Everyone turns and stares at me.
Boyfriend? Fuck, no. She’smine. “Twenty-four dogs ishuge,” I improvise.
Max stares at me a beat too long while Diego takes the bait and rattles on about how Waverly’sboyfriendadopted the dog that was missing one ear.
She doesn’t have a boyfriend.
She doesn’t. It’s a publicity stunt. Has to be.
She would’ve told me if she was dating someone.
Wouldn’t she?
Yes. Yes, she would’ve. She’s starting to step out of her comfort zones in public, but dating one guy and coming to my house to do what she’s callingfinishing our flingisn’t her style.
Also, thatfinishing our flingthing?
No way.
No fucking way.
This is only the start. Come November, I’ll have a few months off.
If she can wait four more months for me, I can date her pants off.
Figuratively.
And literally. That’s part of dating. But figuratively first.
Assuming I can figure out a way to impress the fuck out of her during our supposed fling-finishing.
She can buy herself the whole entire world, and here I’m hoping my personality alone will win her over.
Don’t say it. It’s bad enough I’m thinking it. I don’t need you to say it too.
Maybe the problem with your game is that you’ve finally realized you’re not all that.
Dammit.
I told you not to say it.
The problem with my game is that I play better when I’m getting laid, and I’m not getting laid because I found someone I’m so obsessed with that I don’t even notice when other women are in the room anymore, and because I’ve always beenme, she doesn’t think I’m worth her time for anything more than gettingclosure.
Max pokes me. “Dude. It’spuppy prom. Who scowls at that?”
“I’m gonna hit a fucking grand slam today,” pops out before I can think. This is what I do.
I talk big.
I deliver big.
Usually.
And historically, I talk big, deliver big, and the game lets us down, because we’re the Fireballs. But this year, I talk big, I deliver small, and the team comes through anyway.
The whole clubhouse goes silent.
“I’m gonna hit a fucking grand slam,” I repeat.
