Hate the Game

by Holly Hall

  “I, um. . .” I took a breath. “I have a lot going on. It’s my busy season right now, with work.”

  “Now? July?” My nod was crisp, matter-of-fact. “Okay. Then promise me something.”

  “I guess I do owe you, for the laundry-bag disaster of 2019.”

  “Nah. But you owe yourself a lot. Take a break sometime. Life is too short, you know?”

  “So poetic,” I mocked, but it was sweet how his face went all serious when he said it.

  In a blink, his playful expression was back. “Work hard, play hard. I know I do.”

  That resurrected my vision of the black panties, and the gorgeous Amazonian woman I saw him with months ago, and I cleared my throat. “Thank you again.”

  With that, he left. Leaving a flush in my cheeks and traces of Downy-scented air in his wake.

  Chapter 5

  Ava

  After work on Monday, I all but dragged myself into First String, a hole-in-the-wall sports bar with as many televisions as patrons, and scanned the room, searching for a telltale fall of auburn hair. Holland McCarthy, upon spotting me, let out a whoop to catch my attention. Standard Holland. She was loud, ostentatious—the exact opposite of me—and she was everything I’d ever wanted in a best friend.

  “Hello, darling,” she said in a faux English accent, rising to hug me.

  “Hi. Sorry I’m late. Thanks so much for ordering for me.” I reached for the second glass on the table and took a huge gulp of something I now realized tasted like straight liquor. “What the—” I sputtered.

  “That was mine, but okay.” She held up a finger to the waiter. “I’ll have another of these, please. And she’ll have a . . . something other than that.” She covered her mouth, failing to restrain the laugh that ripped out of her. She had an unapologetic way of doing just about everything.

  “Vodka-water with lime, please. A double.”

  “Long day at the office?”

  “You could say that. Leigh opened up the program to more clients, even though I mentioned it wasn’t a good idea at the all-staff meeting.” I shoved my phone to the bottom of my purse so I wouldn’t hear it when I was notified about something outstanding by my calendar app. I liked everything to be ticked off my to-do list, and I had a hard time disconnecting when that wasn’t the case.

  “I thought you were going to talk to her about moving into more of a creative role,” Holland said, peering at me.

  I diverted my gaze to the menu, which I knew by heart. “I just haven’t found the right time.”

  “You’ve been saying that for two years now. Is the time ever right to talk to your tyrannical boss about moving you to a position you’re way more suited for?”

  I groaned. “Sometimes I regret befriending such a persistent person. Look, it’s a miracle she hasn’t found out about the Janelle thing. I’m trying to lie low and stay off her radar.”

  “Janelle, Janelle, Janelle,” she said, trying to remember why the name rang a bell. “Wait, she was the heiress, right—the one who had you break up with that douchebag? What was his name?”

  “Shh. I wasn’t supposed to tell you anything about him.” That side project demanded discretion if I didn’t want to get fired when Leigh found out her Relationship Consultant was also dumping people. It’d only been once, but still, I hadn’t told a soul besides Holland, who had the biggest mouth but possibly the best secret-keeping skills of anyone I knew.

  “Fine. Let’s call him Rich as Balls. How about that?” she cracked.

  “Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

  “RAB, then.”

  I put my chin in my hand and sighed wistfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten that reaction from a man. Like he was going to shit a brick. I’ll look back and remember it for the rest of my days.”

  “Ha!” Holland let out another hearty laugh. “Remind me what was he doing with all those girlfriends.”

  “Rotating them out to see which of their trust funds and connections would serve him best. And he’d tell them all he’d be introducing them to his parents soon. In his world, that meant ‘I’m going to put a ring on it, if you act accordingly.’ Meanwhile, his actual fiancée found out—the heiress—and wasn’t content with just dumping him. She needed something more drastic.”

  “AKA you.”

  “Me.” I nodded.

  “I love it when people get what they deserve. Aside from your hellacious boss, the updates from your job are the best entertainment I get all week.”

  “What, accounting isn’t doing it for you?”

  “Not quite.” Holland gave me a rundown on the latest office spat, regarding which flavors of sparkling water to stock in the breakroom, up until we were served our meals: a basket of boneless wings for her and a salad for me, and loaded potato skins to share. We tucked in, and I felt the tension from the week ebb just slightly. First String was where we came to indulge every week, our version of stress relief and therapy all wrapped up in one restaurant with about a hundred beers on tap and a greasy bow on top.

  “On a more important note, I still wish you’d gotten a picture in that sumo suit. How’d you look?” she asked, sucking sauce off her thumb.

  “Like a blimp!” I jabbed a finger at her. “But enough about me—we skipped last week, so I haven’t heard the update on you. Are you still dating what’s-his-face?” I snatched a potato skin and nibbled on it to curb my mortification.

  She gave a little shrug and made a face. “Ehh.”

  “What does ‘ehh’ mean?”

  “Yes, I’m still dating him. And his name is Lorenzo.”

  “Right, Lorenzo. He sounds like an Italian millionaire.”

  She snorted. “I can assure you, he’s no millionaire.”

