“Cool.” He pulls out his phone, unlocks it. “What’s your number?” I rattle it off to him and a text pops up on my screen.
Unknown: This is Jay Bishop, Pool Shark, ESQ.
“You’re an esquire?” I chuckle.
He looks up at me and says, “I am many things while drunk, Marco—?”
“Borrelli,” I add.
“—Marco Borrelli. The least of which is a lawyer. Also, I saved your contact as Marco with an eight-ball emoji as theo.”
“Well, thank you,” I look down at the message and read off his credentials. “Jay Bishop, Pool Shark, Esquire. I had fun tonight. You’re gonna get an Uber, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll order it now and then we can finish this last game. You need a ride?”
“Nah, my sister’s place isn’t a far walk from here. I’ll be fine. Are you sure you want to finish this game? You know I only have one move left, right? And you have… well, every ball left.”
“Of course I want to finish. This is an underdog story if I ever saw one!”
The chorus to Billy Joel’sPiano Manplays loudly and Jay lets himself succumb to the ballad, singing at the top of his lungs. He wildly gestures for the other patrons to join in. To my surprise, they do, and I can’t help but join the drunken choir.
Chapter 3
Grandpa Basketball
Jay
Five Years Ago
“Arethesetheguysyou normally play with?” Marco whispers to me as he leans in close. Close enough for me to smell him. And of course he smells good. Why wouldn’t the hottest guy I’ve ever seen smell amazing? He’s not even wearing cologne, but between what I assume is his body wash and deodorant plus his natural scent, I’m wrecked.
We walk further into the gymnasium of the YMCA as Harold spots me and gives me a wave. Harold is about eighty years old and he’s the median age of this group of men I play with regularly.
Chuckling, I set my duffle bag down on the bench. “Hell yeah. Don’t let the name of this establishment fool you. The Young Men’s Christian Association is mostly made up of families with young kids, moms on treadmills who have brought their pubescent sons, and the oldest men that still walk the earth.”
Marco sits down next to me, and as he pulls his sweatshirt off, his t-shirt clings to the thick material and it comes off, too.
Fuck. Me.
He’s ripped and has tattoos?
Trying to turn off my inner horn dog, I keep word-vomiting. “I almost never find anyone my age here. I’d rather play with the grandpas anyway. They’re always impressed by me, unlike the teenage boys who I’m pretty sure make fun of me but I can’t tell because they use new slang that I’m not up on.”
He brings his gray t-shirt back down and turns his head to smile at me.
Ugh, that crooked smile is going to kill me.
This was a very bad idea. I’m almost positive this guy is straight as an arrow. There have been absolutely no flirtatious glances or remarks from him and yet—I want to hang out with him more.
“Honestly, this might be a good thing,” Marco says. “I’m a little hungover still, so a slower paced game might be the right way to go.”
“Are you here to gab like a couple of birds, or are you here to play?” Doug grumbles by way of greeting. He’s about five foot five and the skinniest man alive with a bald, white head dotted with dark sunspots. He’s wearing—Jesus Christ, it’s always something weird with this man. Today he’s wearing jorts that are four sizes too big, held up by his signature yellow, wide-strap suspenders and what I think might be his high school wrestling singlet. He’s also wearing New Balance shoes that look like they’ve mowed one thousand lawns.
We live in the middle of Philadelphia… what lawn is he mowing?
“Good to see you, too, Doug. You ready to get beat?”
He throws his hand, pretending to shove off the comment and guffaws. “You wish. Go’n pass me the jawn.” He points to the new basketball next to me and I throw it his way.
