Page 94 of The Golden Scoop

He’s on set, so I don’t expect him to answer any time soon.

I grab my coffee, slide my laptop under my arm and walk over to the couch. My phone rings before I’ve taken my first sip.

“I’m always available for you, honey.”

His voice is low, but there’s a contempt edge to it.

“I thought you were filming today.”

“I am.” He chuckles. “I called for a five-minute break when I saw your message.”

“You called for a break?” I admonish. “Matthew…”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself, that you don’t love it?”

The bickering could continue for hours. I’d enjoy every minute and rejoice in my victory later. I think back to how speechless I was when this all started. Matt being blunt about what he was thinking, always having the upper hand. So, I take a page out of his book.

“Actually, yeah. I do love it.”

The line goes silent for a minute. I fist bump the air.

“Matt?”

“I’m here. Sorry.” He clears his throat. I bet his cheeks are flushed in that nerdy, but hot, way they tend to do when I catch him unprepared. “Do you have another outing planned?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay?”

“I have a date planned.”

The cringe I expected from using that word never shows up. And yet, I’m about to correct myself as it leaves my mouth. Luckily, Matt shoots back right away.

“Finally,” he teases. “I’ve been waiting for almost two years.”

When Matt shows up at my door, I toss him my car keys and hop onto the passenger seat without complaining. He tries to hide the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes betray him. Pure satisfaction.

I type up the address of the spot I booked this morning into the GPS, making sure the actual name doesn’t pop up. He follows the directions without asking a single question.

For all he knows, I could be taking him to a naturist cult colony.

Good for him. I’d have prepared a whole game of twenty questions before the car even left the curb.

“Turn in here,” I say when the warehouse finally comes into view.

“Batting cages?” he asks. Surprise tints his voice.

My thought process was simple: something competitive and physical where I actually stand a chance at winning. Matt played varsity football in high school. I played varsity tennis. If anyone here has a better chance at hitting a ball with a stick, it’s going to be me. After all, years of reflex drills and aggressive net play have to count for something.

“Thought it’d be fun to get some exercise in,” I say, innocently. “It’s not outside, but it beats going to the gym.”

Matt opens the door for me, and I strut toward HomeRun Factory radiating confidence. It’s been cooking all morning, mentally preparing to humble this six-foot quarterback down to planet earth.

My feet stop dead at the entrance. Head swings back. I watch him stroll leisurely, hands in his pockets, smile on his face. He’s too relaxed.

Where’s the competitive spark? The ego? The masculine urge to dominate recreational activity? Especially when they include me.

I narrow my eyes, annoyed.