Can't Match This: A Friends To Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Xavier Neal

  “Clueless.”

  Though she read the Jane Austen novel it was loosely based on and was not nearly as interested.

  Took her three weeks and a promise to treat her to Lupe Del Rio for her to finish.

  Mick shakes off the information. “And why does she suddenly wanna hook you up?”

  “My guess is because she needs something more meaningful to do than what she’s doing day to day. Or it could be that she has this hole inside of her she wants to fill with full time counseling at the shelter but can’t because they’ll never be able to pay her enough to live off of. Then again, perhaps the random idea was spawned thanks to a brunch she had with my mother who more than likely bullied her into bullying me into doing more than banging Instagram models and flight attendants.” An innocent shrug bounces my shoulders. “Regardless of the reason, I agreed to prove to her I’m right about this matchmaking shit being a terrible impulsive decision that is time to move past.”

  “Or…instead of playing bullshit mind games with her, you could just go for it.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Perhaps finally confess how you’ve wanted her since we were juniors in college, and you saw her shamelessly do the Hammer Time dance in the middle of a frat party.”

  It was equal parts impressive and embarrassing for both of us. No chick should ever bust out the moves to a ‘90s classic in a room full of men she’s hoping wanna bang her, and no dude should ever wanna bang a chick who appears as if she studied the music video like a how-to manual, yet I did want to…She was vibrant. And carefree. And unapologetically herself rather than who everyone else wanted her to be. She was a freshman in college so that shit was profound, especially when all the females who were constantly on my jock at that point were busy pretending to be whoever it was they thought they needed to be to ride my dick. I watched her dance her ass off while rapping along, blaming the fact I knew all the words on the beer in my system.

  It was a lie.

  I fucking love that song.

  We fucking love that song to this day.

  Plays every time we’re in my car together.

  Every. Time.

  “Let me give you some advice,” Mick obnoxiously begins.

  “Is it the same advice you’ve been brow beating me to death with for the past fifteen years.”

  “Ten.”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Twelve,” he counters one final time, “but yes. It’s the same fucking advice because, obviously, you are walking proof of repetition being necessary for the human brain to make life sustaining changes.”

  My eyes soar to the ceiling.

  “The next time Lennox leaves that boyfriend door cracked, you need to kick that shit in like the Kool-Aid man.”

  I toss him a sardonic stare. “He barged in through the wall.”

  “Even. Better.”

  Feeling my irritation grow on a subject I already hate over analyzing, I throw a hand in the air in question. “What did you actually need?”

  “I bought us tickets to a charity function next month.”

  “What else is new?”

  “Date required.”

  “Then I won’t go.”

  “Not an option.”

  “Not attending is always an option.”

  “Not when we both need to be there to impress the father of a fifteen-year-old hockey player.”

  The disinterested expression on my face remains.

  “I’ve seen the kid play, Gideon. He’s got pro potential right out of the gate. We could sign him up. Steer him. Launch his career into the hall of fame by the time he’s twenty-five.”

  I drum my fingers against the top of my wooden desk.

  “We need more NHL players. We rep three right now.”

  “We don’t need more of anything, Mick.”

  He frowns at the rebuttal.

  “Between me and Simmons alone, we have hands in every major sports league…including CFL, which is a notable mention when you take into consideration there are only nine teams.”

  A small smirk threatens his face.

  “Once you add in the other agents, we could collectively put together a whole team in most of those major league divisions and maybe one or two in the minors. We’re doing phenomenal right now.”

  “We can always do better.” He tilts his head condescendingly at me. “Like two spots better.”

  “You wanna be number one in the nation.”

  “Don’t you?”

  I wanna work less and drink beer more. Although I hate Lenny’s flaky behavior where her job is concerned, it’s almost admirable. For her, happiness always wins over a paycheck. She’d rather live life eating frozen burritos every night for dinner than be chained to a career she considers a chore. It’s one of those things I need her in my life for. She forces me to come up for air, while I remind her of the importance of letting her feet occasionally touch the ground.

  “Be there,” Mick commands as he begins to back out of my office. “Bring Lennox.”

  The wink he shoots me receives my middle finger.

  Knowing me, I probably will. Anytime there is someone I need to impress versus someone I just have to tolerate, I take her. She can talk about the business and sports with the best of us. Hell, if she had any interest in really switching careers instead of just pretending, I’d hire her in a heartbeat. She’s not great with numbers or organization, but those are skills that can be taught. A passion for something can’t.

  I’d know.

