Belle scoffed. “Oh, right. Forgive me for thinking a twenty-nine-year-old woman might want something more than a dildo with three vibration speeds.”
“Four,” I corrected, smoothing the deep burgundy cream over my top lip and blotting it together with the bottom. “And this twenty-nine year-old woman is perfectly content.”
Belle huffed, and for the rest of our walk to the strip of bars we frequented after games, she continued, on and on about the importance of my libido not going stale and my vagina getting action.
This was part of what infuriated me about Belle, and part of what I loved — she could argue a fish into buying an oxygen tank. In Belle’s mind, she always knew what was right and what was wrong, and she had all the right words to convince you, too.
It was one of the things that made her a successful entrepreneur.
Belle started her own interior design firm as soon as she graduated college. In fact, she already had clients lined up, thanks to outshining the full-time employees at her internships. And, luckily for me, she needed an assistant — AKA someone to run her life. Where she was great with the people, with the design, I was great with the numbers, with the organization, and together? We made the best team in Chicago.
She never crossed over — she hung her boss hat up in the office and wore her best friend hat, instead. But, regardless of if we were on the clock or not, Belle was just a boss kind of lady.
And she was adamant about this particular job.
By the time we finally hit the strip of bars we were aiming for, I was in desperate need of a drink, and for my best friend to drop the subject.
But she wasn’t done yet.
“Ugh, you haven’t said anything in like ten minutes,” she said, pulling me to a dead stop outside a bar packed with Chicagoans celebrating the Bears’ win. It was the last preseason game, and the entire city was alive with the hope of a promising season — especially in the south side by the stadium. While most Bears fans went back to their tailgating spots or made the commute back into the heart of the city after the games, I was beginning to prefer the rowdiness of the sports bars in the South Loop.
Honestly, I preferred almost anything other than going back to my empty condo.
When Carlo was alive, we would usually watch the games at home with a group of our neighbors. I would cook, he would entertain, and it was everything I’d ever dreamed of having when I was a young girl.
When I bought him the season tickets, I envisioned more for us — tailgating, building a community in the seats around us, starting traditions…
Belle sighed, and I blinked away Carlo’s memory.
“Look, I know I joke a lot,” Belle said, taking my shoulders in her hands. She lowered her gaze to mine, ensuring I was listening before she continued. “But I’m serious when I say that I love you and I know you’ve been through a lot in the past eight months.”
Her eyes softened, and I forced a swallow, warding off any emotions that might try to sneak in with her looking at me like that.
“I’m not saying you should date. Hell, if anyone is against love as much as you, it’s me. Hello,” she said, sweeping the back of her hand over her lean body. “Single for life and loving it, okay? But, just because I don’t date doesn’t mean I don’t go out, have fun, meet people.” She eyed me. “And get some.”
I just stared at her, still not convinced.
“You have these tickets, right?” she continued. “And you love the Bears.”
“Da Bears.”
“I’m not saying it like that.”
“Say it, or I’m not listening to the rest of this.”
Belle rolled her eyes. “Da Bears.”
I smiled. “Better.”
“I hate you.” She readjusted her grip on my shoulders. “Anyway, you’re like an enigma to dudes. A girl who actually enjoys football? It’s gold, Gemma. So, instead of forcing your fun-loving best friend who absolutely loathes sports of all kinds, to suffer through every home game with you, take a chance and meet some new people. Have fun with a few guys who have the same interest as you, and, who knows,” she said, smirking. “Maybe a big wang to rock your world with at the end of every game. Now that’s the definition of a win-win.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that. “I think you’re the horniest woman to ever exist.”
“Guilty as charged. Now,” she said, holding out her hand. “Give me your phone, let me download this app, and just… trust me. For once. This doesn’t go against any of your plans, right? There’s no roses-and-chocolate dating, no Facebook-official relationship status updates, no love, no marriage or babies, or any of that.”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I debated her reasoning. In a way, she did have a fair point — I maybe did need a little affection. I was dead set on never trusting anyone again, never falling for those stupid puppy-dog eyes as they stared into mine and told me they loved me and only me. I was done with that.
But football, beer, and a little romp in the sack?
I wasn’t not into that…
And, if I could be like anyone, it would be Belle. At thirty, she was happily single, successful in her career, and traveling like it was her only job. She’d never needed a man, never even given a guy more than a week to try to nail her down. She was my inspiration, my hope that there was a life to live after Carlo.
My heart sank when I thought of him again, because there was a time when all I wanted was everything that Belle just listed. The very things that now made me want to crawl into a ball and hide or start kicking the first man to approach me used to be the only things I desired. I wanted a husband, and a family, and a suburban life. I wanted a partner in life to grow old with, to laugh with, to lean on when life got hard.
Now, I only wanted to lean on myself, because I was the only one I could depend on to not let me fall.
So, instead of letting my emotions take over, I reverted to rule number one of my plan — the one I’d made on how to survive after he passed.
Don’t mourn the man you thought you knew. Remember the man he really was.
“Fine,” I conceded, shaking Carlo from my thoughts.
Belle did a little hop for joy, but I held up one finger to stop her celebration.
