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“Right foot first,” I say out loud, feeling giddy.
As I’m queuing through first class, passing a tray of dishes of warm nuts in the galley, then walking on to my seat in coach, I open my texts and start a note to my husband. But as I type out variations on hey there, are you free tonight, a terrible awareness dawns on me.
Ilene said Nate would know about the auction. She can’t mean he’s entered the auction…could she?
A black cloud spreads across my sky.
No, she can’t mean that. But can she?
As I trudge to the back of the plane, I google the auction and go to the webpage.
Date Night is pleased to sponsor the Ultimate Player Auction! Come to the Luxe Hotel and get ready to bid on the men of San Francisco Sports.
There’s a list of featured players.
And it includes my husband.
I want to march into first class and flip the tray of warm nuts.
We aren’t even divorced and he’s already dating again?
41
THE HUNTER PLAY
Nate
In football, you learn the value of a game plan.
I’ve spent the last few days developing a Hunter game plan. Tonight, I’ll implement it. London is eight hours ahead of San Francisco, so I figure I can catch him on the phone around ten or eleven my time, once I’m home from the event at the stadium.
I can’t wait to tell him what I’ve figured out.
Meanwhile, I have the VIP kickoff party to attend and friends to catch up with.
Tanner and I wander down the food concourse, checking out some of the new booths. We pass a sushi vendor and a vegan bowl stand, then stop at the chichi new pretzel vendor.
A big chalkboard sign in front of the booth touts Artisanal Pretzels, and my stomach growls at the scent of warm, salty dough.
“Damn, check it out.” I nudge my baseball buddy. Tanner plays in New York, but since the season’s over and he likes to spend time in the Bay Area, he’s signed up for the charity auction tomorrow night. I’m glad he’s ready to date again, and I’m selfishly glad he’s here too. Without company, I might have gone batty dwelling on my plans to call Hunter.
“Can we please start eating now?” Tanner gazes longingly at the stone-ground mustard and local honey dipping sauces on the menu. Then he stares closer at the sign. “Wait. Check this out. Doesn’t the font make Artisanal look like two words?”
I peer at it and then laugh. “Artis-anal. That’s why fonts matter.”
Tanner smacks my shoulder. “But I bet you love Arti’s Anal Pretzels anyway.”
“You too, dickhead,” I say, then I catch sight of a couple heading our way. It’s Maddox and his guy Zane. My heart squeezes with a pang of longing. That. I want that. The ease they have with each other. The together-ness. But maybe soon that’ll be Hunter and me.
The ballplayer and the agent stop when they reach us, saying hello.
“What the hell, Zane? You entering the auction?” Tanner asks, by way of greeting.
Maddox scoffs, answering for his man. “No.”
That’s it. Just a simple declarative no. It’s clear and it’s possessive.
“Or maybe I just want to cheer you guys on. Or heckle you,” Zane says to Tanner.
“Of course. I should have known.”
“But seriously. We’re just here tonight, then we’re taking off for Barcelona tomorrow,” Zane explains, then runs his hand down Maddox’s arm. “A little vaca. This guy convinced me to go there.”
“It wasn’t hard to convince you,” Maddox says drily.
“Truth. We love to travel,” Zane says, then stage whispers to Tanner, “Good luck tomorrow. I sincerely hope you don’t have the lowest bid, but…”
“Fuck off, Zane,” Tanner says, then the two of them take off, laughing.
As we make our way farther down the concourse, Tanner glances at me as if judging my mood. “What’s the story with you and your dude? It’s all history now?”
I’m about to share my game plan with Tanner when I spot a familiar head of blond hair up ahead.
But that can’t be Hunter.
I’d know if Hunter was coming to San Francisco. He’d tell me, right? Of course he’d fucking tell me.
He’s here with a camera crew, so it’s for work. This puts a wrench in my plans, but the real issue is why the hell didn’t he call me?
“That’s a very good question, Tanner,” I say, robotically as I try to puzzle out the mystery of his appearance.
But I intend to figure it out this second.
“Be right back,” I tell my friend, then I beeline for my husband.
Hunter stands to the right of a lanky camera guy, interviewing Xavier.
“This is your second year entering the auction,” Hunter says to the X-Man.
I slow down when I’m a few steps away. I can’t hover like a creeper, demanding answers, but for a few seconds, I watch Hunter work like everything is normal, like there’s no need to see me or talk to me, and my annoyance shifts into worry bordering on dread.
