“Do I have a choice?”
Belle ignored me. “Hot Italian chick who loves checking off to-do lists almost as much as watching football. Go Bears!”
I laughed. “Oh, my God, Belle.”
Again, she ignored me.
“Season ticket holder looking for a cool, DTF guy to use my other ticket at a home game,” she continued. “If you love football, beer, and good conversation, I’m your girl. Send me a message, and maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll be sitting next to me at kick-off.”
“That’s actually only fifty-percent cheesy and awful,” I said, knowing there was little point in arguing any edits. I glanced at the photos she’d picked for me, staring at my phone over her shoulder. The default was a selfie I’d snapped just two weeks ago at the first home preseason game. I had my burnt-orange Bears jersey on, my long, dark brown hair pulled over one shoulder, and a sideways grin. My eyes looked even more intensely green than normal in the lighting I’d caught in my condo that afternoon, the sunlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Reading over the bio she’d written for me again, I frowned. “What does DTF mean?”
Belle sucked a large drink through her straw. “Oh, it means… dark, tall, and fun. Kind of like tall, dark, and handsome. All the kids are saying it, kind of like how we used A/S/L back in the good ol’ days of AOL messaging.”
“Oh…” I thought over her words, wondering when I’d missed that little piece of lingo. I was approaching thirty, but it wasn’t like I was ancient. I still kept up with social media, after all.
“Gotta pee!” Belle said quickly, hopping down off her barstool. She popped my phone into my hand. “Here, start swiping. Right means you think they’re hot, left means they don’t have a chance in hell.”
I laughed. “This is absurd.”
She just shrugged. “Welcome to dating in the twenty-first century. Be right back.”
Once Belle was gone, I crinkled my nose at my phone, placing it on the bar with the app still up on the screen. I turned my attention to the television behind the bar, instead, watching the game that had just started in California. The San Francisco 49ers were up on the Denver Broncos by three, and I watched the next play, tossing my hands up with a dramatic groan when offsides was called on Denver’s offense.
“Oh, come on, ref.” I sighed, sipping my vodka. “Idiots.”
“They’ve been calling shit this whole quarter,” an older guy huffed at me from down the bar. “You a Broncos fan, too?”
“Bears girl,” I answered, eyes still on the screen. “But that was just a terrible call, no matter which team you’re rooting for.”
“Let’s hope our refs just let the boys play this year,” the man’s friend chimed in, and I noted he was wearing a Bears shirt.
“I’m more concerned about our O line. If we can’t keep the quarterback safe, it won’t matter what the refs call.”
They both grumbled and raised their beers to me at that, and I cheersed their direction, taking another sip before my eyes flashed over my phone.
I sighed, finally picking it up.
For a solid minute, I just stared at the first face on my screen. It was a blond guy with glasses, his face a little round, eyes soft. The photo he’d chosen for his default was him sitting in a lawn chair at what appeared to be a barbecue, a dog in his lap, beer in one hand. He looked fun, like a friend I could watch football with.
But I didn’t want to have sex with him.
I swiped left.
Once that first decision was made, I filtered through the next ones a bit quicker. In all honesty, it felt like a game — like some sort of soft-core porn site that no one had to know I enjoyed browsing. The more I swiped, the more I smiled.
Hot lawyer with a cat? Swipe right.
Boating captain with a gaggle of girls in every single photo of his? No, thanks. Swipe left.
Self-proclaimed “rich stud” with a photo of him holding a stack of cash? Hard left.
Cute freelance writer with a love for all things Chicago, including the Bears? Yes, please.
This is fun, I thought.
Until the first message popped up.
Hey there, Gemma. How ‘bout them Bears?
I stared at the message, thumbs hovering over the keyboard on my phone.
What do I say back? Do I wait to respond? What if he thinks I’m stupid? What if he sees me in person and makes up some lame excuse to leave, and then I’m just sitting at the game alone?
Actually, that might not be so bad.