Page 57 of Sportsball is for Lovers

“I’m married,” he retorts, and I laugh.

“I didn’t say to divorce your spouse,” I tease. “I can still love you.”

He smiles at me, a little bashful. “Thanks. Right back at you.”

Shaking my head, I vow one day to get him to accept a compliment.

“So what did she want?” He asks, digging a chip into the dip.

“What does she ever want?” I roll my eyes. “It was forty-five minutes of talking about nothing.”

“Did she bring up Doucheface McGee?”

Tapping my nose, I take a heavy drink from my glass. “How did you guess?”

He sighs. “Have you thought about⁠—”

“Don’t you start,” I warn.

“I’m just saying, a fake boyfriend would do the trick,” Yoni teases.

“Babe, I write romance. I know how that storyline goes.”

“I happen to know a guy.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Who do you know that’s straight and single?”

He stares at me.

“What?” I drink my wine.

“You know my brother, right?” He scoffs. “Fuck, you guys have hooked up at least⁠—”

“What makes you say that?”

Yoni blinks at me like I’m the dumbest fucking person on the planet. “Babe. I have eyes.”

“No, you don’t.”

“So you didn’t sleep with him the night of the Seder?” he asks accusingly.

I shove a chamoy mango in my mouth.

He smirks. “And the convention in Denver…”

Guzzling my wine, I look away.

“Look,” he says, his voice softening. “I think he likes you. Your chemistry is clearly off the charts if you’ve slept with him more than once.”

I clear my throat. “We’ve, um…”

He waits patiently.

“We met on an app. Before Denver,” I clarify awkwardly. “It’s…”

“Your sub app?”

Yoni pauses. He knows enough about what I like and what I’m looking for. “Wait. That means…”