“But, it has to be in a way I can control. If I want to stop, if I never want to see the guy again or I feel icky at any point, I get to pull out. Deal?”
“Deal,” she agreed, still doing grabby-hands for my phone. “And make sure he pulls out, too. AYOOO!”
I rolled my eyes.
Belle was still smiling at her brilliance, fingers wiggling and waiting for my phone. “It’s perfect. Just only talk to them through the app, that way if you hate them after your date — er, after the game,” she corrected. “You can just delete them. Then, they can’t talk to you anymore. And, honestly, I think you should just take a new guy every time.”
I handed her my phone, making my way inside the bar as she followed behind, still bouncing like a little girl who was just given twenty bucks to go wild in the toy store with.
“Oh, a new guy every game,” I echoed. “Okay, now that I could get down with. Then it’s more of like a… hangout. A game with a friend.”
“A friend who could, potentially, rail you into next year with his hammer cock.”
The bartender’s brows shot up at Belle’s comment as we slid into two blessedly empty stools at the corner end of the bar. I laughed, shaking my head to signal that he shouldn’t even ask.
“Titos and water with lime,” I told him. “Two, please.” Then, I turned back to my best friend, who was feverishly typing away on my phone. “I’m serious, Belle. If at any point I decide I hate this, I get to pull the plug. And,” I said, pointing at her. “If that happens, then you’re suckered into going to every remaining game with me. And you can’t complain. Even if it’s below fifty outside.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever,” she said, waving me off quickly before clicking through my phone more.
The barten
der slid our drinks in front of us, and I smiled his way, handing him my card. When he smiled back, I faltered, eyes lingering on him a little longer than they should have. He turned so quickly, I didn’t have time to stare the way I wanted to, but that brief smile alone had me clenching my thighs together under the bar.
Belle grabbed her drink and immediately started sipping from the straw, fingers still flying over my phone, but I just stared at the man with my card in his hand as he crossed to the other side of the bar to help the next person. His shoulders were broad and rounded, his waist narrow, t-shirt sitting on the belt of his jeans in a way that made my next swallow harder to accomplish. And when my eyes fell to his ass, perfectly rounded in a pair of dark denim jeans that fell in just the right way off his hips, well…
Let’s just say I wanted a better look at the front. And the side. And all angles.
Maybe I am ready to get laid.
“There!” Belle exclaimed proudly, holding my phone out a few inches as if to study her masterpiece. “Your bio is all set. I picked the best pictures, although we do need to get some updated ones where you’re actually smiling,” she said pointedly, her eyes flicking up to mine before landing on the phone again. “Wanna hear what I put?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Belle ignored me. “Hot Italian chick who loves checking off to-do lists almost as much as watching football. Go Bears!”
I laughed. “Oh, my God, Belle.”
Again, she ignored me.
“Season pass holder looking for a cool, DTF guy to use my other ticket at a home game,” she continued. “If you love football, beer, and good conversation, I’m your girl. Send me a message, and maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll be sitting next to me at kick-off.”
“That’s actually only fifty-percent cheesy and awful,” I said, knowing there was little point in arguing any edits. I glanced at the photos she’d picked for me, staring at my phone over her shoulder. The default was a selfie I’d snapped just two weeks ago at the first home preseason game. I had my burnt-orange Bears jersey on, my long, dark brown hair pulled over one shoulder, and a sideways grin. My eyes looked even more intensely green than normal in the lighting I’d caught in my condo that afternoon, the sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Reading over the bio she’d written for me again, I frowned. “What does DTF mean?”
Belle sucked a large drink through her straw. “Oh, it means… dark, tall, and fun. Kind of like tall, dark, and handsome. All the kids are saying it, kind of like how we used A/S/L back in the good ol’ days of AOL messaging.”
“Oh…” I thought over her words, wondering when I’d missed that little piece of lingo. I was approaching thirty, but it wasn’t like I was ancient. I still kept up with social media, after all.
“Gotta pee!” Belle said quickly, hopping down off her barstool. She popped my phone into my hand. “Here, start swiping. Right means you think they’re hot, left means they don’t have a chance in hell.”
I laughed. “This is absurd.”
She just shrugged. “Welcome to dating in the twenty-first century. Be right back.”
Once Belle was gone, I crinkled my nose at my phone, placing it on the bar with the app still up on the screen. I turned my attention to the television behind the bar, instead, watching the game that had just started in California. The San Francisco 49ers were up on the Denver Broncos by three, and I watched the next play, tossing my hands up with a dramatic groan when offsides was called on Denver’s offense.
“Oh, come on, ref.” I sighed, sipping my vodka. “Idiots.”
“They’ve been calling shit this whole quarter,” an older guy huffed at me from down the bar. “You a Broncos fan, too?”
“Bears girl,” I answered, eyes still on the screen. “But that was just a terrible call, no matter which team you’re rooting for.”
“Let’s hope our refs just let the boys play this year,” the man’s friend chimed in, and I noted he was wearing a Bears shirt.
“I’m more concerned about our O line. If we can’t keep the quarterback safe, it won’t matter what the refs call.”
