Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 7

  The downside was that staying close to Trace meant staying close to all of his meathead teammates, including the infuriating Fernando Fuerte. The guy might have been one of the league's most promising players, but he was also about as full of himself as they came, and I spent half my time at work trying to tone down the constant tabloid stories that revolved around him and his latest conquest.

  With that dark bronze skin, those luminescent green eyes and the wicked white-toothed grin, the guy was rarely unaccompanied at team events (note his new friend, Sandy). And maybe I'd have a bit of respect for him if he ever saw the same girl more than once. But the guy might as well have had "player" tattooed on his forehead and it was hard to muster up any admiration for a guy like that.

  That said, he was absolutely, one-hundred percent, panty-dropping gorgeous. But I'd never get near him on principle alone.

  Which isn't to say he didn't star in a few of my solo-time fantasies.

  Not that I'd ever admit it to anyone.

  I didn't date players—not soccer players and not player-players.

  I didn't date much at all, if you wanted the truth, and part of the reason was because I didn't date players, and those were the only guys I ever saw.

  The other reason I didn't date had as much to do with my brother as anything else...there just wasn't time or room in our lives. His schedule, his fame, and his career all came first, and it was my job to manage it. I was used to being the girl behind the scenes. My last relationship had worked that way too. And it had been enough to tell me that I was better off on my own. I was a behind-the-scenes girl. That's why I was in PR instead of writing the pieces, getting the byline...or standing in front of the camera.

  I left the spotlight to my brother and my best friend Beckie, who was an on-camera reporter for the local news station. We’d been in school together and had always planned to work together afterwards. I’d always thought I’d be on camera too, but that just wasn’t how it had come down. And it was okay. I was pretty happy staying behind the scenes most of the time, and working for the team wasn’t too bad. Fuerte's shenanigans excepted.

  “Why do keep checking your phone?” Beckie asked, spinning a little on her stool at the bar. She often came out with me when I tagged along with Trace and the team. She lifted her drink to her lips, her wide dark eyes blinking at me over the rim.

  I shoved my phone back into my pocket. “I’m checking email.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re working. You’re literally always working.” She heaved a dramatic sigh.

  “I’m not working.” I leaned a little closer. Besides Trace, I hadn’t gotten to talk to anyone about this, and I was kind of dying to share. “I’ll tell you a secret, okay? But it has to stay that way.”

  Beckie’s eyes lit up and she put her drink down and then sat up straighter and brushed her hair behind her shoulders, as if she needed to be completely ready for this information. She leaned back in. “Okay. Go.”

  “Trace suggested I join Mr. Match.”

  Beckie grinned. “Seriously? But I thought Trace didn’t like you dating. Like at all.”

  “We had a chat about that. I told him his overprotective tendencies were ruining any chance I’d ever have of meeting anyone, and he said he just doesn’t want me dating one of his teammates.”

  “That makes sense I guess. If something went bad, there’s the work thing. And Trace would have to play with the guy…”

  “Right, but they’re the only men I ever meet, since my life practically revolves around Trace and the team.”

  “So he came up with the idea to join Mr. Match?” She was leaning forward, clearly excited about this idea.

  “Yep. Thought it’d be a good way to expand my social horizons, and I’m hoping to meet someone real—someone with something to offer besides the ability to chase a little ball around a field.”

  “So you did it? And?”

  I tried not to look excited. I wasn’t excited. I was just hedging my bets. “Yeah. Though I swear it took a year to get through the insane profile questions.”

  She sat up and pressed her lips together, her face taking on a solemn expression. “But that’s why it works,” she said. “I read an article about it, and there’s so much more information than any other dating site, it allows the algorithm to work with that many more data points. If he matches you, it’s like a sure thing.”

  “If he matches me,” I reminded her. There were no guarantees with Mr. Match. Some people had filled out profiles months, or even years, ago, and had heard nothing.

  “Well, it can’t hurt,” she said. “You can’t do worse than Andrew the Hand Model.”

  No one called my ex by his only name—at least no one I knew. His own family probably did, but anyone who knew me referred to him as Andrew the Hand Model. Which fit, because the guy pretty much lived and breathed his stupid job, and honestly thought he was God’s gift. “Thanks for that.”

  Beckie put a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry. Though on the plus side, he wasn’t a soccer player.”

  “True.” Beckie had introduced me to Andrew the Hand Model, who had dumped me for not being supportive enough of his career. I wasn’t sure if the support he sought involved helping more with his nightly hourlong hand-preservation ritual (lotion, oil, massage, cotton gloves, and finally—if you’re me—vomit), or if it was because I’d made fun of his last gig. That one had required him to gingerly caress a set of high-end kitchen tools. I couldn’t help it—it was funny. He was practicing with my spatulas one night and it just got to be a little too much.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Andrew the Hand Model was completely full of himself,” I told her. “I’m sick of guys like that. I’m tired of being in the shadows, having to support everyone else. If I ever date anyone else, I want him to actually appreciate me.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’ll find him, I know you will. But me first, okay? Mr. Match has had my info forever.”

