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Are you fucking kidding me, universe?
This is not fair.
“I have to go to this dinner right now, to plan the coverage,” I say, fighting to mask my dejection. But I’ve got to float the possibility of a Europe date. “That sucks. I don’t suppose you’ll have any free time in Europe?”
He frowns. “They’ve made it pretty clear there’s hardly any breathing room.”
I don’t need much.
Ilene calls me from the door, “Hunter, are you still able to join us?”
I grimace, chastened, and try to leave things with Nate on a positive note. “Maybe I’ll see you in Europe,” I say quickly.
“Maybe you will,” he says, like he wants it as badly as I do.
But just because you want something doesn’t mean you’ll get it.
It’s ridiculous to think I’ll see him in London. He’ll be busy. I’ll be busy.
As I’m turning around to join the Webflix crew, we exchange a wistful look.
Then say goodbye.
9
CAPRICIOUS BASTARDS
Nate
Did that happen?
Those five minutes when Hunter walked straight out of my daydreams and into my night already feel like a mirage.
I still can’t quite believe he showed up in the stadium with that cheeky grin that made my stomach flip.
Feels unreal, especially since it’s business as usual an hour later back at home. My bed calls my name, but my suitcase calls louder, saying fill me up now, you last-minute packer.
As I chat with my sister on FaceTime, I grab a burgundy polo from my closet and toss it on top of the mess of clothes in my luggage. Am I even bringing the right garb on this trip? Dead tired, I ask Amy, “Is it going to be cold in London?”
From the couch in her living room, she rolls her eyes. “It’s nearly midnight. You’re leaving for your trip tomorrow, and you’re asking about the weather now? ”
I pretend to consider her question. “Seems I am,” I say, then I click over to the weather app.
But as I check the temp in London, I’m only half here. The other part of me is wondering if Hunter’s dinner is over. If my exhausted body could possibly rally.
My groaning muscles, used and abused by sixty minutes of hard-charging football, say otherwise. I need a ton of sleep before I fold this frame into an airplane seat tomorrow. Before the concert tomorrow night. Before…anything else in the world.
When I return to Amy, I try to shove thoughts of the missed opportunity away. “Yup. October in London. It’s fiftyish, after all.”
Amy laughs as she snuggles into a corner of her couch, tucked into the pillows. “I could have told you that, Nate.”
“But you chose to mock me instead? So I had to rely on apps,” I tease, then grab another short-sleeve shirt from the closet.
Chatting with Amy is doing double duty—I love talking to her, but our post-game chat tonight helps take my mind off my bad luck. I can’t believe my path crossed with the sexy man I can’t stop thinking about and fate said sorry, sucker.
Dude Luck is a capricious bastard, all right.
Still, as I sling one more shirt into my bag, an idea is starting to form. I let it stew on the back burner and focus on my current predicament as I angle the phone at my suitcase. “Am I missing anything?”
“Seriously? How can I tell from that mess? It’s painful enough watching you pack the night before you leave for a nine-day, two-stop, overseas trip.” She jerks her gaze away, covering her face with horror-movie fingers. “I can’t bear to look.”
Laughing, I regard the pile that I’ll clean up in the morning. Fine, I look like a slob. Contrary to her belief, I do know how to travel since I do it every other weekend. But I love to get her goat. “When else would one pack?” I ask innocently.
“Nate! A few days before. Then you check fifty-three times to make sure you have twenty pairs of underwear for a week.”
“I have twenty-one, so I’m good to go,” I say before a yawn overtakes me, lasting for a good ten seconds.
I flop down on the edge of the bed, almost ready to wrap up the convo.
“You’d better go,” she says gently.
“Yeah, I should crash,” I say, stretching my aching shoulder.
Inquisitively, she gestures to my arm. “Is your shoulder hurting again?”
“Nah.”
“Nate,” she chides.
She always sees through me. “Everything hurts, but that’s the game for you,” I admit. “Maybe I’ll get a massage in the morning before I go. It can’t hurt.”
“Good idea. Do you have a masseur on staff who’ll come to you? And if he’s straight, can you send him down the coast to me next?”
“One, he’s a she. Two, she’s a massage therapist. And three, there are plenty of massage therapists in Los Angeles. Want me to send one to you?”
She arches a brow. “Will he correct my gendered word too?”
