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)
I head to the living room with my buddy, grab the clicker, and point it at the TV. I’m tempted to watch another episode of Unfinished Business, but maybe Beck wants to watch with me.
It’s past five, so I click to my texts, about to fire off a note to Beck, asking if he wants to see an episode tonight, then I stop and laugh.
I never got his number.
He did the whole I have a photographic memory thing. And last night, I didn’t ask for it when he left because . . . we made plans. We set a time and a place.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Is he . . .?
Did he play me?
He should have arrived already.
I sit up straighter and peer out the window. Maybe I’ll spot him heading down the block or bounding up the steps.
Or maybe he’s just late. That happens. That’s way more likely than him standing me up. After all, the guy did ask me out.
I flop down on the couch, all casual and chill with my cat, certain Beck will be here any minute.
9
FOOL ME ONCE
Jason
It’s eight o’clock, and I’m the schmuck standing in my kitchen, stabbing a fork into the chicken salad with one hand, scrolling through Insta with the other. Beck has no social so I’ve resorted to checking for pics of the other Mercenaries to make sure that, yup, the team plane has left the tarmac.
The fucker ghosted me. He came over, hit on me, got me off, asked himself over again, and then actually ghosted me.
I set down the fork with a loud clang then click over to my messages. I text Nate to see if he wants to play some late-night mini golf. He says yes, so I leave and meet my friend, grateful to get far away from my home.
“Whoa. You look pissed,” Nate says after a quick appraisal at the golf check-in counter.
I shake my head, still annoyed. “Ghosted.”
He winces. “Ouch.”
“Tell me about it,” I say as I grab some balls and clubs.
He pats my shoulder. “Been there. It bites.”
“It sure does.”
As we hit the mini links, I do my best to forget about Beck. I refuse to nurse the wound.
Just like I refuse to track down his number to ask what’s up. He obviously didn’t want me to contact him—that’s why he played the whole photographic memory bit.
Fine by me.
I don’t want to talk to him. I have nothing to say to a guy who stood me up.
But it turns out he has something he wants to say to me. The next morning, I’m at the gym, running on the treadmill when an LA number pops up in my texts.
It has to be him. I guess he got my digits somehow.
“Asshole,” I mutter. But curiosity gets the better of me. What does he want? Cursing myself, I click on the message.
Hey, it’s Beck. I’m sorry I didn’t make it last night. Next time I see you, I’ll explain.
I snort at the vague note. Give me a break. There won’t be a next time.
But the world is small, and I don’t want to develop enemies, so I write back. We’re all good. Best of luck with the starting gig.
Then I block his number.
I don’t need an explanation. Maybe he’s embarrassed his team lost. Maybe all he wanted was to get his rocks off before a game. Maybe he’s so far in the closet he plans to hang there forever with his clothes. I’m not anywhere close to the closet, so it’s also possible he just can’t handle a guy like me who’s all the way out.
Whatever. I don’t need his explanations. And I don’t want to know his reasons anymore. The one thing I know for sure is this—I definitely don’t need to deal with guys who ghost me.
Whatever Beck’s issue is, it isn’t my issue. I won’t let it be.
With no distractions, I play my heart out for the rest of the season. I don’t hear from Beck or see him. Lucky me. Our teams don’t play each other in the regular season.
I leave everything on the field, but it’s not enough for a playoff berth. There’s always next year, though. And when the new season rolls around, no distractions will be my mantra then too.
Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m getting good at wearing blinders.
A year after the ghosting, following the Hawks’ first regular season game, I stick to my usual routine in the evening—I hang out with friends. Nate and I join some of our teammates at our favorite watering hole, grab a bite, and watch the sports news.
As we’re debating our favorite karaoke tunes for when we hit the stage in a few, the anchor’s voice catches my attention.
“And in trade news today, Beck Cafferty has been traded to the San Francisco Renegades,” she says.