The Cheat Sheet: A Romantic Comedy

by Sarah Adams

  He’s right, and I tell him so. I’ve never known another human more intimately than I know Nathan, and best friends like us don’t casually date. It was an unspoken agreement that by declaring our feelings, we were saying, I’m all in. You’re it for me.

  “I agree,” I say in between his teasing kisses and light nips at my bottom lip. “But why wait until we’re married? That seems so…”

  “Old fashioned?” he asks, his fingers feathering down my arm to trace my bare ring finger. He presses a firm kiss against my temple. “I know. I won’t lie, that’s part of the appeal. If I’ve learned anything over the past few weeks, it’s that I’ve never really had to pursue romance before. You know? Savor the little touches”—his knuckles brush against my belly, and it tightens—“instead of just going for it right away.”

  A jealous little troll rises up inside me that he’s gone for it right away with so many women before, but I tell it to get lost. Because I’m the one who’s with him now, and hopefully forever.

  He gazes into my eyes with a longing smile. “I just want to do things differently with you, Bree.”

  I breathe in his scent and let my heart steep in it. “Okay. We’ll wait.” I grin up at him and poke him in the cheek. “You’re such a big softie.”

  “With you, yes.”

  He kisses me again, this time softly, sweetly, gratefully. He rises up onto one muscled arm to lean over me and turn off the light. That powerful image of muscles and tendons and masculine flesh is the last one I’ll see tonight, and it does nothing to cool me off.

  Nathan drops down beside me and pulls me onto his chest. I kiss it. “Just don’t spread it around that I’m a marshmallow,” he says in a teasing tone. “It’ll kill my image.”

  “Which image? The one of you secretly sneaking hundred-dollar bills into my widowed neighbor’s mailbox? Or you buying an entire building so little ballerinas can continue to afford their training?”

  He kisses the top of my head, and I don’t miss the moment he breathes in the scent of my hair. We’re home in each other’s arms. I nuzzle into his strong chest like a little cat. It is a done deal. I’d marry him in five minutes if that were an option.

  “It’s all for you, Bree.”

  Saturday, Bree and I sleep in until ten o’clock. I can’t remember the last time I did that. High school, maybe? I wake up a few times and never once feel the urge to get up and get my day going. Everything I want is right here in my arms. Drooling.

  Eventually, I’m going to have to leave Bree for a few meetings and then get to the airport for my flight to Houston where we’ll play our last playoff game.

  Saturdays are the closest thing I have to an off day during the season because I don’t step foot in the weight room on these days, so it usually gets packed full of meetings. Which…now that I think about it, makes it not an off day. This morning, though, I blew off an early meeting in favor of staring creepily at Bree while she sleeps. I’ll have to deal with Nicole’s wrath, but it’s worth it. I think that’s considered progress.

  One of Bree’s hairs gets sucked into her mouth, and when I try to carefully extract it, she jolts awake. Like a jack-in-the-box, she bolts upright in bed, hair eight sizes larger than normal. She whips around to me with wide eyes looking like she just woke from a cryogenic sleep.

  “I TEACH A CLASS AT TEN THIRTY!”

  A bit yell-y in the mornings. It’s okay, I’ll still keep her.

  Throwing the covers off, she sprints from the bed and out of the room. I stare at the empty doorway until two seconds later I hear footsteps racing back. A flash of octopus hair and limbs is all I see before she tackles me on the bed. Hovering over me, her dimples pop and she kisses me with a punctuated POP. “Good morning. I love you.”

  I smile and lean up to kiss her more fully, but she tucks her chin.

  “UH, no. Neither of us brushed our teeth last night, and morning breath is rank. You get a closed-mouth pucker and NATHANSTOPITRIGHTNOW!” She’s scream-laughing because I’m tickling her ruthlessly.

  “You’re saying my breath is bad?! You’ll pay.”

  “Let me go! I have class!” She can barely talk, she’s laughing so hard.

  “You shouldn’t have come back. That was your first mistake, and now you’re caught.” I stop tickling her long enough to reach into my bedside table, grab my Listerine spray, and take a hit. Her jaw drops at my audacity to keep something like that at my bedside, but what can I say, I’m no amateur here. With her mouth open like a fish, I’m able to give her a spritz.

