Page 3 of Biggest Player
I don’t want kids right now either.
Maybe not ever, if I’m being honest.
Myfriendsare my family. I have one brother, and my parents are out of the picture, reappearing every so often to ask for money. I’m not close to any cousins and haven’t seen any aunts or uncles in years. Not in person, anyway, although every so often they, too, reappear—again,asking for money.
So, yeah, I have an estranged relationship with them.
The last person who should be bringing up children is me, considering I can’t get along with the people who raised me.
Actually, I had to go to therapy for two years to cope with the fact that my family is full of leeches and the guilt about telling them no, but hey, I learned how, and that’s all that matters.
Which brings me to dating.
Wanting someone who loves me for me—the way Harlow loves Landon for himself and not because he is a world-class football player, and she didn’t know his true identity when they met.
“Maybe I should go to a big city and sit in a park and wait for a woman to fall into my lap the way he did, instead of having to put myself on this stupid dating app,” I grumble, thumb moving in the same direction, one swipe after the next in the wrong direction.
Left.
Always left.
“Don’t they tell people in their advertising that we’re supposed to find a match so we can delete this thing?” I complain.
“Are you talking to yourself?” My chef appears in the doorway, blue pin-striped apron tied around her waist. “Hold up. Why are you eating pizza?” She moves into my office, fingers clearly itching to snatch the paper plate off my side table and toss it in the nearby trash.I can see it in her eyes.“I thought you said you wanted to eat healthy.”
“I do want to eat healthy. Once I’m done with this pizza.”
“The giant pizza on the counter is why I’m barging in.” Her lips curl in disappointment. “Yesterday I put lean chicken in the fridge to thaw out. Did you want me to make extra and meal prep the rest?”
“Yes, please.” I bat my lashes in her direction. Lean chicken is my favorite. “You’re an angel.”
“Fine.” She turns to go. “Don’t let that ruin your appetite.”
“This isn’t going to ruin my appetite!” I protest and take another bite to prove my point, chewing vigorously.
Carrie squints. “When would you like to eat?”
My shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “Whenever. Doesn’t matter. I’m in the middle of finding a girlfriend—then I’m having drinks in a few hours.”
My chef laughs the kind of laugh that makes her a terribly unprofessional employee, but we grew up together and went to high school together, and when she moved to Arizona, I hired her to freelance as a personal chef.
Several of my teammates use her too.
Is she a pain in my ass?
Yes.
Does she make great food? Yes.
Do I occasionally wish she wasn’t all up in my business?
Also yes.
But Carrie is really the only family I have in Arizona, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world, though I do wish she was less of an asshole.
I’m sensitive, dammit!
“So you won’t be here for dinner or you will?”