  “You joined?”

  She looked sheepish and nodded.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “You first.” But we both knew Mr. Match didn’t work that way.

  I’d filled out the profile information two weeks earlier and hadn’t heard a word. I pushed the whole thing to the back of my mind—or tried to.

  Work had been nuts lately, and that was where my focus needed to be. The owner's ex-wife was suing him for ownership, making some very public claims about his past, and trying hard to drag some of the players and the team itself through the mud too. I was on the defense, busily trying to spin any little thing into good news for the team.

  And hanging out with them after hours to make sure no one did anything that would reflect poorly on the organization. Things were too tense right now for mistakes, and bad PR would most likely put my job at risk. And even though I complained about it a lot, I really liked my job.

  Chapter 11

  A Urine Sample and Your First Born

  Fernando

  I don't like to make rash decisions. I don't jump to conclusions.

  And when Max talked me into giving my vital statistics up for his little matchmaking experiment, I decided to keep an open mind.

  "Blood type?"

  "A Plus. It's the best."

  He rolled his eyes at me over the laptop screen and then looked back down. "Parents still living?"

  "My mom is." I sighed. It was after one o'clock in the morning, and though I'd seen much later nights, we'd played tonight and I was beat. Max had invited himself over after we’d left the bar, and we were both sprawled on leather couches in my living room in the house I rented overlooking the Bay from the Coronado side. "Dude, this is like a fucking DNA test. I'm not trying to find out if I'm related to Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots—I can pretty much guarantee you I'm not, unless she had some side action with a Colombian pirate."

  "I'm not going to track your genetic origins, Fuerte. I'd need saliva for that."

  "I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you, Maxi Pad?" It wasn't too late to fall on
easy prey, and that one was just sitting there, asking for it.

  "This is serious."

  "Yeah, you're asking enough questions to hack into every bit of data I've got," I said.

  "Really? Your technical expertise tells you I'm hacking?"

  "Hey, I know what hacking is."

  "You couldn't hack your way into a burger, asshole. Just a few more questions."

  I sighed and leaned back into the couch, my hands steepled over my face. "Fine." He was right. I could barely work my iPhone.

  At least the guy didn't exaggerate. There were just a few more questions after that and it was done.

  "So now what?"

  "So now you wait."

  "For how long?"

  "Depends." He folded the laptop and put it on the glass coffee table, then stood and stretched.

  "Very fucking scientific, Winchell."

  "I'm tired. Bitch at me in the morning." And he'd shuffled off toward my guest bedroom, ignoring my protests.

  Evidently we were having a sleepover.

  Chapter 12

  The Importance of Rodents

  Erica

  I was up early the next day, a dull terror building in my gut as I realized I had no idea where my phone had gone. I always charged it next to my bed, but it hadn’t been there when I woke up. Trace had still been up when I’d gone to bed, but I couldn’t imagine him taking my phone. Except that he’d had a few drinks—which for a guy as big as Trace meant enough alcohol to put most humans under the table—and he might have grabbed it by mistake.

  That said, there was a tiny chance I’d lost it at the bar the night before. I couldn’t exactly remember putting it on the nightstand to charge. I sat down on the patio outside our condo to try to remember exactly where I’d left it.

  At ten o’clock my brother staggered out to where I sat, rubbing his eyes.

  "Your phone is blowing up, it's driving me insane." Trace held my phone out like he might toss it off the balcony if I didn't rescue it immediately.

  "There it is," I cried, snatching it from his shaking hand. "Why did you have my phone in your room?"

  "There was much confusion last night. Mistakes were made." He slumped into the patio chair next to mine, melting into the cushions and throwing his big feet up on the table in front of him.

  "I did try to warn you," I said, scrolling through the alerts on my phone.

  He put on his sunglasses, trying to block the glare from the beach beyond. "Less warning next time, more actual intervening."

  "You get pissed when I intervene and then you get mean."

  "But that's why you're here, Erica." The whining again.

  I stared at his miserable form over the top of my phone. "I'm here to make sure the Taco Bell incident of 2017 never occurs again. You have a certain amount of leeway in there, and I have a life to live."

  "Why you gotta go and bring up old shit?"

  "Climbing through a drive-thru window and getting yourself arrested is something that I think will continue to live a life of its own, whether I bring it up or not."

  He pushed out his bottom lip. "The drive-thru was the only thing open and I didn't have a car. They should have given me a medal or a good citizen award or something for not drinking and driving."

  "I think NOT drinking and driving is an expectation, not an award-worthy accomplishment."

  "Whatever. I only wanted one of those grilled-stuffed-seventy-five-layer burrito things."

  "Which you did not get because of getting stuck in the window."

  "There was that," he agreed, looking sad.