  She cackles laughing, and then I kiss her like I want to. I take my time.

  Bree texts me later that she’s late for class and it’s all my fault. I’ll gladly take that fall.

  I lean back in the giant, porcelain, clawfoot tub and FaceTime Bree. The call connects just as a bubble pops by my shoulder. Her smiling face fills my screen, harsh studio lights hovering above her head. She squints, and then a smile bursts across her mouth.

  “You’re in the bath!!!”

  “A bubble bath.” I hold up a handful of suds.

  I’ve never seen her look more pleased. I can see the light pink spaghetti straps of her leotard, and the hairs on her neck are matted down with sweat. When she takes the phone with her to sit down with her back leaning against the mirror, I can tell in the reflection that she’s alone. She’s breathing heavily. “And? Completely wonderful, right?”

  “I had no idea what I was missing.” Truthfully, I’m pretty bored, but I’ll sit in here every night for the rest of my life if it makes her smile like that. Also, after my talk with Bree last night, I’m ready to start doing some things to take care of my mental health. I also scheduled an appointment with a therapist for next week. Nervous about that one, not gonna lie.

  “Only way it could be better is if you were in here—”

  “NNOOOPPEEE,” Jamal yells from the other side of the bathroom door.

  Our flight got into Houston a few hours ago, and because of the strict curfew the team enforces the night before each game, I’m already in my hotel room for the night. Every player is assigned a suitemate when we travel, and Jamal is usually mine.

  “Don’t you start all that. No one wants to hear your bubble bath dirty talk,” he says from the other side of the door where I’m sure he’s lying on the silk pillowcase he brought from home.

  “Hi Jamal!” Bree yells into the phone.

  “Just put your headphones on,” I tell him.

  “No. I’ll still know what’s going on in there, and I’m not okay with that.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re just mad I stole the bathtub before you.”

  “YES, I’M MAD!” he says in an indignant tone. “For years I’ve been taking a nightly bubble bath and enjoying the hell out of it, and all of a sudden, your new girlfriend tells you how glorious it is and you usurp my self-care time. Not cool, man.”

  Bree looks delighted.

  “He wears one of those crackly green masks like yours too,” I tell Bree, not bothering to keep my voice down.

  “Yes, I do, and I don’t appreciate your condescending tone. Men can appreciate having good skin too. In fact, you could stand for a pore treatment or two, Nathan. I can see your blackheads through the door.”

  My pores are just fine.

  “Ignore him,” I tell Bree, sinking a little lower into the water. “So what are you doing at the studio?”

  “Oh, I’m just working on the choreography for one of the recital dances coming up.”

  “Yeah? Can I see?”

  Her cheeks turn pink. Other than when I’ve peeked in on her teaching a class or two over the years, I haven’t seen her really dance since high school, since before the accident. For some reason, it’s always something she keeps to herself. I’m hoping now that things are changing between us, she’ll let me back into that part of her life as well.

  She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know. It’s still rough. There’s not much to see.” Her shoulders are twitching
and her head keeps shaking, making her look like an alien trying to do an impression of a Normal Human Being.

  “Breeee.” I cut off her blabbering, and she shoots me a look.

  “Natthhaannn.”

  “Come on. Let me watch you dance. I’ll even put on a bubble beard the whole time to make you feel less embarrassed.”

  Jamal interjects again. “UGH, Y’ALL ARE GROSS!”

  “Mind your own business!” I say, throwing a bar of soap at the door. I focus my attention on Bree again. “Why don’t you want to dance in front of me?”

  Her eyes dart around the room and her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Damn, I wish I was there to kiss her. We didn’t have enough time last night or this morning. I need weeks with her—no, years to make up for lost time.

  “I’m not as good as you remember.”

  “You’re in luck—I don’t remember anything. What even is ballet? Is that the thing where you make all the noises with your shoes?” She laughs and gives me a look that says, Nice try. “Bree, take a good look at me. I’m FaceTiming you from a bubble bath right now. Doesn’t get much more vulnerable for me than that.”