They both grumbled and raised their beers to me at that, and I cheersed their direction, taking another sip before my eyes flashed over my phone.
I sighed, finally picking it up.
For a solid minute, I just stared at the first face on my screen. It was a blond guy with glasses, his face a little round, eyes soft. The photo he’d chosen for his default was him sitting in a lawn chair at what appeared to be a barbecue, a dog in his lap, beer in one hand. He looked fun, like a friend I could watch football with.
But I didn’t want to have sex with him.
I swiped left.
Once that first decision was made, I filtered through the next ones a bit quicker. In all honesty, it felt like a game — like some sort of soft-core porn site that no one had to know I enjoyed browsing. The more I swiped, the more I smiled.
Hot lawyer with a cat? Swipe right.
Boating captain with a gaggle of girls in every single photo of his? No, thanks. Swipe left.
Self-proclaimed “rich stud” with a photo of him holding a stack of cash? Hard left.
Cute freelance writer with a love for all things Chicago, including the Bears? Yes, please.
This is fun, I thought.
Until the first message popped up.
Hey there, Gemma. How ‘bout them Bears?
I stared at the message, thumbs hovering over the keyboard on my phone.
What do I say back? Do I wait to respond? What if he thinks I’m stupid? What if he sees me in person and makes up some lame excuse to leave, and then I’m just sitting at the game alone?
Actually, that might not be so bad.
“Down To Fuck?”
I balked, blinking with my eyes still on the unanswered message on my phone before I peered up at the man the voice belonged to.
The bartender.
“Excuse me?” I asked, sure I didn’t hear him correctly. But he made no move to correct himself. Instead, he just stood there, staring at me, a little smirk on his full lips as he glanced down at my phone and back up at me.
“Down. To. Fuck,” he repeated. “That’s what DTF means.”
My mouth popped open, eyes skirting to where Belle had disappeared into the bathroom. “No… she wouldn’t.”
The bartender chuckled, fishing a beer out of the cooler behind him and sliding it over to a group of guys down to my left. “I mean, from the first words I heard her say when you two walked in here?” He smirked again. “I think she would.”
My cheeks flushed with heat, fingers flying over my phone as I quickly exited the message and tried to find my profile. “Oh, my God. How do I edit this thing? How do I delete that? Ah!” I threw my phone on the bar when another message came in. “Jesus Christ.”
The bartender laughed, picking up my phone from where I’d tossed it like a detonating bomb. He thumbed through a few screens, typed something, and handed it back to me.
“There. I edited it.” He leaned over the bar. “But, from the sounds of it, you should have left it. I mean, you are looking for someone who’s down to fuck, right?”
I closed the app, shoving my phone inside my purse with heat still creeping over my neck. “Nosy, much?”
“Hard not to overhear two gorgeous women talking about getting railed into next year by a hammer cock.”
I laughed at that, taking a sip of my vodka as my eyes met his. I finally got my wish, a chance to stare at him a little longer, and boy, was he fun to stare at.
His square jaw was lined with a faint shadow of stubble, his dark eyes hooded in a mixture of lust and playfulness. The way his jet-black hair sat in a styled wave reminded me of a Calvin Klein model, and I knew without a second thought that I wouldn’t mind seeing his tan skin sporting nothing but a pair of white briefs on a giant billboard — especially after that brief glimpse I got of his ass.
Ha! Take that, B
elle. My libido is far from broken.
He was the definition of what Belle had said DTF stood for — Dark, Tall, and Fun.
“So, which one are you taking first?” he asked, pushing back from where he’d leaned over the bar. He nodded to a woman at the opposite end, letting her know he saw her request for a refill. And as he made her margarita, I pulled my phone back from my purse, sighing.
“Truthfully? I have no idea. I have two messages already, but I have no idea what to say to them.”
“Maybe you should start with hi.”
“You know what I mean,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. I opened up the app, staring at the first unanswered message again. “I haven’t talked to another man like this since…” My voice faded, heart slinking into my stomach with a mixture of guilt and loss. “Well, in a very long time.”
“You’re nervous,” he stated plainly, walking the new drink down to the woman at the end of the bar before returning to me. “Why don’t you ease into it, have a practice run before the real thing?”
I cocked a brow. “And how would I do that?”
He shrugged, those wicked lips cranking into a smirk yet again. “Take me.”
“You.” I deadpanned.
He nodded. “Yeah. Take me to the first game. I mean, look,” he gestured between us. “Obviously, we have chemistry. We could have a good time. I’ll buy the pizza and beer.”
“Sounds like you’re just looking for a free ticket to the first home game,” I said, leaning over the bar.
His eyes flashed down to my cleavage that I’d not-so-subtly pushed up with that movement, and when they flicked back to me, they were heated — darker, dusted with a lust-filled promise I somehow knew he could keep.
“Maybe.” He shrugged again. “Or maybe I want to be the first one to have the privilege of fulfilling your friend’s promise.”
“Her promise?” I asked, just as Belle slid into the bar seat next to me.
“What did I miss?”
The bartender tore his gaze from mine, smiling at Belle, instead. And that’s when I realized what her promise had been.
The Wrong Game: A Sports Romance Page 2