“No. I want to date you for real to prove that your one-size-fits-all approach to relationships doesn’t work.”
A coy smile spreads across my face. If he’s being honest and really wants to do this, I can have some fun with it. With him.
Heat spreads through my belly and into my core as I think of what this experiment might entail. I’ve always told myself that Drake was best kept in my dreams, but that was to protect the sanctity of the workplace. If it’s to benefit the workplace …
It’s not like I’m actually going to fall in love with him.
So, what could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Drake
“Heads up!”
I spin around just in time to catch a basketball aimed straight for my head.
“Sorry about that.” A guy on the other end of the court holds his hands out for me to pass the ball back to him. We’ve exchanged pleasantries in passing a few times. He’s always seemed like a decent guy, but the ball to the head makes me reconsider that assessment. “I completely missed that pass.”
I fire a bounce pass his way and then turn back to Jory.
Jory Plath, a winger with the Tennessee Royals rugby team, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. We met two years ago when I moved into this building and quickly bonded over sports and a shared love of pizza. When he called me on my way home from the office and asked if I wanted to shoot around for a while in our building’s gymnasium, I was all too happy to take him up on his offer.
After the day that I’ve had, I need an outlet to release some of this energy that’s still buzzing beneath my skin, or I’m goingto go crazy. It’s also nice to think about something else for a minute. Distance sometimes provides clarity.
“I just don’t know if I want to do it anymore, man,” Jory says, banking a shot off the backboard. “A part of me thinks I’d miss rugby like crazy if I retire. But then I think about not hurting every fucking day, settling down in one place, maybe getting a dog, and suddenly, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.”
“A dog?” I chuckle. “That feels so random.”
“You know what I mean, asshole.” He tosses me the ball. “How’d you know when it was time to retire?”
I step to the three-point line and launch a perfectly arched shot over the rim. The net swishes as the ball slides through.
This question comes up surprisingly often, especially in conversations with other athletes. It’s hard for us to walk away from a game that we’ve been playing since we were children. It’s the only reality we know. It’s often the only thing we’re good at. But my retirement story is complicated and includes discovering Dad’s rapid mental decline. That played a huge factor in my decision, but that’s not a topic I want to discuss.
“How’d I know?” I ask. “Well, I took a look at my bank account and then took a call from my mom.”Which isn’t a total lie.
He laughs, nodding as he rebounds my shot. “Been there, done that—in that order.”
“We won three championships in five years, and I didn’t feel like I had anything left to prove.”Which isn’t a lie either.“I had to commit to another three to five years with the team, with at least two of them being rebuilding seasons, or go home. And honestly, I played for eight years without major injuries. It felt like tempting fate if I stayed.”
“It was that simple, huh?”
“Hell no. There wasn’t anything simple about it. But I knew in my gut it was the right thing to do, and I always follow my gut.”
He snorts, setting the ball down and swiping his water bottle off the bench. He takes a quick drink. “Well, I wish mine would tell me more than to stop drinking cow’s milk. The last time I tried to figure out what my gut was saying, I woke up with a wife.” He curls his lips. “That’s why I stopped listening to that sonofabitch.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“I’m not.” He gives me a toothy grin. “Anymore.Thank God.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, unable to read the goofy fucker.
He shrugs before trotting to the basket and shooting a free throw.
I take a ball from the rack by the window overlooking the courtyard and dribble it from one hand to the other. Football was my bread and butter, but I’ve always loved basketball. The smell of a gymnasium—sweat mixed with stale popcorn—reminds me of high school. The acoustics are nostalgic. I’ve spent many hours bouncing a ball as I work out a problem or regulate my nervous system when I’m stressed.
