Page 54 of Sportsball is for Lovers

Just that her boyfriend plays for the team and is more of the punch first, ask questions later type.

I totally get it. If anyone else were to look at Sadie cross-wise… and she’s not even mine.

Fuck.

I really have to stop thinking about her like that. We agreed it was a one-time thing. Each time. It’s not like we’re intending to sleep together again. Every time it’s happened has been a spur-of-the-moment type thing.

She’s not interested in more. Neither am I.

Right?

“Hmm.”

I can’t get a read on whether Jacky’s humoring me or actually interested in what I have to say. I wouldn’t blame her in the slightest if she’s already written me off.

After a few more perfunctory questions, Jacky dismisses me and we go our separate ways. I don’t get a tour of the facility; I don’t see anything other than the exit.

I’m not in the mood to head home—or rather, to Yoni’s place. It doesn’t quite feel like home. It’s not mine. I don’t know where I want to live, if I do end up staying in Boston or if I wind up leaving the city. So much is in flux. I don’t like it.

The early April chill makes me burrow my hands into my pockets as I walk the streets aimlessly. I haven’t explored Boston. Sure, I’ve visited before. My brother has lived here for a few years now. Most of my visits to the city were to spend time with him—we hung out at his place, we didn’t do the touristy thing.

I want to do the touristy thing.

I lose track of where I am, walking and observing the city. I never did this in Denver, either.

There’s a light mist in the air. In an instant, the skies open up and it turns into a downpour. Ducking into the first shop I can see, I am determined to dry off and wait it out.

A chime rings out above me, warning the shoppers of my arrival. Whipping my glasses off my face, I dry them hastily with my soaked jacket before I resettle them and look around.

It’s a bookstore.

Cool. I like books.

There’s a coffee cart on the left hand side of the store, and as I make my way over there, I pull out my phone to check my numbers. Everything seems pretty stable; a cup of coffee won’t hurt.

The person behind the counter is a pretty woman who looks to be in her early twenties. Soft, delicate features, freckles dotting her nose. Her long blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail, a turquoise streak visible.

She’s cute. Pretty. But I don’t feel anything for her. I can’t remember the last time I felt that fizzle of heat, that draw toward another person.

Well. I can’t remember the last time I felt that toward another person that isn’t Sadie.

Placing my order, I glance around the bookstore as the barista prepares the drink. With no job, I don’t really have the discretionary income to go around buying books. And it’s not a library—I can’t just hang out indefinitely.

My hot coffee in hand, I browse the shelves. I’m a mood reader. It really depends on the day what sort of media I want to immerse myself in. So much of the time, even in my down time, I’m reading press releases and statistical analysis reports; it doesn’t always leave time for fun reading.

Now? I have nothing but time on my hands.

The shop is pretty fairly populated. There are at least two or three people browsing per aisle, and the space isn’t exactly small. I have to dodge people and winter coats as I meander aimlessly.

There’s a big romance section toward the back of the store. Of the books I picked up at that book signing a few weeks ago, I quite enjoyed Leighton’s romantic suspense novel. Katja’s sapphic fantasy was a breath of fresh air.

Am I turning into a romance reader? Would that really be the worst thing in the world? Surely there’s a place for male romance readers in the community.

“What are you doing here?”

The female voice cuts through my coffee-and-book haze. My good mood withers like a vine in winter.

Great. Ten seconds in, and I’ve already ruined this for myself.