Play by Play (A Play Makers Novella) (5 page)

The Opinionated Sports Guy
:

Word.

Ed the first

Elevator Girl is so hot. I think I love her. Not enough to give up sports for her, but darned close. And seems like you’re right about Spurling. He’s still got it.

The Opinionated Sports Guy
:

Yeah, he gave us a preview of his stuff, and it’s awesome. And this is just preseason. It’s gonna be a wild ride.

Anon 2
:

No offense, but when did you watch the Niners game? Not in real time, right? That sucks, man. I like the elevator girl, don’t get me wrong. But it sounds like you were watching soap operas with her while Spurling was making his comeback. That’s not cool.

The Opinionated Sports Guy
:

I watched the Niners before I went to EG’s place. And I was DVR’ing the other games, so I watched them when I got home. From midnight to 5 a.m. if you need the gory details.

Anon 2
:

And you’re willing to live that way? Never see a decent game in real time because your girlfriend doesn’t approve?

The Opinionated Sports Guy
:

Back off, dude. It’s under control.

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Chapter Nine

In addition to the sports blog, Jake had his twice-weekly newspaper column: “Play by Play by Dublin.” It provided a reliable paycheck and a steady stream of free tickets and inside information, and had been a smart move for him after Notre Dame. In fact, it had been the
only
move thanks to his career-ending injury as a junior. He couldn’t conceive of giving up sports, but also couldn’t play professionally, so he’d gone back to his hometown of San Jose and reinvented himself as a play-by-play guy on the radio and as a columnist for the local paper. Eventually, the column had gone biweekly, then regional, generating a marginally decent income. Probably the best he could hope for under the circumstances, barring getting a “real” job.

But the newspaper format had its limits, thus the
Opinionated Sports Guy
had emerged, originally as a nonpaying way of sharing his passion for sports, which ranged far beyond analysis and reporting, and into the realm of strategy, inspiration, and role-modeling. Almost immediately, he had used the blog to weigh in on other issues as well—people, television, manual transmissions, happy hour—the works.

And now? It was all about the elevator girl. He hadn’t felt this way about anyone or anything but sports in forever—bursting with enthusiasm and hope for the future, ready to take a leap of faith, confident that he didn’t just want it, he deserved it. His career-ending injury and failed marriage had weighed on him for so long, and while he had recovered from those, he hadn’t felt free of them—
really
free—until now.

Until Sophie.

Hutch had cheapened that with his snide remarks, but hadn’t Jake done even worse? Not by writing about her, but by lying to her about it.

To make matters worse, he was inadvertently profiting from it. Advertisers were taking notice and paying accordingly, and while a huge factor in that uptick was hard work and steadily growing influence, there had been a spike these last few weeks. He had attributed it to his robust coverage of the expansion teams in general and the Rustlers in particular. But now he knew it was EG-driven, at least in part.

“Just don’t write about her,” he advised himself as he sat at his computer on Tuesday night. But that wouldn’t solve the problem, would it? The Internet would maintain a handy record of his transgressions—probably forever—so he needed to come clean with her.

And shouldn’t he confess
before
he stopped, just in case she found it all charming and flattering?

Dream on, idiot. She’s gonna be pissed. The only question is: will she dump you or forgive you?

“And in the meantime,” he reminded himself, “you need to get tomorrow’s post up. Just do a few lines about traffic jams, then analyze that bonehead move by the Patriots during the onside kick. Then call Sophie and tell her you need to talk. And this time, follow through for once.”

He had already tried that the previous morning after their run, but she had had a flight to catch, so they barely had time for a long, sexy good-bye kiss. She had reminded him she traveled a lot for her job and worked fourteen-hour days when she was in the office, adding wistfully that weeknight dating was off the table. They would have to wait for Saturday, but her eyes twinkled when she promised him she’d make it up to him then.

He had responded by telling her he traveled a lot too. It was an anomaly of the jog—his passion was also his paycheck. Would he give it up for a chance to see Sophie more regularly? Maybe, but that was a moot point.
She
needed to travel to keep her job, and he needed to back off about that.

Which also meant he needed to wait until their second official date to come clean with her. Meanwhile he’d keep the EG stuff to a minimum on the blog this week, then cough up a full confession on Saturday night.

• • •

“I know our
first
date went nuclear because of me and my pent-up needs,” Sophie admitted on the phone to her best friend. “But our second one was so cute. You should have seen us last night. Snuggling on the couch while he told me all about his failed marriage. It was heartbreaking really. You could see he blamed himself even though it was no one’s fault.”

Marcy adopted a derisive tone. “Snuggling on the couch? That’s code for feeling you up, right? And let me guess—you were watching sci-fi, right? What’s that one with Sheridan called?
Cylon 8
?”

Sophie laughed. “
Babylon 5
, and it was
his
idea. He noticed some DVDs in the box I was carrying that first day, and he wanted to see if they withstood the test of time.”

“Convenient. And meanwhile, he was trashing his ex? Not exactly hero material, Sophie.”

“Give him a break.” Sophie sighed. “His wife was injured in a car accident, and the doctors said she couldn’t have a baby, but she wouldn’t listen. She wanted to keep trying, month after month after month, pregnancy test after pregnancy test. She was miserable, but guess what? So was Jake. He tried to convince her they should adopt, but she was so far gone—poor thing—she lashed out at him. Again and again. Which I understand, but still, he stood by her. Even when it was hopeless. That’s something, don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” Marcy admitted.

“My heart bleeds for her. But I feel for Jake too. Especially because he feels so guilty.”

“Why? It wasn’t his fault—the car accident, I mean. Or was it?”

