“Boom!” Blake agrees.
“They’ll find you anything,” I add. “If you need a gift for your mom’s birthday or reservations to a restaurant, you just put your instructions into the app and it gets done. They furnished my entire apartment. I didn’t set foot in a store.”
“Huh.” Wes nudges Jamie with his elbow. “It’s like they know me. I’m gonna try this out.”
Jamie shrugs. But I’ve probably just improved Hottie’s bottom line. If the whole team starts using Fetch, that’s got to be good for business.
“Can they find me a date to the opera?” Lemming asks, stacking up his remaining chips. “Our favorite benefit is in ten days.”
Everyone groans. Players are required to attend eight or ten events a year, but they aren’t all created equally. The opera benefit is everyone’s least favorite. The team owner is about ninety years old, and he loves the shit out of the opera. Without fail, the performance is three hours long. Minimum. Even good food and booze afterward aren’t enough to keep us cheerful.
“Here’s an idea,” Blake says, dealing the cards. “This round isn’t for cash. The winner gets to call in sick on opera night, and the rest of us have to vouch for his twenty-four-hour stomach virus.”
Wes picks up his cards. “I love this plan.”
Me, I’m just happy that the conversation has shifted away from Hailey. My teammates seem to have forgotten about my little confession, and that’s a good thing, because I still don’t know how I feel about dating again. My marriage imploded due to my career, and it’s not like I’ve changed careers. Any new relationship I get into is pretty much doomed.
“You probably like the opera,” Lemming jokes.
“Because I’m queer?” Wes snorts. “Think again.”
“J-Bomb?” Blake asks. “How do you feel about opera?” He tips his beer bottle up toward his mouth.
“Well, Blake. I’m bisexual so I only like it half as much as Wes.”
“Naw, honey,” Wes argues. “That means you’d like it twice as much.”
Blake laughs so hard that beer comes out of his nose, and then we’re all dying.
I have a great hand of cards, but it really doesn’t matter. “You know we’re all going to this damn opera, anyway,” I grumble. “It’s the annual ass-kissing fest at the owner’s favorite event.”
“Not for me!” Jamie says with a grin, pushing his chips into the center of the table.
“Oh, you’re totally going,” Wes grumbles.
“My kids have a game that night.”
“Hang on.” His husband looks up. “Do you even know what night it is?”
“Nope. But I’m very busy.”
God bless poker night. The bickering and the smack talk keep my mind off the more difficult stuff. I accept another beer and relax with my boys.
Sniper87: Mayday! My tux is holy.
HTE: Your tux is a churchgoer?
Sniper87: Christ. I meant holey. Full of holes.
Sniper87: Grrr. I need it for the world’s most boring benefit next week.
HTE: Okay. Rent or buy? You probably wear it pretty often?
Sniper87: Buy, I guess. I wear it about 8 times a year. Can you do your thing and make one appear?
HTE: I will absolutely help you. But this isn’t like the waffle mix. You have to try it on. And if you’re going to wear it frequently, it can’t be just a quick cuff adjustment like they do for weddings. You’ll need a fitting.
Sniper87: Grumble grumble.
HTE: Don’t shoot the messenger. I can find you a shop with good inventory in tuxes and make you a fitting appointment. How does that sound?
Sniper87: Fine. Checking my calendar.
HTE: Take your time. Just sitting here eating bonbons.
Sniper87: Really?
HTE: No. Hurry up. It’s crazy here today. Moon must be full.
HTE: Drums fingers on desk. Waits for Sniper. *Wonders how he can skate so fast but take 80 years to look at a calendar.*
Sniper87: Are you impatient with all your clients? I could try on suits tomorrow after morning skate. So 12:30 is safe. Or Friday same time.
HTE: When is the benefit? I’ll need to make sure they know we’re in a hurry.
Sniper87: Next Friday. Unfortunately.
HTE: Who’s a grumpy boy today? I’ll go find you a penguin suit. But not a Penguins jersey.
Sniper87: I should hope not.
HTE: You’re right. Bunch of losers. Who wants the Stanley Cup, anyway? Back in a jif, Snipes.
HTE: Klingerman’s, tomorrow at 12:30. Attaching the Yonge Street address. I sent along your measurements so they can pull some things off the rack for you to try. They’re asking if you need anything else fitted while you’re there. OK for suits?
Sniper87: I hate trying shit on. I wish it could just appear in my closet.
HTE: And I want a blue pony. Do you need anything else while you’re standing in front of the tailor in your boxers?
Sniper87: I’m a boxer briefs guy. You should know. You bought them.
HTE: *beats head on keyboard*
Sniper87: I could use another suit. My pinstripe is looking seedy and I haven’t shopped since Kara made me go two years ago.
HTE: I’ll tell them. Have fun tomorrow.
Sniper87: I have one more request.
HTE: Hit me.
Sniper87: I want your help picking shit out. Clothes are not my forte.
HTE: The men’s shop is pretty good at it. Just saying.
Sniper87: You won’t come?
HTE: I will if you want me to. Seems like overkill, though.
Sniper87: Please?
HTE: THERE’S THE MAGIC WORD. :) See you tomorrow.
Seven
Losing IQ Points
Hailey
I used to think of myself as an intelligent, high-functioning human. And when I’m texting with Matt, we have fun and I manage to complete my sentences and avoid drooling on myself.
Yet I spend the first fifteen minutes at the men’s store tripping over my own feet and babbling like a maniac. This man turns me into the village idiot every time I see him.
The problem is that he’s standing in front of the aging tailor in his undies. He’s wearing a pair of skin-tight boxer briefs in bright orange, and I can see the outline of his perfect ass in all its glory. And his bare legs, the powerful hamstrings tensed for battle.
When I glance into the sizeable triple-panel mirror in front of him, it’s even worse. Powerful thighs and abs that ripple beneath his undershirt. I manage not to check out his package, though it takes some serious effort, and I’m prattling on about the weather to the tailor like an over-caffeinated monkey.
At last the tailor has all the measurements he needs. Matt is handed a tux shirt, and I expect him to step into a dressing room somewhere to try everything on, but we’re already in the enormous dressing room. So he slips his powerful arms into the shirt right in front of me.
I lose another five IQ points.
The tailor starts firing questions at Matt. Shawl cowl jacket or peaked lapels? Satin or grosgrain?