///
My reply is lost to the ringtone blaring from my phone. Since I've assigned all the people closest to me a tone, I know who it is right away, and my insides clench as Bohemian Rhapsody plays.
It's an easy thing to hit "ignore." But it doesn't halt the guilt.
Jake frowns. "You ignoring your mother now?"
Yes, I am now the son who sends his mother straight to voicemail. "This from someone who ignores his mom all the time?"
"My mom usually calls to complain about my sisters, and I end up getting stuck in the middle of one of their heinous fights. Have you ever had to deal with five pissed off women? It's not a pretty sight. Your mom, on the other hand, feeds me and tells me how cute I am. She's like Martha Stewart and Betty White rolled into one adorable package."
I try to visualize that, but decide it's best not to for the sake of my sanity. "All this because she sends you care packages after you made up some sob story about being a starving bachelor."
"It's the truth. I am a starving bachelor." He pulls open the door of the studio we're going to spend the next hour in. "Her snickerdoodles are prize worthy. Besides, can I help it that she loves me? At this point, I'm fairly certain she wants to adopt me."
His words send a bolt of pain straight into me. It squeezes my chest with hard hands, and I suck in a breath. Immediately Jake pales. "Oh, shit, man. I didn't-"
"It's okay," I cut in, lifting a hand. I don't want to talk about that.
Lips pinched, he nods shortly.
"She wants me to come home for Thanksmas." There are seasons when I'm stuck playing a game on Thanksgiving or Christmas. My mother came up with the idea of celebrating both during one of my bye-weeks and calling it Thanksmas. It's a ridiculous name, but one that usually makes me smile.
Now, I dread it. My mother always means well with her meddling ways, but she has all the subtly of a bulldozer. "She married Glenn off, so now I'm her pet project. And I do not have the energy to deal with it."
"You want me to come with you?" Jake offers. "I'm an excellent distraction. I can moan about not getting enough to eat and how I'm wasting away." He runs a hand over his chest where he's put on about ten pounds of lean muscle during the off-season. Not that my mother will care; she'll feed him regardless.
"Thanks," I say, toeing off my shoes. "But that will only give her two of us to fixate on."
Jake stows his gear in a cubby and stretches his arms overhead as three women walk in. Barely dressed, their bodies lithe and graceful, they eye us with familiar, playful interest. Jakes tracks their movement through the room. "Best fucking day of the week," he says with a feral grin.
"I actually enjoy coming here, Ryder. So don't fuck it up by dipping your wick in this particular wax."
Jake snorts. "Too late."
"Jesus. Who?"
"Rachel."
Which would explain why the little blond keeps sending covert glances our way.
"And Sheila," he add, as Sheila of the bouncy curls and death glare strolls by. Thankfully, a guy can't actually lose his balls with one look, or we'd both be hurting right about now.
"Oh, for fucks sake. You're a fucking menace."
He laughs, totally unrepentant. I wonder if this is how I come off to Chess. It isn't exactly flattering. If that's the case, I can't blame her for wanting to stay away.
Shaking my head at Jake, I pull out my phone. Because thoughts of Chess make me want to talk to her. We've agreed to be friends, and then I'd left her to her night. Not an easy task, considering she'd said she was going home to soak in a tub.
Would it be within the bounds of friendship to ask how that bath of hers went?
"Who are you texting?" Jake tries to peer over my arm.
I elbow him away. "Isn't there another female you could be posturing for?"
Jake squints as if contemplating. "Probably not a good idea. I think I'm pushing it as it is."
"Oh, now, you come to that realization?" Snorting, I tap out a message to Chess.
And she answers immediately. And we fire a few texts back and forth. No matter what I throw her way, she volleys right back with sass.
"You should see your face right now, Manny. You are in total smit."
"Smit?"
"Yeah, smitten. Totally fucking smitten." He looks almost sorry for me.
Chess pings me back, and I grin and answer, only half aware of Jake.
"This does not bode well for you, my friend," he says. "Clueless shits like us should stick to hookups."
