Page 86 of Plays Well With Others

Wilder gives a small, humoring smile. “Competition. I like that.”

He shifts his attention to me, his eyes a little…intense.

Oh, shit. I brace myself for some sort of comment about the Sunday game, atry harder, do betterthing. Which is kind of ridiculous because Wilder doesn’t indulge in that level of micromanagement. But then again, he doesn't usually stop by the weight room unless there’s some kind of business to discuss.

“Everything’s going well with Date Night, Carter?” he asks. It’s more of a statement, though, letting me know he’s on top of things.

I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful he’s here about Date Night. No matter how long it’s been since I was chewed out by an authority figure, I’m always on edge when a coach, a principal, a manager calls my name.

It’s my own PTSD from being the kid who drifted off in class, the kid who couldn’t sit still, the kid who talked out of turn, the kid who became too obsessed with a science project but then abandoned it for something shinier.

I’m older now. But old fears die hard.

I give Wilder my full attention. “I’m glad to hear you feel that way, sir. I know they’re an important sponsor.”

“They are. Our partnership is going great. Date Night helps us reach a different demographic. We’re getting younger people to come to the games. That’s important, marketing football to a new generation.”

“It sure is,” I say.

“And I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you my suggestion for a great date.”

Oh.

I wasn’t expecting that. Rachel and I mapped out a lot of options for our next three dates, but of course, I’ll switch it up for the boss. “Sure. Let me know what you have in mind.”

He lifts a tattooed finger like he’s going to make a very important point. “Mini golf makes for a great date. And you probably already know that my course has mini golf. I’d be happy to comp you.”

I don’t need the free date, but you don’t turn the big man down. “Thank you. We’ll do that.”

“Terrific.” He shifts his gaze to Hamlin. “I was thinking, Malik.” He stops to rub his hand across his chin as if deep in thought. “Why don’t you make sure to go run a few extra miles? Make it an even ten.”

Hamlin’s eyes pop. He swallows in obvious surprise. “Sure.”

And on that mic drop, the man in charge walks away.

Once the sound of the shoes has faded and the boss is out of earshot, Hamlin turns to me and sing-songs, “Can I play mini golf with the owner too? Please? I want to suck up to him by the clowns on the golf course.”

“Wilder Blaine is too classy for clowns.”

“Maybe the two of you can discuss how classy he is by the windmills and the dinosaurs,” Hamlin retorts.

I roll my eyes. “Dude didn’t invite me to play mini golf withhim. He just wants me to play at his fucking course instead of some other one. But I get it. You’re jealous. That’s understandable, Ham, since you’ve only got one ring.”

He growls. Yeah, that shuts him down every time.

A throat clears. Is Wilder back? Shit. Did he hear us?

Cautiously, I turn to the door, and I’m relieved as fuck to see Beck. The quarterback stands against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. Where the hell did he come from?

“He wants you there at his golf course because of the eggplant,” Beck says.

My brow knits. “What are you talking about?”

“Dude. You’re a meme." Beck whips out his phone, and we gather around. He hits play on a three-second clip of Rachel at the farmers’ market picking up the eggplant and mouthing,“It’s so big”while she stares.

Right. At. Me.

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