  “Fiiiiiine. Okay, you win.” The phone gets placed on the floor and angled up so I can see the entire studio. Bree leans down toward the screen and points a finger at me. “But just know, I’m not as fluent or graceful as I used to be. And the choreography needs a lot of work. That’s the whole point of me staying late tonight.”

  I hold a bubbly hand up in the air. “It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

  Her smile slants. “Mhmm. Sure.”

  The sound of soft piano fills the air, and Bree stands in the center of the floor. Her bubble gum pink leotard is painted to her body, making her look soft and delicate, but then her favorite oversized grey joggers swallow up her lower half, contrasting with her prim and proper upper half. It’s a perfect representation of her personality. She’s wearing them as she always does: rolled down at the waist and cinched up over her calves. Pointe shoes are tied around her ankles, a rainbow of bracelets stacks up one of her arms, and her hair is in a wispy French braid dangling down her back.

  Those long lean arms stretch at her sides and glide above her head. She goes up onto her toes like it’s nothing and begins a soft walk that turns into a series of impressive turns. I sit in awe, watching Bree’s powerful, graceful body twirl, jump, and completely captivate me until my water turns to ice. I don’t care though, because I don’t ever want to look away.

  We don’t talk at all during this time. It’s clear she is hyper focused on her movements, and I wouldn’t dare ruin this glimpse into heaven for the world. Quiet confidence pulses through her veins as she leaps. The angles of her body are sharp glass and soft velvet at the same time. She creates the illusion that she’s as delicate as lace, but when she leaps off the ground with her legs flawlessly extended in opposite directions and then lands—barely making a sound—you realize she is not to be underestimated. She is strong and fierce in her delicate skin. Life tried to hold her down, but she gave it the middle finger and stood up again.

  Bree is everything I aspire to be, everything I love, everything I desire. She holds my heart, and, with all that I am, I hope she never gives it back.

  It’s Super Bowl Sunday, baby! And, yes, the Sharks made it! They won the NFC Championship two weeks ago, and now we’re all here in Las Vegas where the Sharks (aka the greatest team on earth) will be playing the Donkeys (just kidding, they’re really called the Stallions, but no one cares about them, and we want them to eat dirt). Lily left her kiddos with Doug so she could be my plus-one. Nathan paid to fly us out first class last night, and I let him because my bank account has about two bucks and a piece of gum in it but there was no way I was missing the freaking Super Bowl. Also, now that we are officially together, I’ve had to get better at letting him pay for things. Turns out, it sparks joy for him when I let him spoil me, so I’m trying to say yes more often.

  Like, for instance, when I received the email that my dance studio had been chosen for the available space at The Good Factory (I’m trying to play it cool, but just know I’m jumping up and down), Nathan immediately asked if I would let him pay for the renovations we’d have to do to turn the space into a dance studio, and we made a compromise. Instead of paying him back with the money I earned doing the commercial like I had planned, I’m going to use it for the renovations. See, growth.

  I haven’t seen him since we got to Vegas because he’s been ridiculously busy with the team and media events, like he has been the last few weeks after winning the NFC Championship. I completely understand, though, and have stolen every moment with him that I can. Soon, it will all be over and we can finally spend a few months together in the offseason, free of his rigorous schedule.

  There’s been nonstop, next-level texting though. Always flirty little numbers like this conversation we had shortly after landing last night.

  Me: Hi hot stuff. We’re in Vegas!

  Nathan: I thought the day suddenly seemed brighter.

  Me: Stooooppppp jk it’s so gross and I love it. Keep doing it.

  Nathan: :) Miss you. Please don’t get drunk and elope with any strange dudes tonight.

  Me: Gosh you’re so picky.

  Nathan: Damn straight. Only man you can elope with in Vegas is me.

  Me: Oh good. Because you’re the only one I want to elope with. How about tonight?

  Nathan: Can’t tonight. I’m busy. How about tomorrow night? I have a little thing from like 6:30-10:30 but after that I’m free.

  Me: Sure! Sounds good!