///
"Not everything is about sex," I tell him, only half believing it. I type another message to Chess.
"You're right," he says with a grin, as Eleanor spots us and heads our way with a look in her eye that promises she'll be making us sweat and burn. "There's football. Sex and football. What more could a guy want?"
Six months ago, I'd tell him nothing and give him a high five. Now? I don't know the answer.
* * *
Chess
* * *
I'm putting on my makeup when Finn texts me.
GQ: Hey. Who are you shooting today?
I can't decide if it's the fact that he texted me or that I'd named him GQ in my contacts that makes my day suddenly a little sunnier. But there's a smile tickling my lips as I pick up my phone and respond.
CC: Porter. Worchowsky. Redmond. Phillips, Mr. Nosy.
We're actually doing two calendars. One featuring the offensive team and the other with the defensive team. Today, I'm working with guys on the defense.
GQ: I don't know this Nosy. Careful. He might be a spy.
CC: Very cute.
GQ: I try. ;)
CC: Aw, and you do emojis too. Such a cute QB.
GQ: Am tempted to send the finger emoji …
My laughter rings out in the relative silence of my loft. I find myself unable to sit still anymore and head for my balcony.
CC: :-* Where are you?
GQ: On my way to ballet class.
Okay, what? Not what I was expecting.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Yes. Ballet.
CC: Ballet?
GQ: Are we talking in circles here?
Biting my lip against a grin, I rest my forearms on my balcony rail and answer.
CC: No. I'm trying to convey my skepticism.
GQ: You know, for an independent career woman, you're awfully old fashioned in your outlook, Ms. Copper.
CC: Fine, I'm exposing my double standards. Send a picture as proof.
GQ: So untrusting. Here's your proof, Mrs. Doubtfire.
He sends me a selfie. Wearing a tank top and baggy gym shorts over tight compression shorts, he's standing in front of a mirror wall with a barre bar attached to it. Jake is with him, and they're booth making goofy faces, their tongues sticking out like Gene Simmons from KISS. Between them stands a thin and elegant, older woman in a leotard. She grins with pride, her arms around the two men as if they're her boys.
I laugh, and tap out a quick message.
CC: My mind is officially blown.
GQ: Is that all it takes? Should have done a pirouette for the shoot.
CC: Fairly certain would have resulted in panties going up in flames when that got out.
GQ: You say the nicest things, Chester.
Since I know he's doing it to irk me, I let "Chester" slide.
CC: I'll bite. Why are you taking ballet classes?
GQ: Jake found out about it when he pulled a hamstring and had to limber up. It's great for flexibility, balance … stamina."
GQ: It's GREAT for stamina
CC: You keep repeating that word like I'm supposed to be impressed.
GQ: Oh, you will be.
Cheeky, little … I start to type out an answer but he sends another text.
GQ: Plus, all the women in class are very eager to help me maintain my form. ;-)
The happy fizz in my belly instantly goes flat, and I'm left with a sour stomach instead. If that isn't a sign to put the brakes on this, I don't know what is. I have plenty of male friends. None of them inspire jealousy.
CC: Don't strain something while you're at it.
GQ: If I do, will you give me a rubdown?
Right there. That's flirting. I put down the phone and pace away. Who am I kidding? We've been flirting from the start.
James walks in the door and drops his key in the dish. He immediately spots me wearing a groove in the floorboards. "Well, someone has lost her happy face."
"What did we agree on about reminding me to smile?" I warn, not stopping my pacing.
"To not to," James says happily. "But then we both know I ignore most of your directives, oh mighty queen."
The phone dings again. I eye it like a snake.
James unwinds the orange scarf wrapped around his neck. It clashes horribly with his hair and beard, but I suspect he likes that. "All right," he says. "Who is harassing you? Is it that diva Maria? Tell her the camera can perform certain illusions, but it can't wash the bitch out of her hair."
I choke back a laugh. Maria is a model we've worked with a while back. She had insisted that I'd shot her in unflattering angles. Not true. She is gorgeous. But insecure. And a complete pain in my ass.