“Don’t like athletes or something?” I ask with a chuckle as I lean back into the bench, stretching my arm across the back of my seat.
“Well, I mean not typically.” That’s an interesting way to word that.Typically. Does that mean she does in this case? “It’s because you play for the team. My employer has a strict no fraternization policy regarding the athletes and production staff.”
Oh.Oh. So, it reallywasn’tabout me. Wow, that makes me seem so conceited.
But wait… “Doesn’t this technically count as fraternization?” I ask, pointing between the two of us.
She tilts her head for a moment, thinking about my question. “I suppose it could technically. But their intentions for the rule are romantic relationships. Plus, you’re only giving me a ride home because my car broke down. And we both needed to eat.” She shrugs.
“Alright. I would hate to cause any issues for you with your job because I held you hostage and forced you into stopping for food.”
She waves off my concern as our number is called. I pop out of our booth before she can even move to retrieve our food. Back at the table, I divvy everything out between the two of us. We quickly begin digging into our meals as if we haven’t eaten in days, as opposed to hours.
“So,” I say around a bite of my burger, “tell me about this whole security thing. How did you get into it?”
“Honestly?” She washes down her food with a sip of her shake. “I kind of stumbled into it, I guess. Like any eighteen-year-old in college, I had absolutely zero idea what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I mean, whoreallyknows what they want to devote the rest of their life to at only eighteen?”
I give her my signature smirk. “I did.”
She rolls her eyes and takes another sip of her shake before pointing the straw toward me in emphasis. “You don’t count. In fact, all professional athletes don’t count. You’ve been priming for this since you were in diapers most likely. But at eighteen, for a normal, peasant person like me? I had barely even lived!”
“You’re not wrong about that.” I let out a soft chuckle and toss a few fries in my mouth. “So, tell me, how did eighteen-year-old Isabella Rossi stumble into security?”
“I had some really great professors who talked me through my options. We talked about my interest in film and television. I loved learning about all the moving parts behind the scenes that went into putting a show on your television once a week, or a film into movie theaters. But I also didn’t want to put all my eggs into the basket of film school, because that’s setting yourself up for long-term failure. I wanted something that was a bit more robust and could be applied to various industries and roles. Something with a bit more job security—pun intended. Plus, it would’ve given my parents a heart attack and caused them to disown me probably,” she says before taking another bite of her burger.
“And thus… security?”
“Security.” She punctuates the word with a nod.
“Also, that’s two mentions of your parents disowning you so far this evening. Are they really that strict?” I ask, genuinely curious. My parents didn’t really give me too many rules growing up. It was allkeep your grades upandmake sure you’re on top of your training regiments. They knew it was my dream to go pro, so they gave me the resources and freedom to get there. They allowed me to make the mistakes any teenager does, but also taught me the accompanying lessons.
Her eyes dart away and she chews on the inside of her cheek like she’s picking the right words. “Not really? I mean I guess there’s a little bit of pressure because I’m the oldest and first generation born here in America. And that stereotype of how hover-y Italian parents are? Yeah, it’s entirely accurate. They needed to know everything. Every little plan and move. It gets exhausting. But at the same time, I don’t want to disappoint them, you know? Once I graduated, I combed the job listings out here in LA, and the second I landed my job with Boseman I packed up my life in New Jersey and came out here. They’re still not entirely pleased I’m so far away, but they’re starting to come to terms with it. I hope.”
“I get that. My parents are still out where I grew up in New York. They hate that I’m on the opposite side of the country, but they come visit when they can. Plus, I always try to see them whenever we’re in town for a series. But they’re also not as ‘hover-y’ as you so eloquently put it.” I snicker as I take the last bite of my burger. “Tell me about them, your parents.”
She drags a fry through the sauce before popping it into her mouth. “Well, my dad runs his own auto shop and Mom was a stay-at-home parent for a good while to raise my brother and me, but now she’s a teacher. There’s not much else to share really. They’re both from these humble, American dreambeginnings. I feel like I owe it to them to succeed, you know? The pressure that comes with being the first born.” She taps at her chin, narrowing her eyes on me. “Let me guess, you’re an only child.”
I make an imitation buzzer sound. “Incorrect. I’m one of three actually.”
“Oh, oh! I know! You’re the middle child,” she says with an accusatory finger pointed at me.
I hold a hand to my chest in offense. “Excuse me? I resent that! I’m the youngest, if you must know. I have two older sisters, both married with kids and living the suburban dream.”
She tilts her head, examining me further. “You know what? The more I think about it, youngest sibling makes sense.” She clears her throat and shifts in her seat. “Alright, now that we’ve got the heavy shit out of the way…” She trails off with a smirk. “What’s your favorite color?”
I bark out a laugh at her unexpected line of questioning. “Really? My favorite color? That’s how you thought you’d shift the conversation?”
“Got a problem with that?” She raises an eyebrow in challenge.
“Not in the slightest, firecracker.” She rolls her eyes at the nickname. It’s the only reason I keep using it. I know she secretly enjoys it even though she tries to act like she doesn’t. “Let’s see…” I tap my finger on my chin as I think. “Probably LA Suns black.”
“Of fucking course it is.” She scoffs. “Also, black isn’t technically a color.”
“Fine, what’s yours then?”
“Purple,” she says with zero hesitation. “But my favorite is a pastel sort of lavender.” She stabs some fries onto her fork.
“Like your suit from that first game?”
