Page 14 of Forecasting the Forward

“Damn. That’s ridiculous. Your body is phenomenal,” I blurt out, then wince. “I mean you look nice. What do people say? I have really great peripheral vision. That’s how I saw her watching me.”

Becca sighs. “I’m not surprised about Danica. She’s nice, but I could totally see her stair-stepping her way up in all areas. Viewers critique my clothing. If my heels are too high or too low. Too much makeup, and not enough makeup. The hem of my dress is too high. Color is wrong. They don’t like a stitching pattern, or they think I should wear sleeveless dresses all the time. On the off chance I retain a little water, I get tons of emails asking if I’m pregnant, or telling me to lay off the sweets.”

“Seriously?” I ask incredulously.

“Seriously.”

“So you watch what you eat because of these assholes?”

“Somewhat, but I’ve always been pretty conscious about what I put in my body. I try not to eat anything over-processed, or filled with artificial colors. Eating whole foods is my goal. I know pizza will probably make me puff out a little bit, but I’m finding it hard to care right now. I’m ready for cheese,” she says bashfully, and I look over to find a hesitant smile on her face. I can’t help but smile in return.

“Well, let’s get you some cheese, Spitfire.”

It’spossible that I’ve misjudged multiple people this week.

Danica clearly isn’t the person I thought she was. From the moment we stepped foot in the restaurant, I knew things felt off. She’d told me we were meeting a man named Levi and his friend, but immediately I knew she wasn’t there for Levi. Jacob looked equally as confused as me, and poor Levi was caught in the middle.

I’ll admit, seeing Dani like a drowned rat moments ago was comical. Danica is always at her best. She never arrives at the station without her hair and makeup done. Lipstick always at the ready, just in case a camera catches her off-guard. Heaven forbid she be in the background of a picture looking less than perfect. At this moment, I’m sure I don’t look much better, but I don’t care. Watching Jacob defend his friend while simultaneously putting Danica in her place was refreshing.

Now I’m wondering how I majorly misjudged Jacob as well.

Is it possible he did all of that to impress me? Maybe.

“Alright. I’ll only have dinner with you on one condition,” Jacob says, stopping suddenly in front of a doorway. He turns to me with a smirk. “What’s your favorite style of pizza?”

“Style?” I ask, confused. “I already told you I like cheese?”

He sighs and shakes his head dramatically. “Not what I meant, Spitfire. Style. You’ve got Detroit-style. Chicago deep-dish. New York. California. I only found out about a Saint Louis style pizza my first year in the league because we played there, and the team bet me I couldn’t eat a whole pie. They were wrong, by the way.”

“Good to know,” I murmur, completely fascinated at how his eyes sparkle with mirth. Goodness gracious. The man has a dimple. He’s too attractive for his own good.

“I’m determined to get over to Italy one of these days and get Neapolitan pizza right from the source. Did you know there’s also a Greek style of pizza?”

“Can honestly say I didn’t know that. You’re pretty passionate about pizza,” I comment.

He lifts one shoulder, giving me a crooked grin. “It’s the base of my food pyramid.”

“I thought athletes all ate pretty healthy.”

“I eat healthy as often as possible. Pizza is my exception. Besides, I can add a bunch of vegetables to the pizza, get a side salad with it, and it’s almost healthy.”

“Unless you’re eating an entire pizza because someone dared you,” I point out, surprised at my own back-and-forth with this man. I’m usually never so outspoken with the opposite sex. I’m sure my therapist will have all kinds of thoughts about a connection to my relationships with my dad and brother when we meet next week.

“I’ve only been dared to eat an entire pizza twice.” He pauses. “Maybe three times. Once the team realizes I’ll win, they stop making bets. So. What’s your favorite style of pizza?”

“I don’t know what my favorite is. I can only say I really don’t like deep dish pizza.”

Jacob throws a fist into the air. “Yes! I could never eat with you if you liked that crap. Who wants a mouthful of dough? Not me. Come on. We can go in now. Just had to be sure you were on the right team.”

“What would you have done had I said it was my favorite?” I ask, intrigued.

“I would have thanked you for walking with me, ordered you an Uber, and sent you on your way. I cannot be seen with the enemy in here,” he says, leaning toward me and lowering his voice. “I’m basically family.”

Holding the door open, he motions for me to walk in. As soon as he steps beside me by the hostess’s podium, I feel his hand on the small of my back, and I inhale sharply. Sure, he put his arm around me as we ran from the sprinklers, but that seemed protective in nature, instead of an attempt to cop a feel. I’ve had countless first dates over the past six months, yet none have touched me, other than a handshake in greeting. I’ve kept my body as far away as possible from every man, and they all clearly got the message. One did suggest we go back to his place for sex, and assured me his parents wouldn’t mind. I hightailed it out of there before he could attempt anything. Yet feeling the heat of Jacob’s palm against my back, even with the fabric of my dress providing a barrier, is like electricity coursing through my veins. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to be touched, even in such a simple way.

“Hey, Jax,” a woman says with a smile. “Dining in tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a drawl. I imagine if he’d been wearing a cowboy hat, he’d have tipped it at the lovely woman in front of us. “Had to introduce this lovely lady to your pizza. She didn’t know there were styles of pizza, Mrs. Fratelli.”

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