won’t be scarred for life. Promise it and swear it and then maybe I’ll look.”

  My teeth pushed into the soft flesh of my bottom lip as I smiled. “It’s safe. You can look.”

  One finger moving cautiously away from the next, she made a slit and peeked through before uncovering all the way. I laughed at her theatrics and rolled my eyes as she scanned the sight of me.

  “Wow,” she remarked. “You’re dressed and everything.”

  “Believe it or not, I don’t usually sit around my house naked.”

  “Not. I do not believe it.”

  Her smile was bright as I flipped her off.

  “So, what exactly are you doing?” she asked.

  “I told you. I was watching the first episode on YouCam.”

  “That’s it?” she asked suspiciously. I laughed again.

  “What exactly do you think I am?”

  “I have no idea,” she mused. “A special creature with all kinds of dangerous secrets.”

  My scoff was audible. “Oh yeah, secrets. My biggest secret is the online architecture game I play.”

  Her chocolate eyes sparkled and danced. “Oh my God. Actually telling me your secrets? This is exciting! Hold on while I get a pen and pad. I want to write all of these down to use against you later.” She moved out of the frame and grabbed a pen, licking at the tip dramatically and pretending to write.

  “Give me a break.”

  Her smile was easy as she leane
d into the camera of her phone and turned her eyes down at the corners to make them look sultry. She was a master of self-expression, that was for sure. “Tell me, Sean. Tell me all about this architecture app.”

  I fidgeted self-consciously as a wave of regret rolled over me. I didn’t normally bring this up to anyone. “It’s nothing.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t do that. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s just an online competition. I design stuff on my phone, and people rate it. You advance if you beat the other people in your round.”

  “Have you always been interested in architecture?” she asked thoughtfully.

  “I thought that was what I was going to do for my career,” I admitted. “When I tore my ACL.” I chuckled and shrugged. “I guess it’s funny how things work out.”

  She nodded, a serene smile making her look gentle. “I went to school for finance. So yeah, I get it.”

  “Wow. That’s a big change in career.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “That was really more of my parents’ plan, though. This was in my blood. I just never expected it to take off,” she admitted self-consciously.

  “If I’d known you before, I could have told you it would,” I declared.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “You could have?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, studying the undeniable likeability all over her. “You were made for this.”

  My hip vibrated just as I sat down in my seat, and I pulled my phone out of my pocket to look at the screen.

  Cassie: You at the game, girlfriend?

  Crazy as it sounded, ever since I’d met Sean’s sister Cassie in Pittsburgh, we’d somehow managed to become texting buddies. And to be honest, I really liked her. She was off her fucking rocker, but she was also a total sweetheart.

  Me: Yep. Just sat down.

  Cassie: How does he look? Is his knee bothering him?

  Me: Well…I just sat down, so I’m not sure. But considering he hasn’t complained about that knee all season, I think it’s safe to say he’s feeling just fine.

  I’d caught on pretty quickly that Cassie was still freaked out over her brother’s knee injury a few years back. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that information from the one thousand text messages I’d received from her over the past few weeks.

  Cassie: Jesus, Six. You are no fluffing help.

  Me: LOL. Sorry, dude.

  Cassie: How did he look in practice this week?

  Me: Like he’s ready to kick some ass.

  Cassie: Okay, good. ☺

  Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I took in the view that was Dallas’s vast stadium. The atmosphere was electric and alive, and the guys were only halfway through their pregame warm-ups.

  More than that, the stadium wasn’t even filled yet.

  The crowd hummed and vibrated as fans filtered inside in waves, some finding their seats right away, some making necessary pit stops at the concession stands and restrooms.

  All the while, pregame entertainment commenced on opposite sides of the venue.

  The Dallas cheerleaders performed while the Rodeo Drum Line provided the mesmerizing soundtrack for their sexy, sassy, and perfectly choreographed dance moves.

  Tonight, I’d be filming footage and snippets for another episode of the Mavericks series. But I’d be doing things a little differently. Instead of being on the sidelines with Joe and Barry, I’d be in the stands, experiencing the game with the fans.

  There was something magical about being one in the crowd.

  The mere idea of it led to reminiscent thoughts of going to Lakers games with my dad.

  Inside the venue, while our favorite professional basketball team played their opponent, it was impossible to feel alone. Everyone in the crowd acted the same, cheered at the same moment, and felt the same emotions together. And what I’d read on their faces during the game, I’d known was also written on mine. And in that, a true echo of humanity—where no matter which team we were rooting for, we would be as close as we could ever be.

  At every Lakers game I’d gone to with my dad, because of that unity within the crowd, there had always been a feeling of freedom I could never really experience in other parts of my life.

