Page 26 of Play Along With Me
Kevin shrugs. "Just an extra perspective. Sports management is as much about character as it is about talent. Marshall has the talent. I wanted your take on the rest."
"And now you're reconsidering because I made up a story about a diabetic cat?"
"Now I'm wondering if your judgment is as sound as I thought," he says, but there's a twinkle in his eye that suggests he's not entirely serious.
"For what it's worth," I offer, "I think Jake seems solid. Steady. The kind of person who doesn't make things about himself."
Kevin nods thoughtfully. "That tracks with what I've observed. But Audrey—" he pauses, glancing ahead to where Jake is waiting by the car. "Try not to let the fact that you're clearly attracted to him cloud your judgment, okay?"
I open my mouth to protest, but Kevin just smiles knowingly and walks ahead to unlock the car.
Great. Apparently, my inner monologue about Jake's shoulders and hands wasn't quite as inner as I thought. I've managed to invent a diabetic cat, botch a knock-knock joke, getcaught checking out my neighbor, and disappoint a respected client all in the span of twenty minutes.
If this writing thing doesn't work out, I clearly have a promising future in professional humiliation.
Morton's Steakhouse has the distinctly masculine energy of a place designed for business deals and expense accounts. Dark wood, leather booths, and servers who introduce cuts of raw meat on a silver platter like they're presenting the crown jewels. I'm suddenly aware that I'm underdressed in my jeans and sweater, but no one seems to care.
We're seated at a round table in a semi-private alcove, with Ryan immediately launching into hockey talk that's so technical it might as well be quantum physics to my untrained ears.
I take the opportunity to discreetly check my phone under the table, my fingers automatically opening Instagram and typing "Daniel Westfield" in the search bar—a reflex as natural as blinking at this point. No new posts since yesterday's dining room table showcase. I'm slightly disappointed, which is both pathetic and perplexing. What was I hoping for? More furniture porn? A sudden confession that he married the wrong woman?
"—don't you think, Audrey?"
I look up to find Mike watching me expectantly. I've clearly missed something important.
"Absolutely," I say with conviction, having no idea what I'm agreeing to.
"See, Jake? Even Audrey agrees that the Polar Bears' blue line is their weak point this season," Mike says triumphantly.
I nod sagely, as if I have strong opinions about the structural integrity of New York's hockey defensive... whatever a blue line is.
"Though I'm sure Audrey has some colorful metaphor to describe it better than I could," Ryan adds with a knowing smile.
Wait, are they teasing me? Have I somehow developed inside jokes with these guys during the forty minutes I spent with them in Kevin's box, where I mostly made sarcastic comments about hockey terminology sounding like euphemisms?
"I believe my exact words were that their defense has more holes than my ex's explanation for why he needed to 'find himself' in Cancún with his yoga instructor," I recall, causing Ryan to snort into his whiskey.
"Classic Audrey," Mike chuckles, like we've been friends for years instead of having met exactly once before tonight.
Jake watches this exchange with confusion. "You all seem... familiar."
"Audrey provided colorful commentary throughout the game," Kevin explains. "Particularly during the second period when New York kept entering the zone uncontested."
"I believe I compared it to my apartment building's security door, which is supposed to keep strangers out but actually functions more like an elaborate welcome mat," I supply.
"And don't forget your analysis of the power play," Ryan adds.
"Ah yes, 'like watching someone try to parallel park a tank while blindfolded,'" Mike quotes, raising his glass in salute.
I'm both flattered and mortified that my hockey ignorance has somehow endeared me to these sports management professionals.
"I didn't realize you were such a hockey expert," Jake says with just a hint of teasing in his voice.
"Oh yes, I've been a fan for at least—" I glance at my watch, "—five hours now. Practically a lifer."
The waiter arrives to take our orders, saving me from further hockey discussions. The men all order steaks the size of hubcaps, while I opt for salmon because it feels less intimidating than trying to consume a small cow while making professional conversation.
"So, Audrey," Ryan says once the waiter leaves, "Kevin tells us you're an excellent judge of character. What's your assessment of Jake here? Besides the obvious physical attributes you were cataloging earlier."
