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I burst out laughing, and it’s not the kind of laughter that sounds like a giggle.
It’s embarrassingly loud, a full-on cackle that shakes my shoulders and makes me snort. I almost choke on my food, and I grip the counter to stop myself from falling off the stool.
“Sorry,” I wheeze. There’s cheesecake lodged in my throat, and I chase it down with alcohol. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all night.”
“That’s just sad.” He grins and drums his fingers on the bar top. “But thanks for the ego boost. Sorry you had to sit through such a shitty date.”
“Unless you’re the one who sent the spawn of Satan here to give me a night of hell, it’s not your fault.”
“I have more respect for women than that.” He takes a sip of his drink. A drop of liquid hangs on the corner of his mouth, andhe licks it away. “I, for one, think they shouldn’t just be confined to the kitchen. They should be cleaning the living room too.”
I elbow him in the ribs. “Asshole.”
“I’m kidding. My mother would be appalled if she heard me making a joke like that. I take it back. Please forgive me,” he says.
“Apology accepted.” My gaze bounces to his phone. It’s sitting face up on the counter next to a lime, and a dozen notifications from a dozen social media apps pop up on his screen. “Wow. Someone’s popular. Did I interrupt something?”
“Not at all.” He turns the phone over with a swift flick of his wrist, and the gesture makes my heart skip a beat. It makes me think he wants to keep talking to me. “It’s all work stuff. My job never stops, and it would do me some good to ignore it for a few minutes.”
“I can relate. I love what I do, but it consumes my life.”
“Hit woman for the CIA?” he asks.
It’s an innocent question. One I brought onto myself, but I still pause.
I never tell anyone the real answer so soon after meeting them.
It’s always followed by comments and opinions that make my blood boil. And tonight, after I feel like I’ve already been dragged through the mud, I really don’t want to trudge through hell again.
“Marketing,” I tell him.
Technically, it’s not a lie.
Managing the Baltimore Thunderhawks’ social media does involve marketing. Since I took the position a few years ago, I’ve racked up a million Instagram followers, two million on TikTok, and a half a million more on other platforms.
I work hard, and I’m damn good at what I do, but I know the stigma that comes with women in the sports industry.The questions that follow when I reveal my career and the interrogation I’m subjected to.
How many players have you slept with?
You’re probably having an affair with the owner, aren’t you?
Oh, you like football? Name the starting lineups from the 1997 Super Bowl.
Being vague makes life easier.
“Really? I’m in marketing too,” he says, turning on his stool so he’s facing me. “Am I allowed to ask what your name is?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I hesitate. He heard every other word from my conversation with the swamp rat; what are the chances he heard our goodbyes too?
“Claire,” I say, using my middle name and hoping he doesn’t notice. After too many awkward situations with men tracking me down on social media and flooding my DMs asking for tickets to games, it’s become my go-to until I get to know a guy. I’ve never felt bad about the dishonesty, but knowing I’m telling a half-truth to someone I’m enjoying talking to makes my chest pinch tight. “And yours?”
“Reid,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.”
I smile. “I think the pleasure might be mine.”
TWO
REID