  I tried to let the one I have for football go after it turned its back on me.

  Couldn’t do it.

  Kinda like my unresolved feelings for Lenny.

  **

  Walking into the popular local coffee shop, I immediately survey the scene in hopes the woman hasn’t arrived yet. Like always, the place is packed from wall to wall with various types of people. The line itself is being occupied by what appears to be a local college student, a biker, a business man, and a couple that can’t seem to untangle their tongues long enough to move forward. Just as I prepare to slip into it, I notice a woman in the corner, near the side front window, eagerly trying to peer around people to get a view of the door.

  Is that her?

  Why couldn’t Lenny have texted me her photo?

  Oh…that’s right. Because she is incapable of keeping her phone charged.

  And when I make this argument to her later how asinine that is, she’s going to counter with, why couldn’t I have just checked the email account she created specifically for this dating debacle. The answer to that is simple of course. Because I don’t want to engage with any of these women more than I have to.

  I carefully begin to inch toward her, finding myself more and more impressed with each step I take.

  If that is her, which would only prove how well Lenny really does know me, then from looks alone we’re off to a good start.

  Long, blonde hair…not a necessity but an increasing favorite. Big doe eyes screaming her innocence. Slender, fit frame that was most likely accomplished via a weekly yoga or spin class. Clothing tight enough to display her B-cup chest that is trying to pass for a C due to the hardworking push up bra underneath.

  As fucked up as it is, I prefer to have my one offs with women who look nothing like the one I don’t have the balls to invite into my bed. Lenny isn’t anywhere near model perfect nor does she care. She has tight brown curls that are the boss of her most days, beautiful brown eyes that are magnified by glasses she refuses to ditch, and a body that she only works out during our random athletic spurts like playing basketball on the court in my backyard or doing the forgotten, but once very popular, Tae Bo videos.

  I wonder if my constant choice in the same type of fuck buddies keeps her from seeing my attraction to her.

  “Gideon?!” The blonde squeaks, voice similar to something from a 1930’s Disney movie.

  Hiding my repulsion to the sound is difficult. “Bekka with two Ks?”

  “That�
��s me!” She pops up onto her feet and promptly extends her manicured hand. During our shaking, she adds, “I look just like my picture, right?!”

  “Right.”

  Probably?

  “Thank Heavens, you look just like your picture too. I was worried I was getting cat lynched.”

  Certain I misheard her, I question, “Cat…lynched?”

  “You know, where someone posts a fake photo then you meet them and they’re like a whole other person.”

  “Catphished.”

  “You know, I’m really not into seafood…” She shrugs off the correction. “Probably why I used the less popular term.”

  Not a term used at all.

  “Fish really are meant to be our friends. We need to love our oceans more. That’s definitely what the Aquaman movie taught me.”

  “Okay.” I clear my throat to rid the urge of saying a snarky comment. “I’m gonna order myself a cup of coffee. Would you like anything?”

  “Goodie doodles here,” Bekka announces at the same time she points to the cup on the table.

  She’s given a short nod of acknowledgment before I turn to begin my stroll back to the line.

  Almost immediately, she offers, “Do you wanna sit while I grab it?”

  I give my teeth a silent, brief suck and toss her the kindest smile I can. “No thanks. I’ve got it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Her tiny lips curl into a pout, but she plops back down into her seat.

  This is the problem with having a permanent limp. It always shifts people’s perspectives of you. Regardless of your status or what you’re clearly capable of, they have a tendency to view you as weak or an invalid. They wanna rescue you despite the fact you don’t need rescuing. Just because I have a physical flaw doesn’t mean I’m helpless.

  Once I’ve ordered and retrieved my beverage, I weave my way around the crowd to return to our table.

  Bekka doesn’t bother waiting for me to settle into my seat. “Did you get an ouchy earlier today? Maybe pulling a muscle at the gym?” Her eyes do a quick sweep of my business attire covered frame. “You’re in amazing shape…” She lets her stare stroke my broad shoulders and bulging biceps that are being contained by a navy-blue button up. “Like gold star amazing.”

  Her continuous child friendly word choices must be a direct reflection of her career…

  Or at least that’s what I’m going to assume.

  Or more accurately hope.

  I adjust my tie and smile at the compliment. “Thank you.”

  “So, is that it?” Bekka inquires. “Is that why you’re limping?”

  “No. It’s a permanent limp.”

  “Permanent as in you’ll always have it?”

  Literal definition.