  Now, Lily and I are walking to our provided box at the stadium, strapped into painful high heels and Saran-wrapped in fashionable designer dresses a la Marshalls.

  Except, because I’m me and can’t be counted on to completely conform to societal fashion norms, I’ve also paired my cute, white, bodycon dress with a black jersey (with Nathan’s number 8, of course) cinched with a little knot in the front.

  Something I learned early on in Nathan’s career: NFL wives and girlfriends live by a strict fashion code, and that code is fancy AF at all times. As his friend only, I was free to go to the games in sneakers and a t-shirt. As his girlfriend…actually, who cares. I’ll still come to the games in whatever I want. Today, I wanted to wear heels and dress up. Next game, it might be a onesie with a hood. No one can ever really predict what’s going to happen with my sartorial choices.

  After being shown to the box, we step inside and find Vivian, Nathan’s mom, already here and sucking up all the oxygen with her big ego. She’s swirling the olives in her martini glass, looking like she’s got at least ten snooty comments on the tip of her tongue.

  “Hi, Mrs. Donelson, it’s good to see you again.” I smile and hold out my hand like a car salesman. Wanna buy this load of crap? Normal people hug in situations like this. But let’s all remember that Vivian Donelson is far from normal, and she’s always seen me as a threat to Nathan’s career. In other words, she hates me.

  Those dark eyes—similar to Nathan’s but in a haunting way that makes you think they never shut—slither down to my extended hand. “Next time, you’ll do well to get a manicure before a big game like the other players’ wives and girlfriends. And leave the tacky bracelets at home. They don’t fit in this world.” Those eyes slide back up. Hand: unshook. “No one likes a hippie sitting in the NFL wives’ section.”

  Lily steps forward like she’s going to rip her earrings out of her ears and pummel this woman Wreck-It Ralph style. I grab her forearm and stop her, because I don’t need her to fight this battle for me. I’m not even stung by her words. All I feel right now is sadness for Nathan. To have grown up with such an exacting, demanding mother would have been excruciating. No wonder he feels swamped by pressure and expectations. I’m also in awe of him for overcoming this woman’s influence and becoming such a generous, kind person in spite of her. It just proves that money is not what defines a person; it only enhances their nature.
/>
  Well, it’s time Mrs. Donelson is enlightened about her nature and what sort of effect it has on the people around her. Nathan has really stepped away from his parents over the last few weeks as per the suggestion of his therapist and has been committed to implementing new boundaries. He’s opened up to me about things from his childhood that I had no idea about and also talked frankly about his mom’s attitude toward me specifically. He was clear from the beginning of our new relationship that I never have to wear a gag around his mom. I’m free to speak my mind and stand up for myself with his full, unwavering support.

  So everyone, stand back—I’m about to become this woman’s worst nightmare.

  “Mrs. Donelson,” I begin with a measured smile. “First, it’s well past time for you to stop saying rude things like that to me.”

  I think she would frown, but her face is always set in a scowl so it’s hard to tell.

  I continue, “As I think you already know, I am here to stay. And you can be completely sure that if you continue to speak to me or my boyfriend like you have in the past, your days in this box with us will be over. Just because you birthed him and pushed him toward success, it does not guarantee your place in our lives.”

  As I’ve said before, I’m no threat to women in Nathan’s life—until they make him choose. He will choose me every single time, and now that I know why, I fully intend to let that power go to my head. I will protect him just as fiercely as he protects me.

  “I won’t speak on Nathan’s behalf even though I have a list as long as my arm of issues I would love to comment on, but as for how you treat me, you are condescending and rude, and I won’t put up with it.”

  Lily’s eyes go wide and she presses her lips together to keep from openly smiling. Mrs. Donelson’s left eye twitches ever so slightly. Her chin rises in the air, and I’m prepared for her slashing words. Actually, I’m prepared for a literal slap across the face.

  Neither of those things happen.

  “This drink is horrible. I’m going to see if what they have out there is any better.” She brushes past us, and a chill sweeps through the air along with her. I thank my lucky stars Nathan is not close with that woman and I don’t have to endure her but a few times a year.