“Who’s your favorite player?”
There’s no way this woman knows anything about the game of professional football. I can smell a real fan a mile away, and all I smell on her is a knockoff version of Chanel #5 and desperation.
“You of course.”
How did I know?
“So, you like winners then.”
I wink at her totally realizing that I shouldn’t be encouraging this woman, but sometimes I’m an ass when I’m bored or annoyed.
“Absolutely.”
The woman’s eyes grow hungry and move lower toward my nether regions. While she is fairly attractive, and she’s making her intentions crystal clear, I’m simply not interested.
For one, I’m not a kid anymore, and I don’t sleep with just any random woman—especially since the season is starting up. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. And two, she would just be too easy. I can tell that if I asked her to suck me off in front of the entire set that she probably would. Not that I would ask. My mother raised me better than that.
“Thanks for the pie and the personal attention but duty calls.”
I turn myself around on the stool with my back toward her to finally put this conversation to rest.
“Wait, Cooper, I want to give you my number.”
Is there anything I just said in the last five minutes to make this woman think that I would want to keep in touch? Or that she could address me using my first fucking name?
“No, thank you.”
“I can make you more pecan pie or you know—” She tries to give me a sultry look. “Whatever you have a taste for.”
“No. Thank. You.”
Can I make myself any clearer, captain obvious?
“Did I misread the signals when you were over at the table earlier?” she asks almost as if she’s offended. Angry even.
“When I thanked you for the plate of pie and the extra napkin?” I ask in disbelief.
“I thought we made a connection.”
“Over dessert?” I snicker.
“Excuse me? Are you laughing at me?”
“Sorry, darlin’, but there’s no pie in the world that would make me want your phone number.”
At this point it’s pretty obvious that this woman is considering hitting me across the head with the stainless steel spatula that she’s holding. She would never be fast enough to succeed, but I guess Owens believes she can, because she’s making a beeline for us from clear across the room.
“Are we okay here?” she asks stepping in between us with her saccharin sweet voice.
“Oh, you finally arrived?” I say to her.
“Are we okay here?” she asks a little more icily this time.
“Of course, we are,” I respond with little affect. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
Finished with this conversation, I go back to my meaningless text war with my agent. I’ve got a list of people on my shit list today.
“Miss?” Owens addresses crazy nipples. “Are you with craft services?”
