No, no, no, this would not do.
Glancing around the room, I sought out a solution to my own stupid brain. And there, on the corner of my table, on top of a stack of bills, was my answer. I picked up my Canon XA11 as an idea developed. And such a good idea it was.
This time, my smile was slow, unfolding like a low rumble of thunder.
I'd only used my new toy a couple of times—at team events and some community outreach functions where I wanted candid footage to use for social media. It would be overkill for today, but it would allow me to meet him without any risk of giggling or hair twirling. I could suit up—metaphorically speaking—to be Professional Ava, PR Ava, and not the Ava who gets nervous at seeing Matthew.
I typed out my answer methodically, already feeling more settled in my idea. Anytime I could control the narrative of how something played out, I felt eight hundred times better. I felt like I was behind the steering wheel.
Me: Don't break into the spice rack just yet. I've got an idea, but make sure you're wearing a Wolves T-shirt.
While the dots bounced on the screen, I saved his number and entered him into my contacts.
Matthew Hawkins: Yes, ma'am. Want me to pick you up?
"Yeah right, buddy," I muttered. "Next thing I know, you'll be opening my car door and then we'd have a real problem on our hands."
Me: Where do you live? Maybe I'll pick YOU up.
He didn't answer right away, and I chewed furiously on my bottom lip. More than likely, Matthew lived in one of the wealthy suburbs outside Seattle, closer to the main Wolves facilities in some sprawling home that could accommodate his huge frame. Personally, I was right in the heart of downtown. I loved the views and the city bustle. I loved the flow of people as they commuted, coming to and from their homes with bright bundles of flowers from the market or fresh fish that had been caught an hour earlier.
My apartment wasn't huge, but it wasn't tiny. I made enough that I didn't need a roommate, save for the bright blueish-purple betta fish named Frankie that made his home on my kitchen counter. Matthew probably had a massive drooling dog.
I'd actively refrained from stalking his social media beyond the last year or so of his Instagram, which seemed to be his preferred medium. Talk about restraint, people. I should win a freaking award for not diving back to see if he still had pictures of his ex posted to his feed, all in the name of searching for a pet or something.
When he was with Ashley, he always talked about getting a German Shepherd.
When he was with Ashley ...
That train of thought would serve no good as I headed into spending a chunk of hours with him.
Control the narrative, I reminded myself. It was one of my capstones at work. If you controlled the narrative, you could influence the outcome. That particular thread would stay un-pulled until further notice because there was no outcome I liked when I thought about their relationship for too long.
My phone chimed, and I did my best calm person impression, slowly zipping my camera into its black case. And look at that, I walked slowly back over to my phone and even allowed a deep breath before glancing at the screen.
Matthew Hawkins: I'm in that new building on Hawthorne.
Okay, so not a sprawling home out in the suburbs. He was about six blocks away from where I lived, though the buildings got much bigger and shinier and nicer in the span of those six blocks. It was one of the things I loved about living in the city. You could cross the street and find yourself in a completely different culture; some imaginary line that popped up years and years ago had held over time.
Growing up in the privileged gated neighborhood in Northern California, I had felt sanitized and stripped down to something clean and boring in comparison. Knowing that Matthew was living downtown gave me a small thrill, like he was part of the same club that enjoyed the noise and the crowds and the busy streets.
Me: I'll meet you at the corner of Hawthorne and Eighth in fifteen minutes.
"There." I nodded decisively. "Meeting halfway between our buildings is super professional."
My phone chimed again.
Matthew Hawkins: It's a date.
"Oh screw you, Hawkins," I said under my breath. If it wouldn't have been childish to reply with NO IT IS NOT, I would've done it. Just to hold on to the last few shreds of my sanity.
I spent the next seven minutes not obsessing over what I was wearing (white shorts and an army green top that maybe made my green eyes look even greener) or whether I had enough makeup on (mascara, a touch of blush, and good ole ChapStick) or if my hair could use some love (a semi-messy topknot that said I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard, but this also took me fifteen minutes and ten bobby pins to achieve).
Satisfied that if someone snapped our picture, I wouldn't look like a hobo, I slung the camera bag over my shoulder and locked my apartment door behind me. The elevator chugged slowly to the fourth floor, and I prayed this wouldn't be the day it would get stuck.
The day was beautiful when I walked out of the small lobby of my building, so I pulled my sunglasses out of my bag and slid them onto my face. People who thought Seattle was all rain and gloom had clearly never been here. Summer in this city was gorgeous, bright, and hot and full of things to do.
Today, Matthew was going to get a crash course in Seattle 101.
I jogged through a crosswalk before the light turned red and caught a glimpse of him waiting for me at the corner. He wore a black hat, and mirrored aviator lenses covered his eyes. A flimsy disguise if he was trying to stay incognito, but I suppose that was my fault since I asked him to wear a Wolves shirt.
His massive frame donning any sort of team merchandise was practically an invitation to be recognized. It would be fine, though. I'd been out in public with enough of the players to know that most of the fans were respectful and polite. Still, it made me smile to see him tuck his head down into his chest when two guys in suits passed him, whispering excitedly. His hands were jammed into his pockets, and his chest expanded on a deep breath.
