“Agreed. Hey, I need your opinion on ticket sales. What have you found to be the most successful way to get new season ticket holders and fans in the stadium doors?”
“I can’t really answer that question,” Erin says. “The waitlist for our season tickets is eighteen years. These people are die-hard fans, and it blows my mind they’re willing to wait that long to watch the games in the stadium rather than on TV.”
“Eighteen years? Holy shit.”
“Boston is twenty. No one gives up tickets to dynasty franchises. Even if they die, they just pass them on to a son or daughter in their will and the cycle continues. Why are you asking about tickets? Have I finally convinced you to go into client services and start interacting with people in real life?”
“No.” I laugh. “I agreed to a stupid bet with someone. It’s kind of a long story. Anyway, our single game numbers are strong, but I need to hone in on the long-term commitments.”
“You should think about offering promotions. Our season ticket holders get priority for playoff games. We also offer full-year and half-year plans. The half-year folks don’t have access to every game, but they do get to keep the same seats whenever they come to the stadium. It makes them feel like they really belong, you know? And, that way, you can alternate their games with another fans’ half-year plan and you’ve sold both seats for the season.”
“Shit.” I pull out my phone and type out some notes. “That’s brilliant. Thanks, Er.”
“We also try to spoil them. VIP tours. Meeting the players and the cheerleaders. Early access to the arena. Dedicated parking. Those are the things that make coming to the game a hassle, and by mitigating those stressors, they’re more likely to renew.”
“I love all of these ideas. I have a meeting set up with our head of ticket sales when I get home, and I can’t wait to run these suggestions by him. This is so helpful.”
“Who is your bet with?” she asks. “And what do you get if you win?”
“The guy who runs the Titans’ accounts.”
“The cute one with the glasses?” she asks, and I nod. “Wait a minute. I thought you two didn’t like each other.”
“I met him in real life.” I blush and tuck a piece of loose hair behind my ear. I can’t stop fidgeting, and thinking about Reid is making me nervous. “I also might have slept with him twice before realizing who he was?”
It comes out like a question, like I’m unsure if I straddled his lap and fucked him as the sun started to come up. As if I’m close to forgetting the feel of the smooth plane of his palm against my throat and the low timbre of his voice when he told me he wanted to bend me over the bed so he could watch my ass bounce.
I need to be hypnotized so I can get these thoughts out of my brain. They’re not good for my well-being.
“Oh mygod, Ave. How was it?” she whispers.
Incredible.
Best I’ve ever had.
“Nice,” I settle on, and she bursts out laughing. “It was nice.”
“You are such a bad liar. He rocked your world, didn’t he?”
“Okay, fine, yes, it was amazing. None of the men I’ve hooked up with before have known how to use their fingers likethat. And he talked to me during it, which I love.”
“The quiet ones are always the most fun.” Erin’s eyes gleam, and a smile dances on my lips as she voices what I’ve caught myself thinking on multiple occasions. “It’s like they study up on you and know exactly what drives you wild.”
“Yeah.” My throat is dry, and I try to swallow. “Exactly.”
“Amazing is certainly better than nice,” says a deep voice at my back. “Glad to know you enjoyed our time together so much you can’t stop talking about me. You’re the one who is obsessed, aren’t you, Sinclair?”
I spin around. The cup in my hand goes flying. Coffee splatters on everything in a four-foot radius, andReidis standing there, his hands in his pockets and his glasses covered in brown liquid.
I really shouldn’t be affected by hearing my last name this much.
“Shit.Shit. What are you—how—” I grab a stack of napkins and start to dab his chest before I realize what I’m doing and step away. “Hello.”
“If you wanted to touch me that badly, you could’ve just asked.” He pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses clean with one of the only dry spots on his shirt. “I might have said yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Meeting in the designated spot for flag football.” Reid stares at me. “And listening to conversations about me.”
