Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“Jason,” she whispers. “I need you to represent. It’s really important all the guys be engaged. Can you put your phone away?”
Chastened, I turn off my phone and then tuck it into my inside jacket pocket. Beck will have to wait.
39
THE TROUBLE WITH SKIDDING CATS
Jason
When my name is called, I stand from the seat in the front row, turn around, and wave to the crowd in the theater. This place is jammed to the balconies, and it’s fantastic to see so many people showing up for charity.
I bound to the stage, running my hand down my lapel.
“And now we have Number Fourteen. Jason McKay, the quarterback for your very own San Francisco Hawks,” Jillian says from the podium at the edge of the stage. “Jason is a proud San Franciscan, loves spending time with his dad and brother, and still hasn’t gotten over what went down earlier this year in Unfinished Business. He has a cat named Taco who loves to knock things over, a deep love of smoothies, and a huge crush on a handful of TV shows. Someday he’d like to meet Mister Right. Can you tell us more about what he’d be like?” she asks, turning to me.
I take the mic and picture Beck. My heart squeezes painfully as I answer in an upbeat voice. “He’d be kind, clever, inquisitive, an animal lover, and a huge football fan.”
The crowd cheers.
Jillian takes the mic back. “For now, though, Jason’s looking forward to spending time getting to know any of the fans here tonight who want to bid on him for a platonic date.”
A lovesick part of me is hoping Beck will pop up from the back row, raise his hand, and stride to the stage, bidding on me. He’d say, “Number Fourteen is mine,” then rush to my side and kiss me like crazy. Fans would boo, and my teammates would blow their tops, but at least I’d have the guy I love.
I scan the room, hoping hard that the fantasy will come true. Instead, a sea of strangers bid on me, the price going higher and higher.
Then a familiar voice calls out, upping the ante by five thousand dollars. I search for the soprano voice and recognize Cheyenne from the boba shop in the fifth row. Her husband is right next to her.
“Can anyone top that bid?” Jillian asks, scanning the crowd. Paddles go down, and the theater turns quiet. “And the winning bid for a night with the Hawks’ quarterback is Cheyenne and Mitch Simmons.”
I smile, a genuine one because Cheyenne’s bouncing on her toes, and her husband is hugging her hard.
I return to my seat next to Nate, and we watch as Xavier, Carter, Devon, and the other guys strut their stuff. I keep peeking at the doors, hoping Beck will show.
He never does.
At the end of the auction, we all make plans with our dates, I exchange emails with Cheyenne and Mitch, then pose for pictures, with them, and with all the winners and all the guys.
When the night finally ends, and I say goodbye to my friends, I make my way to the garage, powering up my phone as I go. I’ve got to see if he’s okay.
Before I get to my car, I fire off a text. Hey, there. Just wanted to check in and see if you’re doing okay. I heard you decided not to do the auction. Everything all right? I’m here if you need to talk.
I want so much more than talking. But mostly, I want him to know I still care.
My phone is quiet the whole drive home. As I pull onto my block, I’m hoping he’ll be waiting at the door in a tux, like in the movies.
But that’s a farfetched idea, and my porch is empty.
I make one last foolish wish that he parked in my garage. When I open it, the garage is as lonely as me. I cut the engine and go inside.
My home is silent. So’s my phone. I toss it on the kitchen counter and trudge upstairs.
I strip off my suit, fall into bed, and crash, wishing this night had gone differently in every single way.
I open my eyes and look blearily at the clock the next morning.
I’m so late.
I jump out of bed, power shower, and dry off in record time. I yank on clothes, then bound down the steps, grabbing a banana and chowing down.
I toss some kibble into a bowl for Taco, then check the time again.
I have fifteen minutes to get to the studio. I’m never late. But I don’t usually have Monday Morning Quarterback on a fucking Friday, and I slept through my alarm.
I grab my phone from the counter, and I’m headed for the garage when I see a message from Beck. I didn’t get your text till late. I had an appointment in the evening with my shrink. But . . . I’m afraid to ask. Did you get my letter?