“Wow.” I shake my head, at a loss for words. “Jack, that’s a lot. That’s really tough.”
“It wasn’t great.” He exhales. “Years of therapy so I could learn to say ‘It wasn’t great.’?”
I cough a laugh. “Well, I’ll tell you what—despite all that, you seem pretty darn put together. From where I’m sitting, at least.”
“Thanks. I suppose we have the therapist to thank for that, too.”
We both chuckle this time, and I’m quiet for a moment as I consider how best to approach this next part. Time for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
Nothing left to do but rip off the Band-Aid. “Since you brought it up, how exactly does Brawler fit into all this?”
“Like the early years? How we started?”
“Sure, yeah.”
He shifts on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Well, initially it was purely a sports betting operation. Tom and I both needed the cash, and the Penn dorms were the perfect place to find a bunch of guys with money burning a hole in their pockets.”
“Wait, I don’t understand. Why did you need money? I thought . . .”
He shakes his head. “When I left for college, I promised myself I’d never take another dime from my father. I told him so, too, so I’d be forced to stick to it. And that really pissed him off, since money was his only leverage over me at that point.”
I’m still confused. “But I thought your dad provided the seed money for Brawler?”
His brows pull together and he frowns. “You read that stupid profile.” He curses under his breath. “I swear, that thing will never stop following me.”
“It’s the only interview I could find,” I admit.
“That’s because I haven’t done a single one since.” He violently rakes a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “That asshole writer completely misrepresented everything about us. At the time, Tom and I thought a big, splashy profile would help legitimize the business, but they framed the whole thing like it was some pet project of my dad’s. He never had a thing to do with Brawler. In fact, he’s embarrassed by it. He thinks it’s beneath me.”
He’s not the only one. I practically draw blood biting my tongue on that one. “So I’m going to guess that making it successful became even more attractive to you.”
“Bingo. It was a giant fuck you.”
All the puzzle pieces are starting to fit together. “I think I’m starting to better understand your relationship with Tom. If you don’t mind me saying so, I haven’t really understood why . . .” . . . you’d be friends with such a crass misogynist. “I mean, he’s so . . .” . . . offensive in every way. I collect my thoughts and try again. “You seem very respectful of women in general, and my boundaries specifically. Tom’s whole persona is . . . basically the opposite of that.” There. That’s about as diplomatic as I can put it.
“Tom’s not who people think he is.”
I scoff. “Come on.”
“Fine, he’s not only who people think he is. He knows his role in the business is to be the outrageous one who says shocking things, and I can’t exactly complain about that when it’s allowed me to fly under the radar.”
“And made you a lot of money,” I add pointedly.
He slides me a sideways glance but lets that one go by. “We’ve been through a lot together. I’m closer to him than my own brother. He’s taken a lot of bullets for me.”
I make a face, still unconvinced.
“You know the Brawler fund, where we raise money for veterans and first responders? And how we expanded it to help keep restaurants open during the pandemic?”
Of course I do; it’s one of the few truly decent endeavors Brawler’s spearheaded. They rallied their audience for donations and persuaded their network of professional athletes to match them, eventually raising more than forty million dollars and saving hundreds of restaurants from permanent closure. “Yeah?”
“I wish I could say that was my idea, but it was all Tom. He’s got a big mouth, sure, but he’s got an even bigger heart.”
Hmph. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” I’m not buying that Tom’s some sort of misunderstood do-gooder no matter what Jack says, but there’s no use debating the point with someone who’s so obviously determined to view him through rose-colored glasses. “Anyway, I guess I thought you were this ‘Mr. Popular, everyone’s best friend’ type, but I’m sensing that your life is . . . simpler than I thought.” Lonelier.
“A lot of people think they’re friends with me—and of course, socializing is a big part of my job—but I can count my actual friends on one hand. Which, honestly, is just fine with me. I’d rather have four quarters than a hundred pennies.”
I smile to myself. I like that.
“What?” he asks, seeing my face.
“Just sounds like something my Gran would say.”
He grows serious. “Just what every man wants to hear: that he reminds you of your grandmother.”
I giggle, and his eyes gleam. I think he likes making me laugh. “So, now that I’ve shared my most damaging childhood memories, shall I show you to the door?” He’s joking, but there’s real vulnerability in his voice.
I reach out and give his arm a comforting squeeze—though let’s face it, fondling his bicep is more of a treat for me. I want to pet him like one of those touch-and-feel board books I read to my nieces. “Nah. What’s a little family drama? Anyway, this confession is nothing compared to the guy who told me he’d been collecting his toenail clippings since college.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “No way. I refuse to believe it.”
“Okay fine, it was part of a story I did about worst app dates, but it really did happen to a coworker of mine.”
He’s laughing harder now, his voice husky and deep, and something about the combination of the music, the wine, and this absurdly attractive man whose lap I’m practically sitting in—not to mention his unabashed, palpable interest in me—has me loosening up, dropping my guard, and relaxing into the rare, heady feeling of a date that’s going well. Really well.
“Quick, tell me something awkwardly personal about you so I feel less pathetic.” He stretches his arms over his head, and I find my eyes lingering over his midsection, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of his abs. I get another whiff of his man-scent and I have to fight the urge to inch closer to him, to press my nose to his neck and bask in his body wash. I can only hope the smell will permanently brand itself on my sense-memory to enjoy long after I leave tonight.
“Awkwardly personal, hmm.” I rack my brain, trying to ignore the gnawing attraction building in my stomach. “I don’t really have any deep, dark family secrets, though there is something . . . but I can’t possibly tell you, because it would definitely scare off any sane man.”
He perks up instantly. “Try me.”
I’m absolutely going to regret this, but here goes. “So you’ve heard the saying, Always a bridesmaid, never a bride?” He nods, waiting for the punch line. “Well, pretty sure whoever coined that phrase had me in mind. Guess how many weddings I’ve been a part of in the last few years.”
“Four?” he guesses.