Page 16 of Sportsball is for Lovers

“How? Why?”

“I mean…”

S shakes her head. “I don’t want a relationship. Neither do you. It was written clearly in our profiles. No strings attached. It was a bad idea to meet up again.”

“Things change.”

“Do they, though?” She tilts her head at me. “Or are you just high off the orgasm endorphins?”

I might be.

I seriously might be.

But something is telling me there’s more to this, more to us, than just a two-night stand.

I want more.

Do I want more with her? Or will any random woman do?

No. It’s S. There’s something about her that’s making alarm bells go off in my brain.

I’ll probably never see her again. There’s no reason for our paths to cross. She lives here, and even though I live in Denver, I’m on the road so much, I spend more nights in generic hotel rooms than in my own bed.

No, I don’t think I can sustain a relationship right now, especially not long distance. I need to focus my energies inward. That’s more important right now.

If I don’t put myself first, nobody else will.

The intern has been stuck to my side like glue. I don’t even know his name. I should probably know it by now, except he wears his name badge affixed to his waist rather than around his neck or on his lapel like the rest of us.

Gen, my boss at the studio, does not look pleased with this development.

“Can I talk to you?” she mutters, jerking her head toward the conference room.

That’s never good.

Pushing away from my desk, I go to follow her, and like a lost puppy, the intern follows us.

“This is between me and Aviyente,” Gen says, and I fucking hate the way she can’t pronounce my last name. It’s not that difficult. Ahv-ee-yen-tay.

It’s not that much different from other Spanish names. My family was originally from Spain and Portugal, with a brief stop in Morocco before immigration to Israel, and then my dad moved to the US when he was a kid.

Because I’m brown but don’t have a noticeable accent, I get a lot of pointed questions about where I’m from—and when I tell them Tacoma, they say, no, but where am I from originally.

People don’t always understand that being Jewish is both a religion and an ethnicity. Ethnically, my family is Jewish. Culturally, I grew up Jewish. Religious beliefs… those are a little more difficult to parse out. I definitely believe in the stories I grew up learning, even if I don’t actively practice the religion day in and day out.

The good thing about this country is that there is no national religion or ethnic background that is superior. Sure, some people may try to legislate it as if there were, but at least for now, there is no national edict that says my ethnic background and my belief system are wrong or illegal.

Gen sits across from me in the conference room, staring like she’s said my name already.

Clearing my throat, I adjust my tie and settle in my seat. “What’s going on?”

“You’re too critical,” she says.

My eyebrows go up. “Of?”

“The team. We know they’re not playing well,” she says flatly. “You don’t have to rag on them every night.”

I tilt my head. “I’m not ragging on them. I’m informing the public of their play.”