Page 6 of Her Game Plan

“I’m pretty sure you can’t say things like that,” Sage replies from her seat across from me at the taco shop on the corner of Gaylord and Colfax. “You’ll get cancelled, and rightfully so.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I’ve had a lot of success saying whatever pops into my head. It’s usually pure fucking gold.”

Sage shakes her head, her long blonde hair attracting the attention of the three men at the bar. Maybe she’ll get us free margaritas again this week.

Not that we can’t afford our own.

There’s something powerful about a man buying you a drink… and then still going home alone.

“This one was not gold. Not even bronze.” A good-natured smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “And you have to stop calling men boys.”

“Ugh. Okay, I hear you.” I could think for a millisecond before I let words come out of my mouth. “But every professional athlete I’ve ever dated has acted like a manchild,” I say. “So, boy feels appropriate. And it’s alliterative with balls.”

Sage narrows her eyes at me, a sliver of green peeking out. “I think you’re using the term ‘date’ too liberally.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“Fuck buddies?” Sage offers as another round of drinks is delivered, courtesy of the man at the end of the bar. The one who looks like he should be playing squash with my dad at the athletic club. Or if not my dad, definitely Sage’s.

Friends since we attended the same private school for high school, Sage is the one woman in this entire state who understands what it’s like to be the heiress of a major sports team. Even before we met, Sage had already determined her path would lead her straight to the top of the baseball team. She tried to talk me into taking over the Stallions so we could show the world what women can do in men’s sports, but after a week of trying, she realized I’d already made up my mind.

Now we’re regularly photographed together, often with some caption about the “sports princesses” appearing underneath. They mean it to be disparaging, but we choose to own that shit.

“We are not fuck buddies,” I disagree.

She purses her lips. “Maybe not. You have to at least know their names to be considered buddies. I don’t think you’ve taken the time to get to know any of them since Dickhead.”

Sage hated Jace, the bass guitar player, the entire time I was dating him, and it turns out, she was actually holding back. Especially after I told her he suggested I should talk less. Well, his real words were “sit there and look pretty.” Luckily, it was the push I needed to cut things off with him for the final time. Since then, well, I haven’t had the time to think about anything serious, let alone actually find someone interesting enough to warrant more than one night together.

“I don’t really find their names an important part of our interactions. Plus, the benefit of breaking my musician streak with athletes is that they typically have their own jersey hung up somewhere in the room, so I’ve got that going for me on the name front.”

Sage grins. “I can imagine you frantically searching the room for a name to scream while some giant of a man is on top of you.”

“Oh, please, Sage. I’m far too petite to ever allow a man to be on top. Cowgirl all the way.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You know they’ve got the strength to hold themselves off you. You want the control.”

I don’t deny it. “I know what I want, and we both know I’m not interested in giving anyone enough of my precious time for them to figure it out.”

“Have you considered simply using a toy?” Sage asks. “We’re blessed to live in a time where silicone exists for a reason.”

I have. I do. The truth is, I’ve slept with far fewer men than I let my friend believe. Sure, I flirt when we’re out. I’m single, and I make sure they are, too. But I like people too much to go solo too often. I want the connection. I need the connection.

“I just… I like being with someone else, you know? Hearing them say my name. Feeling the warmth of their hands on me,” I confess.

Sage shakes her head. “Nope. I do not know. I’d rather stay home alone than have some random man’s hands roaming all over me.”

I swear, the man at the bar, who is apparently eavesdropping on us now, drops his forehead into his hands. Too bad, buddy. Not that he ever had a chance with Sage, anyway.

“Why is a random man touching you?” Finley asks when she joins us at our table.

Sage laughs, and I’m glad to see my friends getting along. This is the third time we’ve all met up for dinner after I decided they both need more smart, powerful female friends.

“Finley! I thought you died. Where have you been?” Normally, I’d let her tardiness slide, but it’s not even hockey season yet.

Her cheeks turn dusty pink. “Ah, Beckett and I—”

“Nope,” I cut her off. “We will not be listening to any stories about you and Beckett fucking like bunnies. It will make me feel lonely enough that I’ll end up going home with my dad’s accountant over there.” I tilt my head toward the man.