  Opting for less sarcasm strains my neck muscles. “That’s what the doctors say.”

  An intrigued expression I do not approve of appears on her face. “Huh…How’d you get it? Were you like…born with a boo boo?”

  “No.” Resisting the instinct to let my eye twitch at her vocabulary increases exponentially. “I was a fullback in college and got severely injured during a game.”

  “What do you mean severely injured?”

  “Fractured pelvis. Broken leg in multiple places. And testicular trauma.”

  Her tiny hands fly dramatically to her cheeks.

  “Oh my stars!”

  Really?

  She can’t even cuss properly?

  “The…injury is what shifted me from the pro career I was headed towards to legally representing pros in their careers.”

  Lenny and Mick were the only people who didn’t abandon me throughout the incident. They were both at my side. Supported me through therapy. Through the fake sympathy. Through the shunning. As if it were my fault. As if I tackled myself. As if I wanted to spend the rest of my life longingly looking at a sport I would never get to play again.

  I quickly flip the conversation her direction. “You’re a Kindergarten teacher, right?”

  “Oh my lucky penny! You’ve got a great memory! Sparkly star for you!” She lightly touches my hand, placing an imaginary sticker there.

  Mental note to remove it before my meeting with more mature adults.

  “Have you always wanted to be a teacher?”

  “Always! Always! Always! I love kids. Love them. Love! Love! Love!”

  A small hum escapes as I lift my cup of coffee to have a sip.

  “Hate the summer time though.” She slowly shakes her head in sadness. “Hate. Hate. Hate.”

  “Because you don’t get to teach?”

  Her nod is rapid though she doesn’t pause for me to ask more questions. “Do you like kids?”

  My mouth barely has time to open.

  “Do you want kids?”

  Yet, again, there’s no time to reply.

  “I have to have at least four.” She wistfully continues although I’m not certain I’m even needed for the conversation. “And like two years apart preferably, but definitely all before I’m thirty-five. Oh! The first one has to come before I’m thirty.”

  This is far from ideal first date topics.

  Bekka finally realizes I never answered. “What about you, Gideon? How many kids do you want?”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Why not?!”

  “Because…” A heavy, annoyed sigh fills the space between us. “I’m not even sure I can have kids.”

  Her eyes widen in horror.

  Fuck, she looks like I just stabbed a puppy.

  “The trauma from the injury left lasting results in my back, leg, and fertility.”

  Bekka’s bottom lip trembles.

  Well.

  This is a next level failure.

  Remind me to congratulate Lenny on that prior to rubbing in her face at how horrible she clearly is at matchmaking.

  Post an uncomfortable twenty-five minutes that involve me consoling what feels like a crying cartoon character, my hectic day reverts to its organized insanity. The meetings are sandwiched between checking emails and shuffling around my schedule since I’m incapable of grasping the concept that I can’t be in two places at once. By the time I’m finally strolling through the front door of the oversized house I call home, falling face first into bed is the only thing on my mind.

  “Come on!” Lenny’s voice screams from the living room. “That’s not the button I pushed!”

  The impulse to grin grips the corners of my lips.

  Coming home to Lenny is one of my favorite things. While she doesn’t technically live here…she fucking lives here. Her tiny one-bedroom apartment downtown is an embarrassment. It lacks space. Order. And most importantly, food. Logically, it makes sense. She spends most of her nights here “house sitting” when I’m out of town for work, and her free time forcing me to look away from my laptop to enjoy what all my hard work has purchased. Despite the fact she has her own room here, she always ends up in mine.

  Next to me.

  Cuddling.

  Snoring.

  Kicking.

  And giving me insomnia that can only be cured by a quick, silent jerk off session in my en suite bathroom.

  It’s ridiculous that she makes me feel like a creep in my own house.

  Her constant, unpredictable presence is also the reason I never bring women back to my place for the night.

  They don’t belong here for the longevity. She does. Would rather her always feel welcomed than ever have her feel like she doesn’t belong because of a booty call.

  Strolling through my large foyer, I adjust my computer bag on my shoulder and head in the opposite direction of the vulgar shouting.

  “Fuck you, motherfucker!”

  Sounds of rapid gunfire combined with her rage indicate what it is she’s playing.

  I swing by the kitchen, grab us two ice cold beers, and trek to the main living room where she’s parked on the edge of the couch mashing controller buttons.


  “Take that you zombie bastards!”

  The level completion screen appears just as I flop down beside her. “Lenny, why do you insist on moving the system from the entertainment room instead of just playing in there.”