“The landscape of your mind is a scary place, Ryder.”
He grins, his mouth full of shrimp. “But a lot of fucking fun.”
I’m laughing in agreement when it hits me; Chess didn’t flirt. Not in the usual, please do me and then sign my chest kind of way I’m used to. She didn’t try to get anything from me other than a good picture, which is her job. She’d been utterly herself. And, for a few brief moments, so had I.
“What’s that sour face all about?” Jake asks, cutting into my thoughts. “Got a bad oyster?”
I slouch back in my seat and toy with the soggy label on my beer bottle. Jake and I were drafted in the same year to the same team. We suffered through having to do stupid singing skits during training camp, rookie hazing, fucked up buzz cuts with bullseyes on our heads, and the mental mind-fuck of transitioning from being top dogs in college to holding on by our fingertips as we made our way in the NFL.
He is my closest friend. And if either one of us gets transferred, I might actually break down and cry manly tears of sorrow. He’s also my sounding board, as weird as his advice usually is.
“I was thinking about the photographer.”
“Chester Copperpot?” He chuckles. “I don’t think she liked you.”
“She liked me fine.” While she hadn’t batted her eyelashes at me, there had definitely been moments of…something. I’ve never had something occur with a woman before, so I’m not sure what the hell it is or what it means.
Jake lifts up a hand. “Okay, I need to amend my earlier statement. You can rest assured that everyone in New Orleans, including the dogs, is flirting with you. Except for Chess Copper.”
I resist the urge to chuck a hushpuppy at his head. “That’s the thing; I know she didn’t flirt. I kind of liked that.”
He rests his forearms on the table. “Dude, be reasonable. The One-Eyed Willie comment killed it for you. Move on and knock on more welcoming doors.”
“Hell, I’m not trying to get into her pants—”
“Bullshit,” Jake coughs loudly.
“I just want to…” I trail off, not really knowing what the fuck I want. Being with Chess was one of the most real moments of my life, and yet it also feels like a strange dream.
“Have a meaningful and deep conversation with the woman who took pictures of your junk all day?” he supplies. Not at all helpfully.
A hushpuppy pings his forehead dead center. My aim is a thing of beauty, I will say that. Laughing, he flips me off and wipes the grease spot from his head. In turn, I give him a salute with my beer bottle. “Look at it this way,” I say. “At least she won’t be trying to picture me naked.”
“Worse, she’s already seen you naked. So if she’s not trying to get you there again, you know she found you lacking.”
“Why do I tell you anything?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going to sell it to the tabloids later.”
It might be wrapped up in a joke, but he’s giving me a good reminder; our lives aren’t like normal people’s. Finding someone to hook up with is easy. Having an actual relationship is a minefield. You never know whether the person likes you or your fame. And there’s the hassle of easing someone into a life where they’re under a public microscope, and you’re either on the road for most of the season, or training, making appearances, and basically having no personal time. That’s why most smart guys either marry their college sweethearts or connect with someone famous who knows what to expect. And that’s why I’ve never had a relationship, but rely on hookups for my sexual release. One and done is as easy as it can get in our world. Usually.
Since I really don’t like the direction my thoughts are taking, I move on to simpler topics, such as college football and who will likely be a real pro contender once drafted. Jake and I eat our food and drink our beers. Every so often, fans come up and ask us for an autograph or thank us for a good game. This is my life. It’s fucking fantastic.
I tell myself this as we leave the restaurant and walk down Iberville Street. I could have bought a house somewhere Uptown. But it’s just me, and who the hell wants to rattle around in a big mansion on their own? So I bought a condo just at the edge of the Quarter.
“Man.” Jake nudges me on the side. “Never say I don’t support you. Look over there.” He points to a restaurant across the street. Sitting at the bar, her long purple hair glinting in low light, is Chess Copper. She’s traded her black tank for a silky gold top that clings to a firm pair of tits I could easily engulf with my hands. The thought flickers to life and my fingers curl in response.
She isn’t the sweetly pretty or stunningly beautiful kind of woman I usually spend time with. She’s severe, elegant. It would be easy for me to say she isn’t my type. But I’m fairly certain that goes both ways. And I’m beginning to think my “type” has just changed.
“I think fate is tapping on your shoulder,” Jake says in a stage voice.
A weird surge goes through me, but I ignore it. “More like telling me to piss off. She’s on a date.”
Hard to miss the guy sitting with her, his body turned her way. He’s just the kind of guy I’d have guessed she’d go for: beard, multiple tatts and piercings. Hell, he looks like a skinny version of Dex.
“Maybe he’s trying to pick her up,” Jake points out.
“It’s a date. They’re settled in. Her bag is on the back of his chair, and he’s completely at ease.”
Reading body language is second nature to us now. And Jake nods. “Good point.”
I shift my weight, ready to move on. “Let’s go before she spots us gawking like a couple of—”
Chess turns her head away from her date and hides a yawn in her hand. It could be that she’s simply tired. But I see the boredom in her expression, and that strained, “when the hell is this going to be over” look in her eyes. I know that look because I’ve worn it too.