1
Letme give you a piece of advice.
When you find yourself on a blind date at a professional basketball game with a guy who shows up wearing sweatpants and his favorite jersey—onlyhis favorite jersey—run.
Run far away.
I met Jason on MixNMingle. I was new to the app, thanks to my friend, Mira, who signed me up without my permission, lied hysterically on my profile, and held my computer hostage until I agreed to go on one date. ‘One night of fun,’ she called it. Not to be an old cliche, but I didn’t have time for dates. I didn’t even want them.
Jason had been my only swipe right. To be honest, I gave myself about one whole minute on the app before getting frustrated and picking the first guy who didn’t look like he lived in some basement bunker or the weight room at the gym. He offered me a ticket for the Jazz game that night, which turned out to be my kryptonite. My starry-eyed lapse in basketball judgment was how I found myself hiking to the nosebleeds and sitting next to my date, who was dressed more appropriately for a NASCAR race than a basketball game.
Mullet included.
Proving, once again, that I couldn’t seem to pick men any better than my mother.
Jason leaned in close, his bare arm brushing against mine and the smell of beer already thick on his breath. “Can’t believe how packed it is tonight.”
I leaned away and gave a polite smile. “I know. It’s crazy.”
My eyes drifted down to the large mass of dark hair oozing out of his tank top. I get it. We’re all mammals, we all have hair. My hairstylist always tells me that I have enough brown hair on my head to cover three different scalps. So, I wasn’t hair-shaming anyone, but I didn’t need to see all of that on a first date. I don’t care how much good luck you think your jersey brings to a game. With hair pillowing out of every opening, I wasn’t sure where to look, so I turned my attention back to the court as the teams warmed up and tried to appreciate the fact that I was at the game.
The smell of popcorn and the sound of the warm-up basketballs hitting the court should have left me giddy. Though the Delta Center in Salt Lake City, Utah was only a few minutes from where I live, I had never been to a game. Seeing the Jazz in person had always been a dream of mine. Mira and I spent most game nights watching from her apartment, throwing microwave popcorn at the TV and booing the refs. While I did appreciate the arena’s excited buzz in the air, sitting next to Joe Dirt and smelling something sour every time he raised his arms definitely put a damper on the whole experience.
But I refused to let that completely sway my attitude.
Eventually, the seats around us filled in as the game began. Though I didn’t look directly at him, a man settled into the seat next to me. From what I gathered with casual glances to my right, he was fairly tall. His knees brushed against the seat in front of him. Brown hair. Baseball hat. A nice pair of jeans. He wore a t-shirt covered up by a light jacket. No jersey. No unnecessary body hair in my face. The best part was the light cologne attached to his body that I discreetly turned toward every time I needed a fresh breath of air.
In my defense, Jason’s MixNMingle picture was from his stint in the Army. Excuse me for thinking his green camo army shirt, pants, and short haircut was attractive. I still wasn’t sure my date reallywasthat man in the picture.
I was going to kill Mira.
“You want a drink or something, Nora?” Jason turned toward me, placing his hand lightly on my knee, his face two inches too close to mine. The beer in his cupholder was nearly empty. He motioned toward the guy walking up and down the aisle, selling concessions.
“No. I’m okay, thanks,” I said, breathing easier when he removed his hand. I was not big on touch, though some people were and thought little of it. I was probably being too hard on him. He hadn’t done anything wrong, per se, but for some reason, something about him rubbed me the wrong way. I wanted to give Jason zero false impressions. The deliberately casual way his skin would brush mine made my red-flag receptor ping. I wasn’tthathungry. Although, a pretzel with cheese sauce sounded amazing. But not here. I didn’t want Jason to pay for a thing. He flagged the guy down and got a pretzel for himself and offered me a bite, which I politely declined after watching his wet mouth attack the bread.
“Not a big eater, huh?” Was it just me, or did he look happy about that?
By the time the buzzer went off, signaling the end of the first quarter, I stood up to stretch my muscles. Jason looked at me curiously. “You need to use the bathroom?”
“No, just stretching.”
It did feel nice to stand up until I noticed Jason’s eyes drifting down the backside of my jeans. I sat down and inched a bit closer to the good-smelling guy and zeroed my eyes in on the court.
“The armrest is all yours.”
The low drawl at my right came so soft I almost didn’t register that it was intended for my ears. Jason was now leaning forward and arguing with a group of guys one row in front of us. I shot a look toward the voice.
Dark eyelashes, long and slightly curled, met my gaze. Baseball hat. Gentle brown eyes. And what might be the sexiest five o’clock shadow I had ever beheld. I was able to keep my mouth from dropping open in shock, but only barely.
I remembered he had said something.
“What?” I asked brilliantly.
He nodded toward my seat. “The armrest. I had it the first quarter. The second quarter, it’s all yours.”
I stared at him, not quite comprehending that this man seemed to be willfully giving up the armrest. I usually made it a habit to tuck my arms around my stomach to appear smaller, as though I didn’t want the extra space. But he was just giving it to me?
He must have sensed my confusion and added, “I figured we should have the talk.”
