Page 14 of The Hot Shot
“Why?” He sucks down an oyster. “Did you want her to be?”
“No.” I run a hand over my hair. “I just can’t tell anymore.”
Hunched over his food, Jake looks up at me. “Messes with your head, doesn’t it?”
Relief that I don’t sound like a pompous asshole floods me. “Yeah, it does.”
“Well, for the record...” Jake points his beer in the waitress’s direction. “She was flirting.”
“Maybe you’re imagining things, too.” I pop a shrimp into my mouth.
“Finn,” he says with exaggerated patience. “You’re a starting pro quarterback in a town that loves its team. You can safely assume that even the dogs on the street are flirting with you.”
“The landscape of your mind is a scary place, Ryder.”
He grins, his mouth full of shrimp. “But a lot of fucking fun.”
I’m laughing in agreement when it hits me: Chess didn’t flirt. Not in the usual “please do me and then sign my chest”kind of way. She didn’t try to get anything from me, other than a good picture, which was her job. She’d been utterly herself. For a few brief moments, so had I.
“What’s that sour face all about?” Jake asks, cutting into my thoughts. “Got a bad oyster?”
I slouch back in my seat and toy with the soggy label on my beer bottle. Jake and I were drafted in the same year to the same team. We suffered through having to do embarrassing singing skits during training camp, rookie hazing, fucked-up buzz cuts with bull’s-eyes on our heads, and the mental mind-fuck of transitioning from being top dogs in college to holding on by our fingertips as we made our way in the NFL.
He is my closest friend. If either one of us gets transferred, I might actually break down and cry manly tears of sorrow. He’s also my sounding board, as weird as his advice usually is.
“I was thinking about the photographer.”
“Chester Copperpot?” He chuckles. “I don’t think she liked you.”
“She liked me fine.” While she hadn’t batted her eyelashes at me, there had definitely been moments of... something. I’ve never hadsomethingoccur with a woman before, so I’m not sure what the hell it is or what it means.
Jake lifts up a hand. “Okay, I need to amend my earlier statement. You can rest assured that everyone in New Orleans, including the dogs, is flirting with you. Except for Chess Copper.”
I resist the urge to chuck a hush puppy at his head. “That’s the thing. I know she didn’t flirt. I kind of liked that.”
He rests his forearms on the table. “Dude, be reasonable. The One-Eyed Willie comment killed it for you. Move on and knock on more welcoming doors.”
“Hell, I’m not trying to get into her pants—”
“Bullshit,” Jake coughs loudly.
“I just want to...” I trail off, not really knowing what the fuck I want. Being with Chess had been one of the most real moments of my life, and yet it also feels like a strange dream.
“Have a meaningful and deep conversation with the woman who took pictures of your junk all day?” he supplies. Not at all helpfully.
A hush puppy pings his forehead dead center. My aim is a thing of beauty.
Laughing, he flips me off and wipes the grease spot from his head. In turn, I give him a salute with my beer bottle.
“Look at it this way,” I say. “At least she won’t be distracted by trying to picture me naked.”
“Worse, she’s already seen you naked. If she’s not trying to get you there again, you know she found you lacking.”
“Why do I tell you anything?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going to sell it to the tabloids later.”
It might be wrapped up in a joke, but he’s giving me a good reminder. Our lives aren’t like normal people’s. Finding someone to hook up with is easy. Having an actual relationship is a minefield. You might never know whether the person likes you or your fame. Plus, there’s the hassle of easing someone into a life where they’re under a public microscope, and you’re either on the road for most of the season, or training, making appearances, and basically having no personal time. That’s why most smart guys either marry their college sweethearts or connect with someone famous who knows what to expect.
