He laughed. “I wish. I’m not that famous.”
“Thank God,” I breathed. Except, of course, replaying his tone of voice made me realize that he really did wish he were that famous. “You want to be stalked?”
“Hell, no. But I would like to be so great at baseball that the fans couldn’t help themselves.”
“I think you’re there already.” As the swinging bachelor of the Bobcats, there were Instagram and Twitter accounts devoted to pictures of him in various states of undress. I knew, because I’d perused the feeds a few thousand times.
“From your lips to God’s ear,” he said as he guided us to the maître d’. He hadn’t given his name before we were greeted and escorted to an intimate table on the second floor. It was just like the magazine pictures I’d seen, only better because I was here. We were asked for our drink orders, which sent a flurry of panic through me. What did I know about wine? Absolutely nothing. So I did what Rachel had once recommended: order the house rosé. It was the perfect drink for ditherers. Not white, not red, but something in between.
Jake smiled and got a specialty craft beer. Damn, I wish I’d thought of that.
Then I waited to look at the menu, except we weren’t handed any. Food started appearing on tiny plates like appetizers.
“Pace yourself,” Jake whispered. “There are fourteen courses.”
I gaped at him. “Seriously?”
He nodded as he popped a cracker in his mouth. “And you’d do me a great favor if you mention on your social media how much you love the food.”
I took a bite of cracker—a simple cheese-laced bread—and nearly melted in my seat. It was like heaven on my tongue. “I do love the food,” I said, trying not to moan in delight. “But I’m not so big on social media. I haven’t had much time. Not with college and now work.”
He leaned back in his seat, his eyes watching as I licked a crumb off my lip. “You’re a nurse, right? Do you like it?”
I relaxed, too, mirroring his movements. We were now in the territory of regular date stuff. This I could handle, though lately, I’d been too busy to bother. “I love nursing. Right now, I’m in the general ward, but what I’d really like is to transfer into emergency. That’s where I’d feel like I was really making a difference.”
“Is the work hard?”
“Not as hard as catching a baseball traveling at over 100 miles per hour.” It was my standard date technique. Personal questions got deflected into something about his life. Usually the guy would take the bait and run on about himself while I listened. It was way easier than talking about myself. Except Jake didn’t take the bait.
“That’s instinct and self-preservation,” he said. “So what’s it like on the ward?”
Back in my court. I fought for a light but truthful answer. “Sad and hard. But that just makes the good moments all the more beautiful.”
“What does that mean?” he pressed.
Time to deflect again. “It means I see a lot of sad cases. Diabetes, for example, is an awful disease. It affects almost every part of a person’s body. By the time someone thinks about going to the hospital, they’re in crisis mode. Often it’s near the end. But sometimes the end is beautiful.” There. Nobody ever asked about dying people. “Tell me how you learned to handle the press like that. You were so natural.”
“Media training.” He leaned forward. “You spend your days with people who are ending theirs. What’s that like?”
Damn it. Back in my court. “As a nurse, you have to remember you’re dealing with people first, not just patients. Some are angry and irritable, others sweet and funny. Most of them are in only for a few days. But it’s the people who are at the end of their lives who are more intense. I guess it’s kind of like the players at the end of their careers. Everything is more important, right?”
He shook his head. “That’s just baseball. You’re talking life and death.”
I stared at him, unable to answer. He had just turned the conversation away from himself three times. Honestly, I’d never expected a celebrity to be that self-effacing. It threw me. Especially since I’d never been on a date with a guy who didn’t want to brag about himself just a little. I dropped my hand on my fist while trying to figure out what to say. And then words just blurted out of me.
“I’m boring. You’re the hotshot ballplayer.”
“And if you were a baseball babe, you’d be gushing over my stats. You’re not. I doubt you even know what an SLG is. Besides…” He shrugged. “I’m interested in you.”
No one was interested in me. Not even me. Meanwhile, I struggled to figure out his acronym. “It’s singles…um…launched into Ghana.”
He grinned. “That would be some feat.”
“Not if you live in Ghana.”
He nodded. “Yeah. That would be zero for me. But my slugging percentage is .390.” He waited a moment. “It’s not bad, but not so great, either.”
“So, um, are you working to improve it? Or are there other things that are more important?”
