Getting me railed into next year.
I swallowed.
“Your friend here is nervous talking to guys she doesn’t know on the app,” the bartender said to Belle as I fought another blush. “So, she’s taking me to the first game, as a sort of practice run.”
“Oh!” Belle’s eyes lit up as she assessed me first, and then dragged her eyes over the bartender. A tinge of possessiveness touched my chest when she clearly liked what she saw. She chewed her thumbnail, nodding. “Oh, yes. I like this idea.”
“I didn’t agree yet,” I reminded him.
“Okay,” he challenged. “Then go ahead and respond to…” he peered over my phone screen. “Brad, there.”
He and Belle both watched me, Belle fighting a smile as one eyebrow rose on her perfectly symmetrical face. The bartender watched me with a satisfied smirk when my fingers didn’t move for the keys, and my jaw popped open, a laugh slipping through.
“Wow. You two just met and you’re already ganging up on me.”
“I like him,” Belle said easily. “And I like this plan.”
“You don’t even know him. Actually,” I said. “I don’t even know his name yet.”
“Zach Bowen,” he said, extending his hand for mine. “Pleasure to meet you.”
I let him take my hand in his, trying to ignore the warm, buzzing energy that transferred when our skin touched.
“She’s Gemma,” Belle answered for me, since apparently my sticky tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. “Gemma Mancini.”
“So, Gemma Mancini,” he said, his hand still wrapped around mine, eyes hooded and sure. “What do you say? Let me be your practice round.”
“Say yes, stupid,” Belle whispered.
I nudged her with my elbow.
Zach held my gaze confidently, his dark eyes watching me like I really had no other choice. And in that moment, I couldn’t think of a reason not to say yes. He seemed fun. He was hot.
And it would save me from this stupid app for at least one more week.
“Fine,” I conceded, and Zach’s smirk turned into a full-blown smile, one that had a slight dimple popping under that delicious stubble.
He reached for my phone, the screen still on the unanswered message from Brad. He clicked out of it, typing his phone number into a new text message, instead, and sending himself an emoji.
“There. My number. And I have yours. See you for the game next weekend?”
“Looks like it.”
His eyes roamed over me once more, the corner of his mouth pulling up just slightly. “Can’t wait.”
Belle nudged me under the bar with her knee, her eyes wide in an oh my God fashion.
“For now, I should get back to work. I’ll check on you ladies in a bit.”
“Thank you, Zach,” Belle said, waving her fingers daintily as he made his way over to the other side of the bar.
She didn’t stop staring once he was gone, though.
“Damn,” she breathed, resting her chin on the hand she’d just used to wave him farewell. “Now I really hope you get railed into next year.”
I laughed, trying not to panic at the thought of another man touching me.
A man who wasn’t Carlo.
Shaking my head, I pulled the app back up on my phone, showing Belle the messages that had come through and letting her swipe through the pictures of guys for a while. As we talked, I reminded myself of the one thing I always needed to hear.
I am in control.
It’s just a football game. It’s just a night of sports and beer and hot dogs. If I want to have sex with him, I can. If I don’t, I can just go home alone. No harm, no foul. These are my tickets, and this is my plan, even if it was Belle’s idea.
There are eight home games this season. That’s eight different guys, eight new friends to make, and — only if I want — eight potential orgasms that don’t come from my trusty vibrator.
I am in control.
Maybe this will actually be fun, I thought, laughing as Belle swiped a hard left on a guy who stated in his bio that he was a “sex machine.” She seemed to be having more fun than I was going through the app, so I let her swipe away, content to just sip on my vodka and listen to her commentary.
Every now and then, I’d feel Zach watching me from wherever he was working behind the bar. And when our eyes met, my chest would squeeze, along with my thighs. There was something about his eyes, about the kind of heat that swept over me with that gaze. The way he looked at me, it was as if he already had me in his bed, between his sheets, one hand on my hip and the other hiking my leg up as he settled between my thighs.
He’d only just learned my name, but the way he looked at me? It was as if he knew everything — maybe even more than I knew, myself.
A practice round…
Yeah. This could be fun.
Zach
“So,” Doc said, eyes mischievous as he passed my mother the mashed potatoes. “Zach has a date tomorrow.”
I half laughed, half groaned as the entire table erupted at Doc’s announcement.
“What? A date? With who?” My mom said excitedly, her eyes lit up like the giant bulbs donning our Christmas tree each year.
This was at the same time my little brother said, “Yeah, right. Zach can’t land a date.”
And my dad simply smirked, his smile the same one I had, and nudged me. “Atta boy.”
I took a roll from under the warm cloth napkin in the basket, passing it to Doc with a pointed glare. “Thanks for that, Doc.”
“Hey, just starting some friendly dinner conversation.”
“I see that.”
I pretended to be annoyed, but the truth was I never could be — not with Doc. He was a member of my family just as much as the blood relatives sitting at the same table, and every Saturday evening, without fail, we all sat together and ragged on each other in equal measure.
It was just my turn first, tonight.
“Is she a sweet girl? What’s her name?” Mom asked.
