“Coca-Cola threw it a bunch of yards to Stuart Little. They’re lining up again near the touchdown box.”
Coca-Cola? Stuart Little? Who in the hell was she talking about?
“Who is she talking about?” Thatch mouthed, arms wide in frustration. “I fucking knew we should’ve called Wes,” he whispered, pacing the aisle.
“Help me out here,” I said into the phone. “Who is Coca-Cola?”
“The quarterback on the white team.”
“You mean Cokel?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Is she fucking nicknaming the players?” Thatch boomed in disgrace.
“Uh-huh,” she responded over what sounded like a mouthful of chips, not an ounce of shame in her tone.
I couldn’t even get pissed at her. She was too fucking adorable. I glanced over at Thatch. He was wearing a figurative hole in the aisle carpet and practically pulling his hair out. I grinned. Even though I hadn’t a clue what was happening in the game, watching Thatch’s upset come to a crescendo was worth it.
“Touchdown!” she whooped. “Coca-Cola to Howie Mandel!”
Translation: Cokel to R.J. Howard.
“Fuck yes!” I cheered.
“Son of a bitch!” Thatch shouted.
“Go Wild Horses!” Georgia put in.
I chuckled. “That’s right, sweetheart. The Mustangs are going to pounce on Thatch’s * Tigers.”
While my best friend was cursing up a storm, Georgia commentated the game for the rest of our flight. She added ridiculous nicknames for every player, called running backs’ stutter steps Icky Shuffle steps, and gave her overall opinions on which player looked the most cuddly (Boobear, of course), the meanest, the nicest, etc. It was an endless list and I damn near forgot there was five grand and a long-standing rivalry between Thatch and me on the line.
Once we landed and were sitting with beers in our hands, watching the final five minutes of the game in the airport bar, I still kept Georgia in my ear.
I couldn’t help myself. This woman whom I’d seen handle an entire boardroom full of cocky sons of bitches without batting an eye was crazy adorable. She was tough as nails and hotter than sin. And Christ, she was hilarious. I wanted more of her. A lot fucking more.
“Sorry your flight got delayed on the runway, but I’m glad you guys got home safely.”
“Me too,” I replied in half-truths, taking a swig of beer. I wasn’t even remotely upset about the extra time I’d spent talking to her. “So, is it safe to say that Georgia Cummings is now a Western University fan?”
“Uh-huh.” She giggled. “They kick ass.”
“Next year, you’ll have to come to a game with me. It’s insane.”
“Kline Brooks, are you still trying to plan a second date before we even go on a first?” she teased.
I laughed. “You’ll find I’m a determined kind of guy.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” She yawned. “Well, that’s my signal to get my tired ass in bed. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Georgia girl,” I said, stealing Thatch’s endearment.
“Night,” she whispered, ending the call.
I set my phone on the bar and downed the rest of my beer. “Ready to hit it?” I asked Thatch, tossing money down on the bar.
He just shook his head, sighing heavily. “Glad you got time for precious pillow talk during the fucking game.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I think Boobear will be healthy and ready to play next season.”
“Fucking Boobear.” He chuckled with another shake of his head. “Even I can’t deny that’s hilarious.”
It was Friday—the big date night with my boss—and I was sitting on the subway, heading home from work a little early. Nerves were starting to get the best of me. My brain ran through a thousand possible scenarios of how the charity event with Kline would go. Most of them were awkward and ended with me doing something outrageous. It was my M.O. I had a serious propensity for word vomit. A certified foot-in-mouth expert.
I needed someone to talk me off the proverbial ledge or else I’d end up faking the flu and backing out last minute.
Cassie was a no-go. She had just boarded a flight to Seattle to photograph an up-and-coming football star who’d signed with the Seahawks. My beautiful, spunky best friend had made a name for herself as a freelance photographer. Her photos had graced the pages of The Times, Cosmopolitan, and even ESPN. It seemed her lens had a knack for hot men flexing their muscles. Shocker, huh?
My mother was a hell-no. Ever the sex therapist at heart, she’d probably offer her sage advice of rubbing one out pre-date to stave off nerves.