That chest.
There should be a shrine somewhere to Matthew Hawkins's upper body. An exhibit in a museum with bright lights and placards discussing why the curve of his shoulders was perfectly proportionate to the arcs of muscle underneath his shirt, the bend of his biceps that stretched the limits of his shirt.
The sigh was out of my mouth before I could stop it.
"Damn it," I whispered. I could do this. I was a pro-fesh-i-nuhl.
Just as I was reminding myself of that, Matthew lifted his head and saw me approaching.
If I thought there should be a shrine to his upper body, then I refused to consider what should be erected in honor of the smile he gave me.
"Slim," he said in that low, deep voice, and swoosh, my stomach flipped over on itself like a traitorous little gymnast. "You playing tourist today too?"
"Huh?" My smooth reply was just a punch of sound from my graceless lips. Seriously, it was like I became a different person around this guy. It was so ridiculous and needed to stop yesterday.
He pointed at the camera, and I touched it with a laugh. We moved away from the street and out of the flow of people so I could unzip the case. When I pulled it out, I saw the lift of his eyebrows behind his glasses.
"That's some serious hardware," he commented.
I clutched the camera to my chest briefly, letting out a girly sigh. "It's my new obsession, and we're going to put it to good use today."
"Yeah?"
Gesturing down the street, I nodded. "Yeah. Matthew Hawkins sees Seattle. If it's okay with you, I want to shoot some stuff for Facebook and Instagram. Thought we could go to Pike's Market and get them to throw some fish at your head or something."
His laugh was loud and came from so deep within that monstrous chest that I felt it somewhere behind my ribs, an answering echo of sound that brought a smile to my lips.
"You're the boss," he said quietly as we started walking side by side.
We simp
ly walked the first couple of blocks, an easy quiet between us as the city hummed in place of conversation.
Matthew broke the silence first. "I googled you last night."
That's when I tripped.
Matthew's hand shot out and grabbed my elbow, big and warm and covered in calluses against my skin, steadying me easily as I tried to channel a little Taylor Swift to cover my embarrassment. Shake it off, sh-sh-sh-shake it off.
Once I gathered my composure, I gave him a tiny smile, and his hand dropped from my elbow.
"Find anything interesting?" I asked as we waited to cross the street.
His glasses hid his eyes, and his mouth wasn't giving anything away, but the slight crinkling in his skin on the tops of his cheeks made me feel like he was trying not to smile at me.
"If I tell you everything I found, what would we talk about?"
I laughed. "Fair enough."
His shoulder nudged mine when the crosswalk sign lit up. "You take a lot of pictures of your fish."
And just like that, I felt like a gawky sixteen-year-old kid again, watching other people from down the hall, or around the corner, or from behind the front door.
It made me want to yank that steel back in place, centimeter by centimeter, but I fought through that jangling feeling in my stomach.
If it were anyone but him, my face wouldn’t have felt hot with mortification, like I'd been caught doing something silly. My life was my job. I'd worked my ass off for years to get to where I was now. To be respected in my position, I had to earn the trust of the people I worked with and the players I interacted with every single day. That wasn't easy, especially with the sacrifices I'd made personally—not going out when most women my age were and not wasting my weekends on pointless dates because I was organizing community events and watching the games from the sidelines.
"Frankie is the baddest fish on the block," I answered lightly. "Plus, he's a conscientious roommate. Never keeps me up at night, doesn't interrupt when I'm bitching about my day, doesn't judge when I finish off a bottle of wine on a Tuesday night. How many humans could you say that about that? None that I can think of."
Matthew smiled, but it was clear he heard something in my answer, the something I most likely didn't want him to hear.
It might have been the subtext that I'd fairly screamed out, there's nothing wrong with not having a boyfriend since college, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.
"There's nothing wrong with taking pictures of your fish, Slim."
Yeah, he heard it.
"I know that." This time my answer wasn't light. It held a sharp edge. His hand touched my elbow again, just a light brush of his fingers, but it was enough to stop our walking. He faced me, pulling his sunglasses off his face. There they were. The full force of those eyes was potent AF, and I couldn't stare for too long.
There was something about the way his lashes framed the warm hazel, and facing the sun like he was, I could see some amber and yellow on the edges. I'd seen those eyes look fierce, almost savage, on game day pieces when he was about to barrel through the offensive line to try to take down the opposing quarterback.
They weren't savage now. Fierce? Maybe a little.
"It's fine," I told him, holding up a hand when he started to speak. "Ignore me."
As those eyes narrowed slightly, someone bumped into me from behind, forcing me a step closer to Matthew on the sidewalk. He angled himself so that his back was to the flow of people, keeping me out of the way.
Of course, he stepped into the flow of people to keep me out of the way when I was getting snippy and defensive and guarded.
"I also found that you double majored at USC, got your masters at Arizona while working here, and in that locker room, you're respected as hell. Half of them are terrified of you, actually."
