Page 3 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
He hums doubtfully. “How did Nadia get involved? She’s not here in San Francisco yet.”
“Got ’em back right before Christmas. Camille was in Vegas then, and she loves magic, so I arranged for a trade. And Nadia had a good laugh when I asked her to score a pair of tickets for a new magic act in the city for Camille—the ransom price for my favorite socks.”
Eric shakes his head, laughing. “Two tickets to a magic show for the woman who held your socks hostage? You could have bought another pair, you know. There’s this thing called the internet—you say, ‘Google, find me purple socks with giraffes on them.’”
I scoff. “I wore these when we went to the playoffs two years ago. Don’t you remember my walk-off homer in game two? These are irreplaceable.”
Eric rolls his eyes. “You are a special kind of superstitious. Also, you’re aware that you have the worst taste in women?”
“Well aware. That’s my point, man. I can’t risk losing my lucky socks—or worse, my sanity—by getting involved with the wrong woman again. Camille was bad news. Daria was worse. They are all bad news, and I am drawn to bad-news ladies.” I punch his arm. “So, just like you asked me to stand up for you and be your best man, I need you to be my best bud and keep me far away from women. All women.”
He strokes his chin, nodding thoughtfully. “So you need an accountability partner again? This is bigger than holding your phone for the day. You need me to be your sponsor?”
A reel of images flickers before my eyes—my personal BuzzFeed list of my top dating woes. The stolen socks, the contraband dick pic, the missing car, the disappearing dough, and the Cabo vacation that nearly got me tossed into a Mexican jail.
It’s the easiest answer I’ve ever given. “I do, man. I really do. I’m swearing off women for the next several weeks. Through spring training.”
Eric lets out a loud, barking laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”
I square my shoulders. “I can do it.”
“I doubt it,” Eric says.
“I have to do something. Women are my kryptonite, man.”
He nods. “And you’re toxic right now.” His dark eyes hold my gaze, like he’s weighing whether I’m serious. “No take backs? No excuses?”
I hold up my right hand and avow, “I am nuclear, and I need to change.”
“Then I’ll be the rubber band on your wrist, and I’ll snap like a son of a bitch if you get near anyone.”
“So I’m entering Ladies’ Men Anonymous through spring training,” I announce grandly.
Staring in the mirror, I consider that challenge. I do like women.
Scratch that. I love women.
Serial monogamy is kind of my thing. I dig dating when I’m in town and when I’m out of town, dating during the season and during the off-season. I relish the company of women, and I’m a people person who loves getting to know someone.
Can I seriously go a whole two months without a date?
I draw a fortifying breath, staring at my reflection like I’m staring at the pitcher’s mound.
Patience.
I am the king of patience at the plate, and I know how to wait for my pitch.
Fuck yes, I can do this.
I’m a goddamn athlete. I’ve spent my whole life as a devotee of self-discipline—early morning workouts, diet regimens, training, training, and more training.
If I can resist an outside pitch, I can resist women.
“I can do it,” I tell Eric emphatically as Gabriel heads our way. “From now through spring training. I can’t risk losing another pair of socks, or someone snapping a shot of my prized baseball bat,” I say, gesturing to my crotch.
“I’m holding you to it, bro.” Eric holds up a palm for me to smack, and I do.
The shop owner reaches us, his lips twitching like he’s holding in a laugh, then he clears his throat. “Everything good?”
I give him a suspicious stare. “You were laughing at me too,” I accuse, wagging a finger at him. “You don’t think I can do it either.”
Gabriel adopts an expression as serious as a priest’s. “Every man has his Achilles’ heel.”
Eric’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he chimes in, “Crosby, even Gabriel knows of your weakness.”
“Seriously? How do you know this is my Achilles’ heel?” I ask Gabriel, indignant.
Gabriel smiles sympathetically. “Remember when you and Holden were here in December buying tuxes for the New Year’s Eve gala?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “One of my former Tinder dates called while we were here.”
“And she said she’d lost her diamond earrings in your apartment,” Gabriel continues, even-keeled. “Said she needed them to pay for a medical procedure for her sister. Asked if you had seen them or could replace them.”
Can I just grab a paper bag to cover my face? Chagrin, thy name is Crosby.
“Dude,” Eric says, chiding me.
“I didn’t fall for it,” I insist.
