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“I have tried. She keeps shooting me down.”
“Son,” Dad chimes in, “I think what your mother is trying to say is that you need to get to know her. For all the fear that you have of her taking you for a ride, or your bank account being her motivation, think about it from this girl’s perspective. From what you’ve told us, she’s not someone who has ever been in the spotlight. Having your attention has to be surreal to her.”
“Exactly. You have to take your time, nurture the relationship. She might want to be friends now, but I can bet that’s her way of protecting herself.”
“She doesn’t need protection from me,” I scoff.
“We know that,” Mom says soothingly. “But does she? Think about it, Landon. You’re a professional athlete. Seen in the tabloids with a new woman on your arm every event, and you’re focusing your attention on her. I can only imagine she thinks this is a game to you.”
“What?”
“Landon, do you like this girl?”
“More than I should,” I grumble, and they both laugh. Traitors.
“Then nurture the relationship. Be her friend. Show her you’re not the guy to hop from bed to bed. At least you better not be.”
“Honey,” Dad admonishes Mom. “He’s a grown man.”
“And I can still take him over my knee. All six foot four inches of him,” she counters.
“Anyway,” Dad moves on. “Your mother’s right. You have to show her that you’re not that guy. You have to show her that her heart is safe with yours.”
“What if that’s not what I want?”
“Then that’s something you’ll be able to figure out as you get to know her. You’re either going to not be able to stop thinking about her, or she’s going to become a friend that you value. Either way, it sounds like she’s a good person and you win.”
“I can’t stop thinking about her,” I admit, and Mom squeals.
I groan, knowing I’ve opened a huge can of worms. Mom has been asking me when I’m going to settle down for years, and now that she has the hint that I might be thinking about it, she’s never going to leave me alone about it.
“Take the time to figure it out, but, son, you can tell her all day long. You have to show her,” Dad advises.
“Thanks. I need to go. I’ll talk to you all soon.”
“We’ll be there for the season opener,” Dad assures me.
“Love you,” I tell them.
“Love you too,” they say in chorus, and the call goes dead.
Nurture.
Show her.
Quickly I type out a text.
Me: How was your day?
Emma: Good. Thank you again for lunch.
Me: You’re welcome.
I stare at my phone, not knowing what to say. That’s not like me. I’m never short for conversation, but with Emma, I find myself not so lucky after all. Emma saves me when she sends another text. It’s a picture. Opening it up, I see a picture of the throw from her couch covering her legs.
Emma: Just relaxing.
Me: Me too. I have a long practice day tomorrow.
Emma: How’s the season going?
I’m taken aback by her question. I’ve never had a woman other than my mother or maybe a mom or wife of one of the guys ask that question.
Me: I’m positive about this year. The team is looking good.
Emma: I looked at the schedule. You play the Mavericks week one at home.
Me: You coming to the game?
Emma: Always.
Me: Wait a minute. You’ve seen me play?
She’s taking too long to reply so I hit Send on her name and it rings twice before she answers. Her laughter rings through the line. “Landon,” she sputters.
“Em,” I say, trying to be stern but failing. “Have you seen me play?”
“Of course, I have. I never miss a Mav’s game.”
“Fucking Mavericks,” I mumble, making her laugh even harder.
“I’m going to convert you to a Trojans fan yet.”
“Diehard Mav’s, baby,” she cheers.
“What did you have for dinner?” I ask her, changing the subject. Just the thought of her cheering for A.J. Holland pisses me off.
“Meh, nothing too exciting. I had the rest of the chicken casserole. You?”
“I ordered Chinese.”
“I love Chinese,” she says over a yawn. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired.”
“Yeah, I ran five miles when I got home. I’m beat too.”
“Sheesh, no wonder you’re in such good shape.”
My chest puffs out a little at her compliment. “We have the season opener in a few weeks. Will you be there?”
“Nah, but I have my tickets for when you play the Mavs.”
“On me. You can sit with Aubrey. I’m sure she’d love it if you were there with her.” I’m holding my breath, waiting for her to agree. Doesn’t matter that I’m getting her tickets regardless.
“Let me talk to Aubs. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You won’t be. You’ll be my guest.”
“I’ll talk to her and let you know,” she says, ignoring my comment.
