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“Never been part of a celebrity couple, Kitty Cat?” Barrett asks as I sit and unpack my laptop. “Enjoy the novelty.”
“Is that what I am? Taylor Swift to your...whoever she’s dating now?”
“Evidently. We’ll have to come up with one of those combined versions of our names. CatarBarrett. Barrettina.” His expression is uncertain. “I’m not very good at this.”
“FoxyCat,” I say.
“Damn. I like that.”
I point to myself. “Writer.”
“Speaking of, I’d better start writing. Our editor just shaved several days off our deadlines and a few years off my life in the process.”
“Don’t stress.”
“Triple the readership.” He points at me with his cup of coffee. As he walks away he calls over his shoulder. “Triple!”
He really does have a great ass, I think, snickering under my breath.
Barrett and I have been dating off-the-record this week.
Mia said it’d optimize the advertising if we capped the columns at our original goal number of five. Number three comes out tomorrow, with number four on Wednesday, and a final, wrap-up column on Sunday.
The time Barrett and I are spending together now is ours. Tonight I’m being introduced to another part of his world, perhaps the biggest part: football.
The Buckeyes are playing a practice game at Woody Hayes Athletic Center rather than the Horseshoe, and since he’s alumni Barrett was invited to watch. As his plus-one, I have an invitation, too. One that didn’t require a press badge.
It feels like our first real date, which is strange to say. Barrett and I have been naked together fairly frequently. But the pressure of the column and a deadline aren’t present for this date. The concession stand was closed, so he brought a box of Cheez-Its, which taste incredible paired with my vending machine bottle of Coca-Cola.
He explains the calls and rules to me when I ask. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what a sack is, and “horse collar” sounds made up, but whatever.
He’s vibrant in this setting. He talks a little louder and a lot faster than usual, gesticulating with his hands. I’m not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but whenever one of the guys throws the ball, he sits taller in his seat and rolls his bad shoulder. Like his mind is walking his body through the play.
At the end of the game, we toss the empty cracker box and soda bottles and make our way down to the field. He introduces me to a bunch of very large, sweaty guys and a coach I’ve seen on television a time or two.
After the great to see yous and the nice to meet yous and a couple of way to go, Barretts, we leave the stadium and walk back to his car.
“You come alive in there,” I point out as he opens my door for me. He offers a half shrug like he doesn’t want to admit I’m right. “You miss it, don’t you?”
“Like you would a perfectly creamed Pike Place from Starbucks, Kitty Cat.”
I don’t sit, instead leaning on the open door between us. “Our column has traction, and you have a lot of positive comments from fans. Is there any chance the network would consider putting you back on the air?”
“Haven’t received that invitation yet.”
“Have you tried reaching out?”
“Are you going to get in the car?” He leans in, his playful smile closer than before.
“Not until you kiss me.”
He does. I grip his shirt and tug him closer.
“Dinner, sweet cheeks. Park that round ass in the seat and we’ll head out. I have a surprise for you.”
With the promise of a surprise dancing in my head, I obediently buckle in. Soon we’re pulling up to a building with a sign that reads: North Street Bar. After Barrett parks at the curb, we walk inside where we’re greeted by a friendly bartender who introduces himself and tells us to sit anywhere.
“Can you grab Dax for me?” Barrett asks the guy.
