Page 1 of Blind Date with a #FORMERPLAYER
Prologue
Aunt Miranda
Laughter rings through the open space in the back of the small romance bookstore, decorated with colorful leaves, pumpkins, ghosts and witches. The scent of apples and cinnamon fills the air like it’s being piped into the room. Every store in Love Canyon goes all out with decorating each season, likely because it helps to decipher the time of year with the practically unchanging whether of the California Valley. Temperature around here tends to remain in the low seventies year round, which has me question the sanity of having the fireplace on low for ambiance.
Making my way back from the small bar in the corner, I smooth down my tan capris and cranberry red blouse with my free hand. Sitting down in a plush velvet red chair, I sip my sweet red wine and smile as I look around. The other women in attendance range in age from barely out of high school to a grandmother with two dozen grandchildren. I love looking around at all the different kinds of people it brings together. The clothing and hair styles are just as eclectic as the amazing women. We always have a good time.
The conversation drifts away from this week’s read to real life book boyfriends, a topic that has remained centerstage at nearly every book club since a few of the original members took it upon themselves to play matchmaker. It’s something I don’t want to miss.
“What other book boyfriends do we have around here in Love Canyon?” Aggie, a sixty-seven-year-old grandmother claims, her eyes bright. “It's time to set someone else up on a blind date.”
“You’re right. Who knew we’d be so good at this?” Gwen, a mom of four boys under ten says, bouncing in her seat with anticipation. She’s not exactly right, but she’s not wrong either. The setups have gone from love to hate and everything in between.
“What about Frank from the hardware store?” Ms. Batia, my old third grade teacher suggests, wiggling her eyebrows. “He’s single.”
I bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing. He’d be a better match for her. “He may be a widow, but he’s 75 and still deeply in love with his wife,” Tanith, the owner of the bookstore states.
“We all need someone,” Mrs. Batia mumbles under her breath.
“I’m sure you could help him feel better,” Nora, a sweet gray-haired grandmother who lives down the street from me offers. Mrs. Batia blushes at the attention.
An idea pops into my head. I hold up my glass of wine to get everyone’s attention and broadcast, “I volunteer my nephew. He just moved into the apartment in our house.”
“The one that’s the former baseball player?” Gwen asks with wide eyes.
“That’s the one.” I nod, the corners of my lips tugging up as gasps echo around the room.
“What’s his name, again?” Nora questions.
“Levi. Levi Brennan. He’s on Steve’s side of the family.”
“He’s moving here? He’s not going to play baseball next year?” Ms. Batia questions.
“It depends on his arm,” Gwen answers before I have a chance. Everyone always knows his business. “How long is he here?”
Fighting not to roll my eyes at them, I answer, “He hasn’t decided yet.”
“I heard he was a different kind of player,” Sacha, one of the younger women mumbles under her breath, elbowing her friend, Cilia, while a small smile plays on her lips. She’s definitely getting nowhere near him if I can help it.
“Because he’s surrounded by all the wrong women,” I defend. I’m not naïve.
Levi has been dating a lot of different women. Women who take advantage of him and his talent. Women who want to be seen with a professional athlete or sleep with him and then share it on social media. They either want fame, money, or perks of him being a player because let’s face it, they do have benefits.
“I’ve heard they have a name for those women,” Gwen ponders. “What is it called again?”
“Cleat chasers. At least that’s what it’s called in baseball,” I retort, pursing my lips. Everyone wants a piece of him. “And the media feeds on drama, Vegas being one of the worst. He’s a good man smothered by circumstances.”
The press are unrelenting vultures when it comes to him making my blood boil.
“Maybe it’s time we help him find the right woman,” Nora suggests.
“A good woman,” I emphasize, pushing my light brown hair behind my ear.
“I’ll volunteer,” Rachel, a blonde, twenty-something blurts out, fanning her face as if heated at the thought. She might as well wave a sign saying she’s just like all the rest. I’m sure she loves theideaof him, but probably wouldn’t bother getting to know him.
“What about Layla Romano?” Nora proposes as if no one had spoken, giving me hope. Layla is a sweet woman and smart as a whip. “With her dad, you know she wouldn’t fall at his feet because ofwho he is.”
I stifle a laugh. That alone would help tame his ego so he can discover his footing again. He deserves to find happiness, but he’s gotten a little lost along the way with so many women throwing themselves at him.
