But we can’t because of the playbook. Because she’s my image coach. Blah, blah, blah.
Aside from some meetings with contractors, football-related stuff, and checking in with the charity I oversee to teach young people farming and trade skills, there’s filmingfor Crush or Cupid. Suffice it to say, I’d rather be doing drills for Coach Hammer.
I’m trying to talk my way out of meeting date number eleven. Her name is Brielle. I’ve stopped looking at the candidates’ profiles because it’s going to be an automatic no.
The girl for me is walking next to me. Her phone pings with a message. She almost gets swiped by a bike messenger when she steps off the sidewalk, and there’s nothing better than my hands on her, feeling the warmth from under her blouse.
It’s the perfect spring day with the sun shining and a light breeze as we enter Boston Public Garden, where today’s dating activity is to take a ride on a Swan Boat.
“Do I really have to do this?” I’m no longer above whining.
Pippa tilts her head to the side. “After today, there is only one date left. The producers are thrilled with the footage. You’re doing great. Really convincing. The women of the world are going to love you.”
“I hate this,” I say through clenched teeth.
She smooths a lint fuzzy from my shirt. Without thinking, I press my hand against hers. “You feel that?”
Her eyebrows bunch together. “Feel what? Do you have a lump? A bump? Please tell me you’re not lumpy or bumpy under there. My dad knows a great doctor.”
I crack a partial smile because her sweet concern is one of the things I like about her. “No lumps or bumps.” I was going to point out the beating of my heart. But her phone pings.
She takes her hand away to check, leaving me cold, even though the sun is warm today.
“It’s showtime.”
This reminds me that it’s all fake. I’m not going to marry any of the twelve women or Marlow. If I can’t have Pippa, I’ll look into life at a monastery.
“Alright, off you get.” Pippa positions herself on a park bench where she’ll have a full view and can coach me if necessary.
Through the earpiece, she says, “Remember to stand up straight.”
Whereas I usually stand tall, putting myself into a zone is taking its toll. There’s a slight hitch in my shoulders.
“Let’s see you smile. She’s on her way.”
I’ve been told my smile is ordinarily bright and flirtatious, but it takes every ounce of my will to lift my lips.
“You look great. This is going to be great.” If I’m not mistaken, Pippa’s voice is strained.
A squeal comes from nearby, probably a child happy to see the ducks. But then it gets louder as a woman races toward me wearing black and blue, including a pair of blue platform Converse sneakers that almost reach her knees. She’s on the shorter side, but I can’t tell whether the film crew accidentally let a fan onto the set or if this is my date.
Please, no.
The squeal reaches an eardrum-splitting volume as she flings herself at me. She hops up and down and grips my shirt, thenspins in a circle, showing me the jersey with my last name emblazoned across the back.
Up close, she’s not a child, unless this one has spent an inordinate amount of time in the sun without protection.
“I can’t believe I’m meeting you. I’ve loved you since you started on the Bruisers. I’m Brielle and want to have more of your babies.”
My mouth drops open and I stand stock still, shocked, frozen.
“Say something,” Pippa says into the comms unit in my ear.
“Uh,” I start. “Thanks for being a fan.”
The woman pulls out her phone and says, “Look! The kids have been so excited to meet you. Chase, I’d like you to meet Chasely, Chasette, Chasella, and Chasen.” She swipes through several photos of dolls dressed up in Bruisers’ merch.
“You’re joking, right?” I blurt.