  Until I’d started my vlog.

  And because I had friends in high New York places, I’d scored a kick-ass seat on the fifty-yard line. The Mavericks’ bench was right in my viewpoint, and I could literally see everything on the field.

  With my GoPro camera in hand, I took a few short clips of the guys during their warm-ups, the stadium, and the crowd, before turning the camera to my smiling face.

  “Only ninety minutes until kickoff and this Texas crowd has brought their A game!” I exclaimed. “But I think our boys are ready for battle. Quinn Bailey is throwing rockets with the precision of a freaking cardiac surgeon, and Sean Phillips has yet to drop the ball or falter in his steps. Dallas might be ready to bring the heat, but I think our Mavericks are going to do what they do best. Win football games!”

  I turned the camera and took a few more short clips of the expansive stadium, the crowd, and even the Dallas cheerleaders who were shaking their hips and asses in their notoriously skimpy uniforms.

  They looked crazy good, and I thanked the Texas weather for them. Even though it was mid-November, it was a balmy seventy-something degrees. No doubt their eye-catching, sexy as hell cheerleading gear would be a “freeze their little dancing asses off” situation in New York.

  When I’d boarded my flight from JFK—having been briefly in the city for a segment at Rockefeller Center—the temperature had been thirty-eight degrees.

  Winter had arrived, but you wouldn’t know that standing inside Dallas’s stadium watching their cheerleaders bounce and twerk around in their booty shorts.

  With the camera back on my smiling face, I added, “Who’s ready to kick some Dallas ass!” Behind me, luckily, sat a boatload of New York fans who had made the long trek for the game.

  They hooted and hollered and cheered their agreement.

  I turned the camera toward them and gestured for more enthusiasm, and gladly, they obliged.

  “Mavericks! Mavericks! Mavericks!” twenty or so people started to chant in our own little visitor’s bubble inside the stadium.

  And across the way, Dallas fans started to shout their disagreement.

  “Dallas! Dallas! Dallas!”

  I caught the battle on camera for a good three minutes or so, and thankfully, everyone managed to keep it PG and friendly. I had a feeling that had more to do with the fact that the game had yet to begin than anything else. Once the whistle blew and the beers started flowing, that friendly little battle could be an animal of a different, more aggressive color.

  Die-hard football fans were known for getting rowdy.

  And this was a big fucking game.

  Both teams were going in with the same exact winning record.

  A lot of sports analysts were predicting whoever won tonight’s game would most likely win the championship.

  Looking down at the sidelines and around the field, I caught sight of Barry’s and Joe’s positions. Joe was kneeling in the end zone catching footage of the Mavs’ kicker warming up his leg. And Barry was on the sidelines, camera focused on the fifty-yard line where Quinn and Sean stood chatting with a few of Dallas’s players.

  Despite my mental prompting, I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away from Sean once my gaze had latched on to him.

  I hadn’t seen him in over a week, and damn, he looked good.

  It should’ve been illegal for him to wear tight football pants.

  Honestly, those formfitting spandex duds revealed a lot of the good things beneath his clothes—ahem, his tight, firm ass and strong thighs—and also hinted at other good things.

  Big good things.

  Penis kind of things.

  Sure, he had on a jock strap, but still. It didn’t take a perverted genius to figure out Sean Phillips was blessed with more than just t
alent.

  Or good looks or an adorably cocky and charming personality or gorgeous eyes or a handsome smile or a sexy, raspy voice that makes my toes curl or…

  Yeah. Okay. Pretty sure I could stop mentally ticking off all of his attributes.

  My phone pinged again in my pocket, and I pulled it out again to check the screen.

  Cassie: How does he look now?

  I laughed quietly to myself once I read the message.

  If there was one thing she had in spades, it was persistence.

  When Cassie Kelly wanted an answer, she’d fucking find a way to get it.

  Me: Like a man who is ready to kick some ass.

  Cassie: What about his knee? How does it look?

  Me: From my seat on the fifty-yard line, it looks just like a real-live, human knee. Well-rounded. Bendable. And connected to both the upper and lower leg.

  Cassie: Smartass. And now, my stupid husband is losing his fluffing shit over your response. Like, full-on cackles. You now owe me a vodka sacrifice and a trip to Barcelona Bar for Harry Potter shots next time you’re in New York.

  Me: I don’t even know what half of that means, but okay. ☺

  Me: But, seriously, I think he’s good to go. You have nothing to worry about.

  Cassie: Thanks, you little smartass. And don’t you worry about your innocence. Georgia and I will rob you of it soon.

  With a smile etched on my lips, I slid my phone back into my pocket.