  "Plus, I'm pretty sure they only have seven layers."

  "They add layers if you're nice. And if you're famous."

  "Do they add layers when you're humble?"

  He sighed, clearly ready to drop the subject.

  The Taco Bell incident was what had inspired me to move in with my brother, who sometimes had very poor judgment. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but he did take things a bit too far now and then. And since the rent was free and I got to live in a kickass condo on Mission Beach, it seemed like a win-win. The part about keeping tabs on my ridiculous brother was a little tougher to swallow, but see my note above about being with the team pretty much all the time anyway. I was around in case he decided to try to climb through any more fast-food establishment windows.

  "What is this?" I said aloud as my eyes fell on one email subject line: Mr. Match here. I've found your match!

  This was the deal with Mr. Match: there was no swiping and it wasn't a hookup site. The guy didn't promise to match everyone, but operated more like a premium matching service, only getting in touch if he found someone within fifty miles who was supposed to be your "perfect" match. The thing was freaking thorough, and the signup interview alone had taken me well over two hours to complete. But the site was well proven. More than eighty-five percent of his matches were in long-term relationships, almost thirty percent had gotten married and another twenty percent reported being on the road to the proposal, according to an article I'd read recently.

  I didn't want to get married. Not right now, at least. But finding someone to whom I didn't always come in second might be nice, someone who didn't expect me to always be the behind-the-scenes girl. And finding someone who might be interested in something beyond my looks or the fact that I could score box seats to any sporting event in southern California with a phone call would be refreshing.

  But this email... had me freaked. Did I really want to meet my match?

  I clicked on it, and read ahead with my stomach flipping like I’d eaten a bad fish taco. I tried to keep my face neutral, since Trace was still sitting across from me.

  You probably expected to open this email to find a photo of your ideal match, didn't you? Yeah, well, this isn't one of those other dating sites. A couple more questions first. Though I'm ninety-nine percent sure I've found your match, these final questions will eliminate all doubt.

  1. If you had a choice between music, a book, or a movie on a deserted island, which would you choose?

  2. Rodents: cute or disgusting? (This question is required. You'd be surprised how critical rodents are to unlocking the boundless mysteries of the heart.)

  3. Is it your intention to remain in San Diego for at least the next three years?

  I laughed out loud, but clicked through to the site to answer the ridiculous questions. Music was the thing I’d need on an island—with music you never felt really alone. I actually liked hamsters, though wasn’t sure I had a broad-reaching love for all rodents, really, and I honestly couldn’t see ever leaving San Diego. The tiny wheel turned on the screen for a few seconds after I hit submit, and then the next screen loaded and my match was presented to me, picture and all.

  I dropped my phone in my lap and stared out at the mocking blue of the Pacific Ocean. "No way. No fucking way."

  Chapter 13

  Mr. Match is High

  Fernando

  When morning came, there was some bitching to do.

  I was waiting at the dining table with a huge cup of coffee and my email open on my phone when Max emerged. "Ready for the bitching?"

  "No way man. Coffee first."

  I waited while he poured himself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the end of the table. Then I slid my phone to him with my perfect match's photograph front and center on the screen. "What the actual fuck, dude?"

  Max remained expressionless, staring at the photo of Erica Johnson and sipping his coffee. "That's interesting," he said. Then he lifted a shoulder and slid the phone back to me, lifting his gaze out to the morning sky.

  I pushed the phone back to him. "Not interesting. Fucking ludicrous. Absolutely impossible. Not to mention...did I say insane?"

  "Think you covered that one." He still wouldn't look at me.

  "Your little algorithm is broken."

  "Nope."

  "Then it's high."

  He raised an eyebrow but didn't answer.

  I drank my coffee, sta
ring alternately at the picture of the one girl in San Diego I would absolutely never in a million years ask out (mostly because she'd laugh at me, slice off my balls and then possibly sauté them... I was pretty sure she despised me), and at Max, who evidently hated me more than I realized. After ten minutes, he drained his cup and sat forward, his eyes finding my face again. "Gonna ask her out then?"

  "Have you ever known me to be a masochist?"

  "You did take that hot yoga class that one time."

  He had a point. That had been a mistake. "No. I'm not asking her out."

  Now I was pissed, and a strange part of me felt unexpectedly let down. I didn't regularly go out over-romanticizing things—I didn't waltz around picking flowers or watching The Sound of Music or anything—but there'd been a little part of me that had thought maybe Max's math might actually work out for me. Not that I was desperate exactly. But maybe it would be nice to meet someone real, someone who didn't latch onto some imagined version of me that didn't exist, someone who wasn't in it for anything beyond me.

  Maybe I was a tiny bit romantic.

  But there was no chance in hell that Erica Johnson was that girl.

  And there was no way Trace would let me anywhere near his sister even if I was crazy enough to believe Max's matching mojo wasn't broken.

  "Run it again," I suggested.

  "Doesn't work like that. She's your match."