  “So what’s the point?” I wiped my hands on a napkin and tossed it into the empty basket. “If he’s not funding your quarter-life crisis or plastic surgery addiction, what are we even doing here?” Those were clearly meant to be jokes, but now we were getting into the nitty-gritty.

  Holland was hopelessly in love with her other best friend, a guy named Cade Kessler, yet would never admit it. She’d relocated here from Texas, following Cade’s professional football career with their tight-knit group of friends, for him. Another fact she wouldn’t admit. And yet, she was stuck on guys like Lorenzo, whom she didn’t see a future with.

  “The point is to get back in the game after Richard.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather ‘get back in the game’ with someone you actually like?”

  “I’m running the ball right now, Ava. You don’t just throw a hail Mary in the first half of the game with two timeouts left.”

  “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “I’m easing back in, not aiming for the perfect ride when I’m just now getting back in the saddle.”

  “You and your analogies.” I rolled my eyes and reapplied my lipstick. “What about the Hubby List?” We’d literally made lists of the qualities our versions of a perfect man would possess. It was an exercise I sometimes used with clients to prioritize their desired attributes.

  “Richard ticked off every box on that list, and look where that got me.”

  Right. What the list didn’t account for was that some men are who they say they are, but many aren’t.

  “Anyway,” she held up a hand, “forget Lorenzo. He’s at the stable stage in life, he doesn’t ignore me, I’m not seeing tagged photos of him with other women. It’s great, I’m having fun.”

  “Wow. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when your minimal requirement is that someone doesn’t ignore you.”

  Holland tilted her head and redirected the question to me. “And what about you, Miss Dating 101?”

  “You know all there is to know about my riveting dating life,” I grumbled. With my job and the hours I put in after “clocking out” officially for the day, there was little time to delegate to my own love life. At least, that’s what I told myself while I was soaking in my bathtub, or thirty episodes
deep in a Netflix show.

  The truth was, addressing clients’ relationship problems nearly twenty-four hours a day dissolved any remaining hope I had of finding love in today’s world. Thus, my trepidation and cynical outlook on the subject.

  “Have you considered that maybe you’re so focused on solving everyone else’s problems that you’re not giving yourself the attention you deserve?”

  “Yes, I pretty much think about that every day as my clients are finding their soulmates.”

  Her expression softened, and I braced myself for what was coming. It was easier to view people and the connections between them from a distance, as a casual observer, than it was when you were caught in the midst of it. “How long is it going to be? What if you decide to try for yourself and it’s too late?”

  “Sheesh, we’re only twenty-five. But even if we weren’t, I could always freeze my eggs or something.”

  “Romantic.” She hummed against her glass as she took a sip. “Remember what we talked about last time? Small strides. We agreed on step number one: Say hi to a stranger.”

  “I did, as I was buying my coffee this morning.” I didn’t mention that the “stranger” was a barista and I said hi to him every morning. So maybe he wasn’t a complete stranger, but whatever. Semantics.

  She angled her head at me knowingly. “You don’t have to dive into the deep end, you can tiptoe into the shallows. Test the water. See how you feel.”

  “Remember Pierce, the guy I was just telling you about? Remember Richard? There are more of them out there. Turns out I hate the water.”

  “Pierce wasn’t real, Ava. Well, he wasn’t your real. You won’t know what kind of experiences you’ll have unless you get out there and try it yourself.”

  She was a tornado on a mission, and when she was in that state, there was no redirecting her unless I found another topic equally as intriguing. “I ran into my neighbor again,” I said. The way I tossed out the words made it sound casual, but in the meantime my heart was racing. It had the desired effect. Holland set her glass aside and leaned in.

  “The one who entertains a steady stream of lady guests on the regular?”

  “Yep. That one.”

  “Tell me more. What’s his name?”

  “Theo.”

  “Ooh, Theo. Sounds delicious. Did you get his number?”

  “What? No. We were down in the laundry room, and then my bag burst when I was on my way out, and he helped me carry all my laundry up. Let me just say, I’m pretty sure he saw all my unmentionables.”

  “I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s seen a lady’s unmentionables.”

  “It was still embarrassing!”

  “Maybe not the last time he’ll see yours, either,” she cracked.

  I pressed my hands against my flaming cheeks. “Oh my god. Stop.”

  “It’s too easy to embarrass you. I love it.”

  “Well, some of us don’t have man-humor from hanging out with dudes all the time.”

  “Speaking of, you need to come out with us!”

  “With that group? No. Remember two seconds ago when we were discussing my ineptitude at talking to strangers? A night out on the town with a group of pro football players doesn’t exactly fit into this homebody’s weekend plans.”

  “They can lie low,” she protested.

  “They’re all, like, seven feet tall and three hundred pounds.”

  “Okay, so not literally lie low, but we go out to places like this. Chill places. You’re coming next time.”

  “Ugh.” I stole the last potato skin directly from her plate. “You’re so bossy.”

  “It’s not that hard to get to know someone new. The next time you see Theo, find out something about him.”

  “His eyes are green. Might be green,” I mumbled. I hadn’t looked him in the eye long enough to tell.

