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Hey, if you’re ever in LA…
Saw you play last night. You’re sexy as hell. Here’s my number if you want a good time…
And sometimes there are no words at all. Just pictures.
I stopped looking at my Instagram messages a long time ago. I only have a public profile on the app because it’s a requirement. I don’t even take the photos; we have a team photographer who works with the social media and PR teams to capture images of us during the games. They email out batches of them once a week so we can select our favorites and post them to help drum up interest for the franchise. Not that they really need any help with that…
I haven’t posted a picture in a month. My last photo was from spring training, which means I’m probably on the social media team’s shit list. I’ll post one tomorrow. For now, I go to Tate’s profile. It’s private, but I have access to it now. The night I went to her apartment for lasagna and cookies, she started following me. I requested to follow her back, and she accepted. Now, at least once a day, I give in to the urge to check her profile, though she doesn’t post as much as I wish she would. Some of these bloggers post every second of their day like I give two shits. With Tate, I would. I’d watch her fold laundry.
When I look at her profile, I’m careful. I don’t like her pictures or leave any comments on her feed. As wild as it sounds, fans track that stuff. It’s bad enough that we’re following each other, but that can be written off. Tate follows most of the guys on the team; there’s not much to read into with that. Now if someone were tracking the amount of time I spend scrolling her feed…that would be pretty incriminating. I’ve gone all the way back; I almost accidentally liked a photo she posted years ago, from when she was still in nursing school. Can you even imagine? I would have thrown my phone over my hotel balcony. Feigned amnesia. Told her someone hacked into my account. I would have said anything but the truth, which is something along the lines of I can’t help it. I’m insanely intrigued by you and it makes me feel slightly less lonely to look at your Instagram feed.
Maybe I should put a stop to it. Right now, it’s late, and I could fall asleep in an instant if I just put my phone down and closed my eyes. That would be the smarter choice, but Tate posted a few things to her stories today and I have to watch them.
In the first clip, she shared a picture zooming in on her Apple Watch screen with a blurry Manhattan street in the background. “Best feeling ever!” she says while showing off an impressive 8-mile run. I know from scrolling her feed that she’s an avid runner. She’s posted a few photos of her at the finish line of various half-marathons, beaming at the camera, looking winded and beautiful while proudly holding up her race medals. Luke and his daughter, Harper, were with her in the most recent one. Harper held up a neon pink sign that read: “My aunt runs faster than your aunt! Love you, Aunt Tate!”
In her second story post from today, she has two dresses laid out on her bed, one white, one blue. “I can’t decide! Which one??” the caption reads. Beneath that, she added a poll where friends can vote.
I don’t vote.
The dresses are short and sexy. They’re not something she’s going to wear to lounge around in her apartment. They’re dresses for a night out with friends, or maybe a date night with Michael.
The story is a few hours old. By now, she likely already made her decision, wore one of the dresses out on the town, and now she’s back home. Hopefully.
My thumb hovers over the “Send message” prompt down at the bottom of the screen. I shouldn’t. I haven’t done it yet. If she doesn’t want me to have her phone number, she probably doesn’t want me messaging her on Instagram either. I’ve managed to resist the urge up until now, but tonight, I can’t find the willpower.
Grant: Which one did you pick?
I send the message fast, before I can talk myself out of it.
A shot of adrenaline pumps through me and I sit up in bed, staring down at my screen. Cleveland and New York share the same time zone, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nearly 1 AM; she should be asleep.
Tate: White.
She replies quickly. Then, she sends a picture of her in the silky white dress, standing next to Sophia and Daphne.
Tate: We went out. Daphne is a bad influence. Let me tell you…
