“Go for it. I’ll watch out for you tonight and get you home safe.” He holds up his hand and closes his thumb over his pinky, leaving the correct three fingers sticking up. “Scout’s honor.”
A familiar swirling sensation tiptoes around my stomach. He will keep me safe. He always does. I add that quality to my list of necessities for my future man: can trust him with my life.
I toss back the shot and let it burn my throat as the table bursts into shouts and cheers.
“Just go check on her so you’ll quit obsessing,” Jamal says, pulling my attention back to the table where I immediately stop tapping my finger. We’ve been here almost three hours now, and usually the guys would have run up an alcohol bill that could easily pay for a new car, but not tonight. We’re all on strict diets to keep us in top shape, which means little to no alcohol, lean proteins, and lots of vegetables. We’re not messing around.
Well, all of us except Bree. She’s been knocking ’em back like a toddler with a juice box problem. I usually wouldn’t mind, but tonight it’s making me feel guilty, because I think I’m the reason she’s drinking so much. When she found out I’ve been paying her rent and then on top of that found out I’m celibate, I think I basically flipped her life upside down and shook all the change out. I didn’t mean to tell her I’m celibate, but I sort of had no choice when Kelsey’s article was spreading lies. The honest truth is I’m celibate by choice. I don’t know, one day I just woke up and realized I was done trying to trick myself into thinking I wanted anyone other than Bree. If it’s not with her, I don’t want it.
Geez. Now I’m realizing how absurd that sounds. Jamal is right—I’ve got to do something about this friendship or I’m going to die a lonely, pining, sexually frustrated man. I can’t keep going like this forever, but I feel stuck. And the look on Bree’s face when I hinted that she might be the reason for my celibacy…I’d rather be punched in the stomach than see it again.
“I’m not obsessing. I’m just…”
“Obsessing,” the rest of the table states obnoxiously in unison.
I smirk and shake my head, looking down at my phone to see if Bree has sent me any rescue texts. None from her, but I have two missed calls from my agent followed by five texts updating my schedule for the week and adding more meetings to an already packed agenda. There’s also a whole slew of messages from my mom with her own notes about how I could have played better in my last game.
* * *
Mom: I was just watching the highlights from Monday night’s game, and you were looking a little sluggish.
Mom: I think you should fire your nutritionist and go with the woman I found for you.
Mom: And you’re holding on to the ball too long.
* * *
Cool, now she’s my offensive coach.
* * *
Me: I’m out with friends right now. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.
Mom: You’re still out right now? It’s late. This is not going to help you play better. You need to—
* * *
I stop reading there and pocket my phone. She lives in Malibu now, but somehow her expectations still reach me in Long Beach. They’re nothing new though. She’s been pushing me to play my best game since pee wee football. I know I shouldn’t complain too much because she helped get me to where I am, but it wears on me. Mostly because she does accurately point out my weak spots. It makes me feel like I should be up earlier tomorrow to watch the tapes and see if I am holding on to the ball too long.
I pull my thoughts back to Bree. “You guys know how she gets when she’s been drinking.”
Jamal laughs. “Yeah. She gets cute and talkative. You’re the unbearable one.”