  “There! You can figure out his eye color. So easy even you can do it.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  She snapped, her eyes flaring. “I’ve got it! You’re good at what you do. You help hopeless romantics snag the guy, or girl, and you bring douchebags to their knees.”

  I blinked. I didn’t think that was how it went with Pierce, but okay.

  “So, approach him like a job. Pretend I’m the one coming to you for help bagging this guy. What would you do first?”

  “I’d give you an attributes questionnaire about him to fill out.”

  “Okay. Attributes, good. What next?”

  “I’d make connections between that list and your own, and you’d use them as a guide to model yourself after. You’d become his missing piece.”

  Holland raised her glass. “To becoming the missing piece.”

  Chapter 6

  Ava

  A haphazardly wrapped gift was waiting outside my door when I returned to my apartment that evening, and by the shape of it, I had a couple guesses as to what it was. I busted through my door and brought it over to my dining table, where I plucked the note off the top.

  I thought you might need this. P.S. Don’t judge my wrapping. -T.H.

  I grinned and tore off the paper. A laundry basket. It was one of those generic white ones everyone owns, nothing out of the ordinary, but I was struck by the strangely kind gesture. I’d already planned on getting a replacement bag that would’ve, now that I thought about it, probably split down the middle in a few months’ time like the last one.

  I chewed on my thumbnail. The polite thing to do next would be to thank him in person. I could even find out what Holland wanted to know about him: his eye color and something personal. Day one of my challenge, and I could tick those things off my list as a success. But the thought of knocking on his door and coming face to face with him of my own accord was enough to make me sweat. And I didn’t want to send him the wrong signal.

  Stopping by this late could be mistaken as a booty call, giving him the green light to Pound Town. We hardly knew each other, but that idea wasn’t so farfetched in this day and age.

  Or, what if he expected more than a verbal thank you? Something along the lines of a handwritten card or a bottle of wine or something?

  Worse yet, what if I did those things and all he’d wanted was a Post-It stuck to his door with a “Hey, got the basket. Thanks, Bud!”?

  I swallowed tightly, shed my clothes, and jumped in the bathtub instead of facing my problems. That way I could wonder why am I like this? alone, while my skin pruned and I marinated in cucumber-scented waters.

  It was later in the week, as I balanced an armload of mail I hadn’t picked up in ages, while at the same time trying to jimmy open my stubborn-ass door, that Theo made my decision for me.

  “Hey, Ava Wynn.”

  Because I’d been working so intently on getting the door open, the suddenness of his voice made me jump. I barely saved the stack of envelopes before it slid to the floor, which would’ve sealed my status as “that clumsy girl next door,” if I hadn’t succeeded in that already.

  “Theo, hi. I’ve been meaning to come by.” I reminded myself to take a moment and gather my thoughts.

  He was wearing a sleeveless shirt that showcased the contours of his arms and a pair of basketball shorts, and he was in the middle of locking his door behind him. I guess that was one perk of having a fully functioning door: being able to open and close it without attracting attention like a one-woman circus act.

  “That rhymed.”

  I looked at him for a full five seconds before realizing what he was referring to. “Yes. Yes it did.” Dammit. I was failing miserably. Think of him as a project, think of him as a project, I chanted to myself.

  He put his hands in his pockets, all unassuming. Meanwhile, it felt like the heat had kicked on in the hallway. My skin was prickling. “I assume you got your gift?”

  “I did. Yes. And now I look like an asshole because I haven’t seen you, so I haven’t had the chance to thank you. I was going to stop by.”

  He tilted his head, eyes full of
humor. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I . . . wasn’t sure how it would look?”

  “It would look like someone thanking someone else for a gift,” he suggested, a smirk appearing at the corner of his lips.

  I sighed and willed myself to relax. “Thank you for the gift. It was really thoughtful of you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  When I fumbled awhile longer with my door, he gently nudged me aside, jerking the handle upward and kneeing it open at the same time. I tried to ignore the way it made the muscles in his arms ripple—I was supposed to be focusing on his eye color, anyway. But, goodness. I didn’t know how he accomplished anything when all his attention must’ve been delegated to growing his biceps.

  “Thank you. Once again.”

  “It’s no big deal. Anyway, I was just headed out to grab some things from the store. You busy?”

  I frowned in thought. “Busy with menial everyday things, yes, but not busy like I have anything planned.”

  “Perfect. You can run to the store with me.”

  I glanced down at my high-waisted skirt and heels.

  “Dress code is casual. You can change if you want to, although you do look like a badass.”

  “A badass?” My brows gathered. I didn’t have to wonder how many times I’d been called that before now. A big, fat zero.

  “Or like you could spank someone with a ruler and they’d like it too much to argue.”

  Laughter bubbled from my lips, and I would’ve covered my mouth but I was carrying too many things. What would it be like to say the first thing that came to mind? I couldn’t imagine.

  “Too much?” he asked, his hands in his pockets again. It was a habit that almost gave him the appearance of being bashful, but I knew that was far from the truth. Given the pretty girls I’d seen leaving his apartment, the panties in the laundry room, and the easygoing charm he exuded like a pheromone, I concluded he was rarely bashful.