Page 2 of A Game Plan for Love

A juicy cheeseburger and a bucket of fries are the motivation I need to finish this date. It’s what I planned to order before Dave took away my opportunity.

I fix my emerald jumpsuit, pulling the neckline higher, and give myself two finger guns in the mirror for good luck. Nora started throwing finger guns a few weeks ago, and the action has stuck.

My daughter: a trendsetter.

Weaving through the restaurant as slowly as possible—I circle around the lobby twice before I get a few odd looks—I return to the table, and Dave’s lecherous gaze starts at my toes and travels to my eyes—snagging on my breasts, obviously—before his lips contort into a sneer.

“You’re taller than I expected.”

If this goes the way I think it’s about to go, then I might not make it the full hour I promised myself in the mirror.

My height is in my profile to avoid this exact scenario. I even rounded up one-eighth of an inch and put 6’2’’, so truly, I should be shorter than he expected.

Someone get me that bingo sheet, I have another box to stamp with a dabber.

“It was on my profile,” I mumble, taking a deep gulp of my water. I really wish this were wine.

He gives me another up-down, and I suppress a disgusted shiver.

I’ve outgrown the phase of my life where my height is a point of self-consciousness. I was all limbs in middle school, but once I started playing volleyball, I stopped thinking about my height. There were women taller than me, and women shorter. There are more important things to worry about now, like if I’m a horrible mother or if all of my choices are wrong, or if I’m going to give myself food poisoning for eating week-old leftovers.

“That can’t be right,” Dave starts. “I’m six-foot-four and you’re taller than I am.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Not this song and dance.

I’ve given Dave the benefit of the doubt all night. I should have thrown in the towel when he ordered me a meal for a rabbit. Or, I should have stuck up for myself and ordered the cheeseburger like I wanted instead of letting him speak for me.

I click my tongue. “My height is accurate.”

It comes out snippy, but I’m hungry, tired, and having a horrible time, so my patience is thin. The response leads to an uncomfortable silence that stretches until the waitress returns with our meals.

Save me!I plead, one last time, with the enlargement of my eyeballs, but she misses it.

The lettuce looks pathetic and sad on my plate, especially sitting across from a juicy steak, but I nibble on the leaves and Caesar dressing. I’m pushing the salad around the plate, contemplating my life choices, when I hear a distinctive voice, deep and honeyed.

“Addie?”

My head snaps up at the familiar voice.

Fuck. Just what I need.

This date wasn’t bad enough on its own, the universe needed to add running into one of my players to the bingo sheet.

Declan Monroe stands beside our table, captivating blue eyes, deep like lapis lazuli, bouncing between Dave and me. His hair—a brown so deep it’s nearly black—is long and in need of a trim, but he’s exactly like he was at the end of the season: run down and tired.

It wasn’t hard to see he was different, duller than he used to be, and his weight dropped so dramatically at the end of the season, I was worried he wasn’t eating at all. He would drink smoothies, so I would pack them full of high-calorie fruits and protein powders in hopes it would help, but he wouldn’t speak to Ben about what was going on, so we did what we could.

My stomach does an uncomfortable flip, like it does when Nora is sick and I don’t know how to help her.

“Hi.”

I offer him a small, uncomfortable wave, but Dave stares at him like a deer in headlights, “star-struck” written all over his face.Bleh. No one would be star-struck with these guys if they knew how badly their equipment smells before it’s washed.

Declan clears his throat and gestures at the empty seat beside Dave and me.

“Do you mind if I sit? My food is taking longer than I expected.”

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