“Is she hot?” Micah chimed in, waggling his brows.
Mom thumped him with her still-rolled napkin.
“It’s not a date,” I said, earning me a somewhat-saddened look from Mom. Then, I smirked at my little brother, leaning over the table to whisper, though I knew everyone else would be able to hear, too. “And she’s smokin’.”
Micah high-fived me as Mom rolled her eyes, splaying her napkin on her lap.
“Sure sounded like a date when you told me about it,” Doc argued, piling his fork up with a stack of green beans. “And you haven’t asked for a night off in… well, ever.”
“You think every interaction I have with a girl at the bar is a date,” I volleyed. “Including anytime old Mrs. Rudder asks me for a refill on her merlot just so she can watch me bend down to retrieve the bottle from the bottom shelf.”
“That old woman would marry you in a heartbeat.”
“She’d do the same with you, if you’d ever actually do more than grump at her.”
Doc humphed at that, the same way he humphed at pretty much anything that anyone said at the bar. He was the owner — had been since the doors opened back in 1976 — and though he loved the new clientele my ideas had brought in over the years, he still didn’t know how to handle a bar that was actually busy and not just sprinkled with his regulars.
Almost twelve years now I’d worked in his bar — all because he took a chance on a kid who needed him.
“You know my heart is taken,” he said.
“Right. By the little honey down in St. Croix, right?” I shook my head. “I’m still not convinced she’s a real person and not a figment of your imagination.”
“You don’t have to be convinced of anything. I know. And that’s all that matters.”
Doc’s smile was more genuine when he took his next bite, eyes all lost in wonder as he thought about the woman he’d been pen pals with for almost ten years now. I never understood that — essentially dating with so much d
istance between them. They’d only seen each other a handful of times, every time Doc would let me force him to take a little vacation to go down there.
He’d never shown me a photo of her, though.
“Also,” I said, addressing his comment about me being a workaholic. “I do take days off — every Saturday, same as you.”
“Only because I make you,” Doc said. “I swear you’d sleep at that bar if I put a cot in the back.”
I grinned. “A couch would do.”
“You got a pic of her?” Micah asked, pulling the subject back to my not date.
“Oh,” Doc chimed in at that. His brows rose all the way into his hairline. “I didn’t even think to ask about that.”
“No, you perv, I don’t have a picture.” I tossed a bread roll at Micah. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t show you. We all know your spank bank is plenty full.”
“I do not need to hear about my sixteen-year-old son’s spank bank,” Mom said, holding up her hands with a disgusted face. “New topic. Now.”
Micah and I laughed.
My mom and Micah looked exactly alike, other than Mom’s hair being longer. Micah had the same soft features as she did, whereas mine were darker, edgier — favoring my father’s strong bone structure. Still, just one look at the four of us together and anyone could see we were a family.
“Sorry, Mom. I swear, I’m still your little baby boy. Zach doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m an angel.”
Micah circled the crown of his head like a halo, clasping both hands in front of himself in mock prayer.
Mom rolled her eyes. “Right.”
Dad took over the conversation then, telling us about his fishing trip with Rod, his best friend from college, that morning. Mom teased him about lying about the size of the fish he caught that somehow “escaped” his hook before anyone could get a picture, and I just smiled, watching the genuine love in both their eyes as they went tit for tat.
My parents were the definition of an all-American love story.
They met when they were in middle school, but it took my dad all the way up until their junior year of high school to get up the courage to ask Mom out. When he finally did, he took her to the homecoming dance, and the rest is history. They were each other’s first everything — and I knew without a doubt they’d be each other’s last, too.
Growing up in a household full of love taught me a few things — like how to treat a woman, how to apologize like a man, and how to communicate when things got tough. My parents never let me bunker down and hide my emotions when I had them. Whether it was a bad day for me out on the football field or just a simple fight with a high school girlfriend, they forced me to talk about it. And through that, I learned how to recognize my feelings, how to dissect them, and how to move forward.
My friends in college always gave me shit, saying I was a chick, but I didn’t see anything wrong with knowing how I felt and talking about it. I’m human, and I learned from one of the strongest men I know — my father — that crying, or hurting, or feeling heartbroken didn’t make you any less of a man. I learned from my mother that crying wasn’t feminine, it was human, and that even if it was feminine — that didn’t mean it was less than anything masculine.
That’s right, I was a born and bred feminist and proud of it.
I learned a lot from my parents — and one of the strongest things I learned was that I wanted what my parents had — a lifetime partner — more than anything.
Of course, dating for me had somewhere down the line shifted more into the realm of one-night stands and the occasional two-to-three month flings. Maybe it was because I worked so much, or because I still hadn’t found a woman to spark the same fire in me that my mom did in my dad.
Or maybe it was because I lost myself when I gave up my dream, and I was still trying to find me before I found her.
Regardless, I was reminded every Saturday evening of what the future could hold, if I ever found the right girl to share my life with. And because of how I was raised, I was a bit of a softie — a romantic, if you will.
Micah loved to tease me over it.
