Page 16 of A Game Plan for Love

“What are you going to do?” Deon asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Ask her out,” Henry says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and there aren't a million scenarios where that is ahorribleidea.

“We work together,” I counter.

Deon waves a hand. “There’s nothing in our contracts that says we can’t date staff. Just have to declare it with HR and sign a waiver.” Every head in the room swivels to him. “Did none of you read the full contract before signing it?”

“My mom did,” Henry says.

“I got a lawyer. Said it was solid,” Jack adds.

“Nope.”

Retrospectively, not my smartest choice, but I was twenty-two, offered a salary with more zeros than I had ever seen in my life, and given a path where I could offer Alan the same generosity he offered me. No amount of legal jargon was going to stop me from signing on the dotted line.

“Insane, but your contract is not stopping you from seeing if she’s interested.” Deon pauses. “Do you want to pursue something?”

The golden question. When I think of Addie, it’s hard to contain a smile. But when I think of the scenario where she rejects me after I’ve zinged with her…it might crush me.

I take a deep breath and steel my nerves. I have to believe I zinged with her for a reason. Call it fate, or the universe guiding us to each other, but I would be a fool to ignore the feeling, even if it leads to rejection.

CHAPTER 5

I Look In People’s Windows – Taylor Swift

Declan

Largepiecesofabstractart decorate the clinical beige walls of Sharon’s office. Her leather couch is no more comfortable than it was a month ago during our last session, and though I’ve offered to buy her a new couch, she always rejects me.

“About this couch,” I start, offering her a coy smile.

She hates this conversation, but I love how much it riles her up. It also calms some of the nerves in my stomach.

Sharon has been my therapist for over three years. There’s no one I’m more comfortable with, but she’s also aloof enough that I don’t know how she is going to respond to my news.

“Declan.” She gives me a bland look, but there’s a softness to her features, too. She knows I’m deflecting. “I want to know how you've been since our last meeting. It’s been a month.”

I tug at the drawstring of my hoodie.

“Well…” I draw the word out, then let silence fall.

She knows every piece of my history and has spent hours unravelling knotted balls of trauma so I can move forward with my life without being tied down, but very seldom do I have good news to share—at least, not about myself.

The majority of my good news lately stems from EndZone, the charity foundation I started this spring. I’ve poured my heart and soul into it, and the anxiety and anticipation for our first event next week sit like a boulder in my gut.

But it’s nothing compared to asking Addie out on a date.

“I zinged!”

Sharon blinks behind her funky neon green glasses, one side of the frame a circle, the other a square.

Oh my god, I’ve stunned my therapist into silence.

“Could you elaborate?” she asks, at last.

With intense detail, I tell Sharon about Addie and her awful date. I get a small sneer when I share what her date said, and then a smile when I explain our impromptu picnic in the park.

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