Page 18 of How to Get Lucky
“You can’t bait me. I don’t feel bad over losing. Not wired that way. I feel good even when you destroy me,” Sam says with a just try me grin. Pretty sure he was born meditating. The dude defines chill.
“Perks of playing with you. I’ve never met anyone who seems to enjoy losing as much as you do,” I say as I twist the top off my water bottle.
“Life is infinite, and everything is meaningless. The journey is all that matters, not the score.” Sam lifts his face to the sky like he’s inhaling good vibes from the sun. “And you were going extra hard out there today, my friend. Seemed liked you were trying to hit more than just the ball,” he says, lifting a brow in a silent question.
I know what he’s asking—how did the date go?
I told him about it on the way to sushi last night. Well, I told him that I was going out with someone I’d just met.
Right as I’m about to deflect my friend’s astute observations, my phone pings. I check the text immediately, my pulse spiking when I see London’s name.
Great. Fucking great. My body’s reaction to her replying to my text isn’t going to make this easy.
London: Happy Monday! Are you a Monday person? Confession: I am. Mondays get a bad rap, but I think they’re a great chance to do ALL THE THINGS. Today is great for a brainstorm sesh. I can’t thank you enough for helping me.
Teddy: I’m afraid I’ve got to side with Garfield on Mondays. No use for ’em. That said, since you’re all up in Monday’s business, I’m willing to give it a shot. Where do you want to meet?
London: Perfect. Meet at McConnell’s Ice Cream in Grand Central Market at two? Maybe I can change your mind about Mondays.
I whip off a quick reply and tell her I’ll see her soon. When I look up, I meet a set of curious eyes, asking what the fuck I am up to.
“And who might that be that you responded to so quickly, you eager beaver?” Sam tosses his towel over his shoulders as we make our way off the court.
“London. The woman I went out with last night.”
“Next-day text from her. Nice. Things must have gone well,” he says with an arm punch as we walk to the parking lot.
“They went great. Better than great. It was an awesome date, man. We both have dogs, we’re both into music, we laughed a ton, and we can talk about pretty much anything, it seems.”
“Sounds like you’re building to an epic but here, man.”
My shoulders sag. “But . . . she’s Archer’s little sister.”
He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Stares, like I can’t have said that. “Archer, like the boss man Archer? Archer, who runs the club?”
“That Archer.”
He winces, with a sad look that says Sucks to be you. “Dude. That’s no bueno, man. I didn’t even know Archer had a sister.”
“He does. And she’s awesome. And gorgeous. And—”
“Totally off-limits,” Sam cuts me off before I can finish. He’s not wrong.
I was hoping the bright light of day would help me see this situation from a new angle, but all roads still point to not-going-to-happen. “Yes, she’s off-limits,” I repeat as we resume our pace. I say it once more in my head—the reminder is helpful.
Necessary too.
“How did you leave things with her? You didn’t fuck, did you?”
I pause long enough to think about how incredible she must be in bed. Her body is killer, her wit lightning sharp. And with our chemistry, I’m certain the sex between us would be electric. Giving and taking, taking and giving. Learning what she likes. Doing that to her, for her . . . But I’ll never find out.
“We didn’t sleep together. We kissed, and it was incredible. Then she mentioned who her brother was and that she’s here doing work for the club. And pretty much all hope of a future date shriveled up and died then.”
He brings his hand to his heart. “I mourn the shriveling of your hope, bro.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“And then, I presume, you were all enlightened and wise, agreed to go your separate ways, and wished each other the best?”
We reach my car as I turn over what he said—which is not at all what London and I did last night. “Actually, we were enlightened, as you say, in another way. We agreed to put our feelings aside and focus on working together.” As those words come out, they sound . . . too wise. “I’m meeting her this afternoon to help with some new choreography for her show.”
A laugh bursts from him as he draws air quotes. “‘Help with some new choreography’?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
He holds up a hand and forces himself to stop laughing. “Sounds like a euphemism.”
