Page 92 of Good Guy Gabe

“Mmm, not quite yet.”

“No? What else are you planning?”

She throws her leg over me and hops onto my lap so she can lean down and whisper, “Will you marry me?”

I glare at her. “Are you serious right now?”

She frowns. “What? Do you not want to?”

“Ma’am, I have asked you to marry me twice and you never said yes. Literally the first thing I did was ask you to marry me.” In frustration, I tilt my head back and yell up to the sky, “She said yes, we’re getting married!” so she can’t steal my thunder.

“Mazel tov!” Mel Cohen squeals, falling fully into the hot tub to give us a hug.

Blaise

I’M SO FREAKINGlate for the party. I told Joss I had to run a quick errand so she should start things without me, but I promised I’d be there.

I’m in so much trouble.

“I can’t renegotiate your contract again,” Andy says to me in this helpless voice, like there’s absolutely nothing to be done.

So much trouble.

But I knew this already. I know how contracts work.

“I just need more money.”

Andy scrubs his forehead on the other end of the video call. He’s in his office for some ungodly reason considering the hour, probably because he’s in hot water with his wife again. I consider asking him what’s going on. Maybe I can help him like I helped Gabe.

Gonna suck losing Gabe in the house. It’s only a matter of time before he vanishes from my life. First it’ll be the move, then it’ll be needing to get home after practice. He’ll leave parties early, start checking the time more. He’ll expect me to hang out with Allore and Morales and their wives and kids. And then we’ll be quick nods in the locker room and blandgood gameplatitudes.

He loves Joss, and his kid needs a dad. Sucks for me, but worth it.

So I don’t offer to help Andy. I need help this time. He gets a crap ton of money off that contract he can’t do anything about; the least he can do is figure out another avenue of income.

“Look, usually I’d say more product endorsements—”

“Cool, let’s do that.”

“—but no one wants to work with you.”

“Bullshit. I’m a hot commodity. I’m the ninth ranked overall. Fucking Tuberty got that Gatorade spot, and his ass got dropped. Get me his Gatorade spot.”

“Gatorade can’t work with you.”

“Can’t or won’t? I didn’t get in any trouble this year—”

“You’re not allowed to take your shirt off.”

I slam my fist — my right fist, the one that’s not the moneymaker — into my steering wheel. When I got home, there were so many cars I couldn’t get in the driveway. At least out here on curb, no one can hear this conversation.

My horn beeps, and two neighborhood dogs start barking. Someone yells at me from outside, and I look up to see Mrs. Clark from two houses down is walking her Pekingese a couple yards away. Whoops.

“Fuck! Can that be renegotiated?”

Andy’s pained look is enough. Part of getting signed on the Jugs was some ridiculously strict rules, including media dress code. One leaked sex tape — okay, four — and suddenly shirts on foreverything. I was lucky to get away with the wet crop top bullshit I did last summer, but even that landed me in the hot seat. No visible nipples, nothing below the navel now.

Bunch of prudes.

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