AJ might be the best at reading people, but he’s not great at context clues or you know... knowing when someone’s about to cross into crazyland.
The list is endless, as is mine. On more than ten occasions since we’ve known each other he’s offered to go beat up an ex of mine. I’ve always stopped him of course, because one, I’m in charge of managing his perfect reputation and assault charges would have me working day and night for years, and two, none of my exes are really worth it.
Also, violence is wrong or whatever.
In any case, I can tell he knows it would be nearly impossible for me to find the man of my dreams just in time for this reunion.
Which is a good thing, I remind myself. I don’t actually want to go.
But then he springs up, eyes wide and sparkling that sky blue once more.
“What about me?” he demands loudly. It takes me a moment to remember the last thing I said, and when what he’s implying clicks, I start choking on air.
“Ex-fucking-cuseme?” I cry out between coughs.
“I can be your boyfriend.” He looks really happy and proud of this marvelous solution.
“What are you talking about?” I shout, really starting to worry I missed some very important part of this conversation.
“Imean,” he stresses, speaking slowly. “I can go with you to the reunion, throw your success and this sexy-ass bod in what’s-his-name’s face, and then you get to hang out with your buddies for a weekend.”
He gestures at his torso, and I know it’s wrong, but the pictures of that underwear campaign he did flit through my mind instantly.
It was only last year that he did that photoshoot, and I was in charge of approving the final pictures they’d use... that’s the only reason it took me so long to go through them.
Yup, the only reason.
I shake my head. I’m not thinking about any of it ever again, and I snap my gaze back up again.
There is... too much hope in his eyes, and it reminds me I need to lock the fuck in and shut this shit down. He probably thinks I’ve been entertaining his dumb-ass idea.
“No, no, no, no.” I keep shaking my head. “That’s not happening.”
“Comeon,” he cajoles. “Why not? It’s a bulletproof plan.”
I scoff,hard. And for the next fifteen seconds it’s the only thing I can do, just let out scoff after scoff.
Why is it hard all of a sudden to point out hownotperfect his plan is? I have my mouth open and everything but nothing will come out.
AJalwayssays, “It’s a perfect plan,” and it never fucking is.
Well, outside the football field it’s never a perfect plan. Like that one time he wanted to get a pet python—not a perfect plan.
Or when he wanted us to go bungee jumping in New Zealand—also not a perfect plan.
Or that time he bought wigs and weird-ass clothes so he could walk down Hollywood Boulevard with me—not his worst plan, actually, but he got recognized two steps in.
Another time he told me with a straight face that he was going to make an ad for a porn star, and also for a porn site, and that was another one of his “perfect” plans—one I thankfully got shut down.
Nothing against porn or porn stars—obviously, since I’ve been single almost all my adult life—but he’s a franchise quarterback, and a role model for kids. Even if his fans are also grown-ass adults, it would’ve been career suicide, but this girl apparently only uses ecological lube and dildos or some shit, and AJ loves that stuff.
So really, history would show that this is not, in fact, a perfect plan.
So why can’t I refute it?
“Look,” he goes on, and stands while holding his palms out to me. “I need to go get something to eat before I hit the gym with Appleton and Johnson later, so you think about this.” I really don’t appreciate him gesturing at the whole room. “Carefully,” he adds for somegreat reasonI’m sure. “The offer’s there and I think this could be fun.”
Then he’s shining down that perfect sunny smile on me, the one the whole country melts for. Even those who hate the Los Angeles Warriors fall at his feet at the sight of that smile, and what’s worse is that it’s genuine.
