Page 29 of Lessons in Lemonade

“In one of the team-provided boxes with Lexi, Camille, Missy, and others. It was a great seat, plus we had warming lamps, which was a really nice perk.”

That’s good. I’m glad she was with them and she was warm. The average temperature in February in Seattle is forty-nine, but today it was a little colder.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” she asks, her eyes scanning over my splinted leg.

“Not at the moment. They gave me a ton of painkillers.” I’m actually starting to feel really tired. With the combination of the medicine and my adrenaline wearing off, it’s left me lethargic and sluggish.

“Then you should be eating something.” She sits up in her seat as if this gives her purpose. I think in these situations, it’s natural for the significant other—not that that’s what she is, but close enough—to want to help, to be moving, doing, useful, so even though I’m not hungry, I agree.

“Probably.” I lean my head back on the headrest. Her hair was down when she first walked into the locker room, but now it’s up. The blanket she tossed over her lap twists as she finds the call button, ringing for the stewardess, and requests that some food be brought over. Underneath, her foot pops out, and I take in the tall black boots that are wrapped over her tight jeans and up to her knees. Damn, those are hot. I wouldn’t be a red-blooded male if I didn’t wonder what she would look like in those boots and nothing else.

Settling into silence, we both stare at each other until the food comes. It isn’t much, more just snacks, but I decide she was right about me needing to eat as the pineapple banana bread goes down easily and calms my upset stomach.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, nibbling on some cubed cheese.

“How my whole life, all I ever wanted was to play in the Super Bowl.” Letting out a deep sigh, I drop eye contact with her, the ache of disappointment in my chest intensifying.

“Well, it might have been a little shorter than you would’ve liked, but you did get to play,” she tells me, trying to put a positive spin on it.

I can’t help the snort that escapes and end up mumbling, “I guess.” In my dreams, it was for a full four quarters and we won at the end.

Wishing I hadn’t brought it up, I change the subject. “You went on a date earlier this week.” It’s not a question, just a statement.

“I did.” She opted for a bottle of water instead of a drink, and I watch as she picks it up and brings it to her lips for a sip.

“I saw you post the new dish on OBA’s page, an aged cheddar and apple German pancake. Tell me about it.” I’m hoping she reads between the lines: Tell me a story, keep me distracted.

“He was nice, but not what I was expecting.” She moves the food tray away from her and props her feet up in the seat across from her.

“You met him online?” We’ve talked about her dating before, but we’ve never talked about the specifics of it.

“Yep. I’m so busy, so that’s where I’ve connected with most of my dates this past year.”

“Hmm. Where did he take you?”

I would be lying if I said the idea of strange dudes prowling the internet and creeping on her profile sat well with me. I get that sometimes there are love connections made, but mostly it seems like a shady way for people to catfish.

“Well, not that there’s really anything wrong with it, but he took me to Italiano’s.”

I blink at her, and it takes me a second to register what she’s said. “Wait, the large chain restaurant?”

“Yep.” She pinches her lips shut and nods once. “In a city like Charleston, he took me to an inauthentic place.”

How unoriginal. Sounds like something my parents would do because it’s the easy choice. They rarely try new places, preferring consistent and boring.

“Did he know you own your own restaurant?” I’m appalled for her and the story has just begun.

“Nope. I don’t tell them that, but I do have the guys meet me at the restaurant. As far as they know, it’s where I work, so that should say something about my food preferences and be their first clue about the type of places I frequent.”

I’ve never been to her restaurant, but I’ve looked at enough photos and reviews online to know it’s unique and original. Seems to me he should have switched to a different place once he saw OBA.

“Was he at least nice?” I ask, running my hand through my hair and feeling frustrated for her. Already I feel like the guy has more slashes in the con column on his pros and cons list.

“He was, and I tried really hard to overlook where we were and what he ordered—which, by the way, was chicken parmesan. That’s not a problem in itself either, it’s just so predictable. It’s boring even for a restaurant like that. But, wait for it, though . . . then we went to a biergarten, and the bouncer checked our IDs at the door.”

I can feel my brows pull down.

“He mumbled his birthdate, and I did the math in my head­—it made him fifty-one. Fifty-one. I don’t have a problem with older men, but he told me he was thirty-five. And before you say anything”—she holds up her hand—“no, he didn’t look over fifty. His hair must be dyed, because it wasn’t gray, and well, he just looked the age he said. Clearly he gets away with it, but he lied, and the twenty-plus-year age gap is too much for me. That’s essentially father range, and just no, thank you.”