“No. She was riding with friends when it happened. But he felt guilty. Because once their fighting got so bad, he was secretly
glad
they hadn’t gotten pregnant. Which made him feel even worse.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Poor Jake.”

“But now he has you. So all’s well.”

“I never said that.”

“Okay, so
I’ll
say it. He’s a lucky guy.” Marcy hesitated, then added softly, “And maybe you lucked out too. He sounds perfect for you, Sophie. A writer with the smile of Captain Sheridan and the body of an athlete? But who hates sports with a passion? It’s like you built him from a custom kit.”

“I never said he hates sports. He’s just not obsessed by them.” Sophie bit her lip, concerned for the first time that she had gone too far. She wanted a guy who could resist the lure of “the game,” but what if Marcy was right, and Jake actually
dis
liked sports? Thought sports bars were noisy and annoying? Thought jocks were muscle-bound idiots?

What would her family say? They lived and breathed sports. And not just the males. She had a superstar niece who was already dominating grade school softball with a blistering fastball. What if Sophie brought Jake home to meet them, and everyone sat around in awkward silence, judging each other?

And it wasn’t like Sophie herself hated sports, or at least, not really. She just had so much of that culture as a teenager—the constant blare of the TV, the steady stream of muscle-bound idiots eating up all the food and hitting on her when her cousins weren’t looking. It had been her own personal level of hell, at least toward the end.

On the other hand, she honestly couldn’t envision a home where the sports page wasn’t the focus of the breakfast table, much less where Super Bowl Sunday wasn’t one of the top five holidays of the year.

“Hey, Soph!” Marcy called out. “Are you still there?”

She winced, then told her friend defensively, “I don’t think he hates sports. But even if he does, I can make him appreciate all the good points. The camaraderie, the healthy competition, the unpredictability—”

“Now you
want
a jock?”

She laughed ruefully. “Not a jock, obviously. But I want him to respect that lifestyle . . .” She tried to remember Jake’s words, but could only picture his body. The body of an athlete. Not from casual jogging and erudite pursuits, but rather an ode to physical fitness on an Olympian level. “He was born to compete. At least on some level. Some
physical
level.” Drawing a deep breath, she added confidently, “I think it’s time to introduce him to my family.”

Marcy didn’t respond right away, other than to huff in disapproval. Finally she said, “Your cousins will eviscerate him. A writer who hates sports and loves sci-fi? Isn’t that the definition of dweeb?”

“Jake wanted to
kill
Daniel for hurting me.
Physically
kill him. I could see it in his eyes, the same way I saw it on my cousin’s face.
That’s
what they’ll have in common.”

“For the record, I wanted to kill him too,” Marcy admitted. “So did my hubby. So did half the partners. You don’t need a new boyfriend for that. Sure he sounds cool—and hot—but
we’ve
got you covered.”

“Thanks.” Sophie bit her lip, wondering if Marcy—
and
her “hubby,” and the partners, and the cousins—knew the truth. It was Sophie herself who should have decked Daniel—sent his ass to the ER—and while she couldn’t turn back the clock, she could promise herself that next time,
she’d
be the one to clobber any guy who made a fool of her.

She was so sure that guy wouldn’t be Jake. But if for some perverse reason she was wrong—if he turned out to be a jerk after all—it would be Sophie, not her posse of friends and relatives, who would mete out the punishment.

And meanwhile, it was time to find out whether or not Jake Devlin actually had game—Sophie-style.

• • •

Jake Dublin: THE OPINIONATED SPORTS GUY

August 23: The Saga Continues

Long story short? I haven’t told her yet.

You guys are cracking me up in the comments, by the way. Thanks for the moral support. I’ve been trying not to dig a deeper hole, but in deference to your loyalty, I’ll tell you one quick EG story, then we’ll analyze my play of the week. A brilliant one this time, to make up for last week’s bonehead selection.

So anyway, she and I are jogging through the park yesterday morning, and I’m trying not to be too lecherous even though she looks lech-able. So I give her the old “dogs on the couch” monologue—remember that one? If not, here’s the
link
. It’s PG, but always good for a laugh. But this time, it barely seemed to register, which I took as a sign of the apocalypse, romance-wise.

Me
: Is something bothering you? Because that was comedy platinum, you know.

EG
: What? Oh, yes. I didn’t know you had a dog. What kind is it?

Me
: I don’t have a dog. It was a generic rant. What’s going on?

EG
: I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve been so curious. About how you hurt your leg. Because of the scars. Not that they’re noticeable, except—well, I’m hooked on every inch of your body. So I couldn’t help noticing.

[So I know what you’re thinking: perfect opportunity for coming clean. Right?
Wrong
. I wasn’t mentally prepared, since my plan is/was to tell her on the third date. I know that was also the plan for the
second
date, but I used that time to tell her some other personal stuff, and the clock ran out, so to speak. So—]

EG
: Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything, Jake. I’m so sorry.

Me
: I had surgery on my leg because of a really bad fracture. It happened during a bad time in my life so I don’t usually talk about it. But it’s not a secret. And as you can see from my gazelle-like movements, it’s all healed except the scars.

EG
: Remind me to kiss it and make it better Saturday night.

Me
: Yeah, I’ll add it to the list of body parts I want you to kiss.

EG
: I have a list too, so take your vitamins.

Yeah, she actually said that, word for word: “Take your vitamins.” Let’s face it, folks. She’s perfect.

Now on to my play of the week, this time courtesy of the Broncos. It was so brilliant, I plan to claim full credit for it in my memoirs. Pay attention to the diagram, because this one’s tricky.

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