“So, you going to bring this girl some flowers and take her dancing under the stars on this first date, Romeo?” he said after Mom cleared the table and brought dessert over.
“Don’t tease your brother,” Mom hushed him, but she grinned my way. “And if you did do those things, I bet you she would think it’s sweet.”
“Totally,” Micah agreed, serving himself a piece of pie. “Or, she’d shove you right into the friend zone box where you usually end up.”
Dad laughed, and Mom thumped Micah again.
“No, no, it’s okay. Rag all you want, little bro. I love when you show how salty you are that I have a girl to take out tomorrow and you’ll be in your room playing video games with one hand in your underwear.”
“More action than you’ll get, I bet.”
I laughed.
“This girl seems like she’s the one calling the shots, from what he told me,” Doc said. “In fact, isn’t it her that’s taking you to the football game?”
“It is, indeed.”
“Wait! Football game?!” Micah asked.
“Yep. She’s a season pass holder for the Bears. We’re going to tomorrow’s game together.”
He pouted then, dropping his fork to his plate. “That’s not even fair. Tell her if she really wants to have a good time, she should take me.”
“I can promise you, little brother — I will absolutely not do that.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he chimed. “You’ll be too busy looking into her eyes and telling her how beautiful she is.” He clasped his hands together on a sigh, batting his lashes at me.
I rolled up my napkin and tossed it over the table at him.
“And what exactly would you do if you were taking a girl on a first date, mister?” Dad asked Micah, pointing his fork. “Because I know we raised you better than to not treat a girl with respect.”
“Oh, I’d respect her, alright.” Micah waggled his brows. “I’d respect her all night long.”
Mom pulled his plate from in front of him as the rest of us laughed. “That’s it, no dessert for you.”
Micah apologized through his laughter, using his classic puppy-dog eyes. Those earned him an eye-roll and kiss on the forehead from Mom before she gave him his pie back. And, thankfully, the conversation turned from me permanently when Micah started talking about his first few weeks as a junior.
I didn’t miss the look on my dad’s face as he listened to his youngest son talk about art class and the cute girl who keeps staring at him in the lunch room.
Because Dad never thought Micah would make it to sixteen.
None of us did.
My brother was diagnosed with juvenile myelomonocytic leukemia when he was just four years old.
I was eighteen at the time, in my first semester of college, and football was my life. I had a scholarship and, though I was young and just starting out in my college career, my coach said he saw a promising path to playing pro for me. But when Micah got sick, everything in my life changed.
First and foremost, my priorities.
At first, his survival rate expectancy was dismal. Even with treatment, we were told we’d be lucky to have even three more years with him. Playing football and going to college didn’t feel as important with numbers like that staring me in my face.
Sure, I knew I could talk to coach, maybe get redshirted for my first year and come back. I knew that, with my skills and reputation, I could come back any time I wanted to. But right then, at eighteen years old with my baby brother in and out of the hospital like it was a playground, none of that mattered. My parents were doing everything they could to have someone stay home with him, or taking him to and from the hospital, or sitting up with him on the nights he couldn’t sleep when he had to stay overnight.
I couldn’t do much, but I could help with that.
What was more important wa
s being there for Micah, with Micah, and supporting my parents. I knew I could have put in the four years at college, maybe gone pro, given my family the money they really needed and my brother the fighting chance he deserved.
But the problem was, Micah wasn’t promised four years.
He wasn’t even promised one.
But now, twelve years later, Micah was considered cancer-free and healthy. He still had frequent visits to the doctor for check-ups, and Mom worried any time he had so much as a cold, but his quality of life was better than we ever could have expected.
The fact that he was living at all was better than we expected.
I could have gone back to college. I could have tried out for a pro team. But, as it often does, time just kept on ticking, and every year we celebrated Micah’s birthday, all I could think about was that he was alive, my family was healthy, I made enough money to help them and support myself, and that we were all happy. That was what mattered.
Life was good.
And I would go back and give up football time and time again for the same result.
“You know, I really would like you to watch your mouth more,” Mom told Micah. “I know you’re sixteen now, but you’re still my baby boy. And I don’t want to hear about any of the things you talked about tonight.”
“Come on, you know me, Mom,” he said, rubbing her back. “It’s just video game talk.”
“Video game talk?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. You talk trash to look all big and bad. I’m still your sweet little boy. Promise.”
He grinned at her and she rolled her eyes, but she seemed content for the moment. I knew in her mind, she could blink and travel back to when her “sweet little boy” had more tubes running in and out of him than the back of an old 90s computer.
We all could.
And that’s why I would make my same choices time and time again.
After dinner, Micah helped Mom clean up in the kitchen while Dad asked me and Doc to join him for a cigar on the back porch. It was Saturday night tradition, and tonight, Doc supplied the cigars — three dark Robustos with a bourbon kick and warm vanilla aftertaste.
Doc launched into a story from that week at the bar, one I’d already heard but was new to Dad. And as the smoke danced with the warm September wind on the porch, I finally let myself think about the woman everyone had asked me about all night.
The Wrong Game Page 3