Clay’s squawking in my ear about training camp starting in a few weeks, and I know I should be paying attention. But it’s pretty hard to make sense of the words coming out of his mouth when all I can think about is the brunette on the other side of the bar.
She’s been looking my way all night with those big hazel eyes of hers, so I know she’s noticed me, too. I just can’t figure out why she’s still over there instead of sitting on my lap where she so obviously belongs.
Not to be arrogant or anything, but that’s how these things usually go. The fact that this one isn’t…
When my favorite running back and good friend finally pauses to take a breath, I ask, “Am I losing it?”
“Losing what?” he answers, baffled.
“Why hasn’t she come over here yet?”
“She…Are you even listening to me, Shawn? We’ve got camp starting in two weeks and—”
“And you’re worried Coach is going to second-string you because of your knee. Don’t be. I’m the one who’s been working out with you nearly every day for the last six weeks. You’re ready.”
“You really think so? It feels good, but I’m still a couple seconds off last season’s time—”
“That’s because last season you could have given Usain Bolt a run for his money. Trust me, the fact that you’re a couple seconds off what was as close to Olympic record time as anyone will ever see on a football field doesn’t matter. You’re good.”
He thinks about it for a second, then nods. “Yeah, okay.”
“So can we talk about my problem now?”
“What problem is that? The fact that you’re too big a pussy to go over there and ask that woman out? Or the fact that training camp is in two weeks and your back still ain’t recovered from that little incident down in Acapulco that we’re not supposed to talk about?”
“My back is just fine. And there was no incident in Acapulco as I was never in Acapulco.”
“Oh, is that how you’re planning on playing it to Coach? By pretending it never happened?”
It’s exactly how I’m planning on playing it. They’ve already fined me close to four hundred thousand dollars this year. I’m done paying the team for stuff I do in the off-season when they should mind their own damn business. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what I figured.” He shoots me the most obnoxious smirk I’ve ever seen. “And I notice you haven’t denied the fact that you’re being a pussy.”
“I am not a pussy.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why is it you’re sitting here talking to me instead of cuddling up to Bambi over there?”
“Because you wouldn’t shut up and I was trying to be polite.” I take a long sip of my whiskey, watch as Clay does the same from his chocolate martini. The man really is an embarrassment to the Y chromosome everywhere. “And I’m pretty sure her name isn’t Bambi.”
“Probably not, but with those eyes it should be,” he says after polishing off what has to be the most girly drink in the bar—which is saying something considering the bachelorette party currently going on. “And bullshit you were being polite. You’re just chicken.”
“No, I’m not. Dude, you’ve been playing pro ball for seven years. Don’t tell me you don’t know that there’s a certain order to how these things are done.”
“By certain order I assume you mean you show up and women trip over themselves trying to get to you and that ridiculous face of yours.”
It sounds conceited as fuck when he puts it like that. But…“Yes. That is the order I’m referring to.”
Clay hoots, long and loud. “Dude, you’re interested in the girl. Man up and make the move.”
“She’s with the bachelorette party. The last thing I want is to be the creep who comes over and starts hassling her when she just wants to have a good time with her friends.”
He makes a clucking sound under his breath. It gets to me, even though I know that’s the whole reason he’s doing it. But damn it, it’s not that I’m afraid to make “the move.” It’s just that for as long as I can remember, women have always made the move for me. Even before I played pro ball, all I’ve ever had to do was show up.
The fact that that’s not enough for Bambi, as Clay calls her, intrigues me. It also makes me want to force her hand. Makes me want to see what it will take to get her to come to me.
“You call me a chicken, but I don’t see you moving in on the hot redhead beside her even though she’s been giving you the signal for the past half an hour.”
“Yeah, well.” He shifts uncomfortably. “That’s because I’m on hiatus.”