My laugh came out as a soft breath, and I squinted up at the building next to us. "That's not true."
I was being modest. It was totally true.
Judging by the smirk on Matthew's face, he knew that I knew it. "I don't know why you changed your mind about going into medicine, but I'm glad you did."
As I swallowed, trying to figure out how I was supposed to say I hadn't gone into medicine because I literally couldn't stomach being compared to Ashley and found lacking in one more aspect of my life, he nudged me again.
"I'm proud of you, Slim. It's not easy to find the thing you were meant to do."
As I stared up at him, I realized something. Matthew wasn't intentionally saying the kinds of things that would make a woman less in control fall in love with him. He was just being ... him.
Thank the good Lord I was not a flailing mess of emotions because I certainly wasn't at risk for that, I reminded myself firmly without the slightest worry that I was mentally protesting too much.
Still. Even if I wasn't at risk, I knew the kind of man I was dealing with. The unicorn kind.
Why Ashley cheated on him, I'd never know. If it was possible for me to ask her and get an honest answer without wanting to rip her hair out of her head, then maybe I would've done it. Why his wife divorced him after five years, I'd never know. But clearly, she was batshit crazy, too.
Professional, I screamed in my head. No swoony eyes. No sighing. No being a love-sick little girl.
So I forced down my swallow and straightened my shoulders. "Thanks. But don't think flattering me will get you out of having the fish thrown at your head."
When we started walking, I held my camera in my hands as though it would protect me from the sheer force of his personality. His steps were about twice as long as mine, which he adjusted so I wouldn't have to run in order to keep up.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.
Chapter Six
Matthew
There was a lot about playing football that I loved. Some things didn't happen on the field, but most of them did. When I lined up, cleats digging into the ground, fingers pressed against the grass or turf, I loved watching the eyes of the quarterback. Loved watching his body language and hearing the words barked out at their offense. Because the slightest thing could tip off what they were going to do when that ball snapped from their center's hands into their own.
Those little tells—combined with whatever film I'd watched all week—helped me decide which way to spin or whether I should drop my shoulder and plow into the tackle so he couldn't shove me out of the way of a running back.
So far, Ava had given me nothing to guess her next move. Her face was covered with the camera too much for me to see any sort of tics or tells. After she forced me to take some pictures in front of the iconic fluorescent sign for my Instagram, we slowly made our way down the sprawling covered corridor of Pike's Market.
"We've spent years seeing you fall in love with Louisiana," she'd said when we arrived about an hour earlier. "Let your new fans, and your old ones, see Seattle through your eyes."
"Am I falling in love with Seattle today?" I teased.
Instead of answering, she lifted the Canon with ease, watching me through the display as I snapped pictures with my phone. Massive bins of flowers in every color and shape imaginable; fish, octopus, and shrimp laying on packed ice; meats and cheeses behind glass cases.
She dropped the camera long enough to approve which shots to put on my personal feed.
"No, use the one where you're looking down the street," she advised, looking briefly over my shoulder while I scrolled through my camera roll. "The lighting is better than when you're looking straight at the camera."
When I saluted her briskly, she snorted under her breath.
"And don't forget to hashtag," she added.
I gave her a sardonic look, which made her glance at me over the edge of her little shield. "I won't."
Just as I'd hit the button to post it, a young boy approached us wearing a shy smile on his face and the large hand of his dad on his shoulder. He looked even more nervous than his son.
"Mr. Hawkins?" the little boy asked, showing me a gap in his fron
t teeth when he smiled.
I crouched down and held my hand out to him. "Well, Mr. Hawkins is my dad, but you can call me Matthew if you want."
He giggled, slipping his hand into mine.
"I've watched you since your days at Stanford," his dad said in a rush, also holding out his hand for me to shake, which I did. "Big fan, both of us are."
"What's your name?" I asked as I stood.
"This is Malachi, and I'm Robert."
Ava was filming as we chatted, only lowering her camera long enough to ask if they wanted her to take a picture of the three of us.
Robert shoved his phone in her hands before the words were out of her mouth. I watched her face while she adjusted her stance to fit us all in the frame. Her smile was amused, and her eyes only flicked to me briefly before she snapped a couple of shots.
When the two kept moving through the market, I got a question out before she could lift the camera again.
"Do you come down here often?"
Her hands froze in the act of unhooking the camera strap, and the inane nature of my question made me laugh. Her too.
"Sorry," I said, gesturing for her to walk in front of me. "That sounded way more natural in my head."
"Do I come to Pike's Market often?" she clarified, her eyes glinting with humor.
"Yes." I felt a punch of pride because, for the first time since we arrived, she wasn't hiding her face from me. Sure, I understood her wanting to do her job, but I imagined just a bit more reciprocal conversation than what I'd gotten so far. "You'll have to give me all the tips of living downtown."
She smiled. "Every couple of weeks, probably. I don't love to cook, so it's not for all this gorgeous food," she admitted with a slight grimace, "but the flowers are the best. And there's a place across the street that makes cheese curds so good, you'll cry."
The Ex Effect Page 4