Page 48 of Guys Can't Write Romance
He broke into a grin. “I’m kidding, Fields. Sit. These other two derelicts are Brett and Troy. We went to school together.”
Troy, the one with chicken wing sauce on his fingers, gave a two-fingered salute. Brett, who had been munching on a basket of fried calamari, nodded with an easy smile. Both had the same comfortable, lived-in look as Chad, like guys who had spent more time in surf shorts than business suits and considered a backwards baseball cap appropriate attire for most occasions.
“My condolences,” Daisy said as she gingerly sat down on the stool. “You deserve survivor medals.”
The guys smiled and nodded in agreement.
“Agreed,” said Troy.
“Chad said you’ve never watched sports before,” Brett said.
“Partially true,” Daisy said, arranging her napkin precisely on her lap.
“Watching Boring Banker play checkers doesn’t count,” said Chad.
She snorted and shot him a look. “Okay. True.”
“I heard there were people like you out there,” Troy said, regarding her with the fascination of a scientist discovering a new species, “but always thought it was an urban legend. You know, like Bigfoot.”
“Nope. We’re real,” said Daisy, adjusting on her stool. “We walk among you, completely unaware of why grown men paint their faces and weep openly when someone throws a ball through a hoop.”
“Well, buckle up, Fields,” Chad said, pouring her a beer and handing it to her. “Your ‘Beginner’s Guide to Sports for Clueless Newbies’ officially begins. Bonus points for loud burps.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “I’ll pass on the burps,” she said, taking her beer. She looked at it for a moment, then raised it. “To new experiences?”
Chad grinned and raised his. “To ‘A League of Her Own’ finally getting a pulse.”
She looked at him thoughtfully for a brief moment, surprised (and even impressed) that he remembered the title of her novel and didn’t snicker when saying it. Perhaps there was more to him than the frat-boy persona he cultivated so carefully. “To not killing Chad when he burps in my ear.”
He grinned and clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers.”
The beer was cold and not entirely terrible, though Daisy would still have preferred a decent wine. She took another small sip, trying to look like she belonged in this testosterone-fueled madhouse.
“So what game are we watching?” Daisy said, her eyes scanning the array of flat-screen TVs hung throughout the bar.
“Dodgers,” Chad said, pointing to the TV facing their table. “They’re down by one.”
“Does that mean they need a field goal to win?”
A collective gasp arose from not just their table but several neighboring ones. Conversations within earshot came to a screeching halt.
Chad grinned, completely unfazed. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“Wrong sport,” Rhino explained kindly, as if talking to a small child. “Field goals are football. This is baseball.”
“Ah,” Daisy nodded, taking another sip of beer to hide her embarrassment. “So they need a three-pointer?”
Troy nearly choked on his beer, and Brett patted his back as he coughed.
“Basketball,” Chad said, his eyes dancing with amusement rather than condescension. “Baseball has runs. The Dodgers need to score at least one run to tie, two to win.”
“Unless the Padres score again in the next inning,” Brett added.
“Which they won’t because their bullpen is garbage,” Troy said.
“Their setup man has a nasty slider,” Rhino countered, leaning forward.
“Yeah, but his ERA against lefties is trash,” Chad argued.
