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Ooh. She’s a fun one to keep up with. “I’ll have to enter you as…IOU.”
She laughs. “Yes. You do, Drew.”
I send her a message on the spot.Thursday night. Tacos Are Life. Seven-thirty. It’s a deal.
She writes back withI can’t wait…for the tacos.
With a kiss goodbye, I take off, counting the hours until the end of the week.
At sunrise the next morning, I’m peeling off miles of the beach on fleet feet, powered by the morning-after mojo of a sexy night and the promise of another one soon.
Carter keeps pace with me. At this hour, we pretty much have the beach to ourselves, the lapping of the waves the soundtrack to our workout.
“This is the best run I’ve had in ages,” I say.
“You got laid last night,” my college friend observes.
I crack up then meet his gaze. “That obvious?”
He gives anI-know-you-so-wellnod. “The only thing that makes a man this chipper about running is sex. Plus, you were a surly mofo yesterday when you picked up my truck. I don’t think the waves could namaste you like a hot date would. Was she a swipe right?”
“No!” I say, punching his arm. I’m still kind of amazed I met a fantastic woman randomly. “Can you believe I met her IRL?”
He snarls. “Dude. You’re making me jelly. That still happens?”
“Evidently. I know you’re the king of the dating apps and all, but I am all for meeting a woman without the smoke and mirrors of the Internet,” I say.
Carter is easy to talk to about dating. He not only loves it, but he’s a spokesperson for romance. His partnership with the Date Night app is a perfect match.
“So I was paddle boarding,” I begin, then I tell him the rest of the story of meeting Brooke, ending with, “And I’m going to see her Thursday.”
“You suck,” he mutters.
I give a smug smile. After Jenna, I’m going to take this piece of good-dating luck and clutch it tight. “I know.”
“Seriously. You meeting a woman on the beach is like finding a Benjamin in the dryer,” he says, then glances at his digital watch. He jerks his gaze back in the direction of Santa Monica.
I wheel around, and we start the return leg of our roundtrip jog.
“Are you spending a lot of time looking in laundry machines for extra dough, Carter? If you need a loan, just tell me.”
He flips me the bird. “Why do I even hang around with you when I’m in LA? You walk ass-backward into great sex and then, without any pain or suffering, land a date with a woman you like.”
“Aww, tell me how hard your life is. Is it still rough after winning the Super Bowl?”
He hums, a long, satisfied sound, then he raises his finger and scratches his jaw, showing off one of his fat rings. “Come to think of it, that was a sweet end to this season. An encore,” he says.
Some guys have all the football luck.
“There. So I will enjoy my dating luck, while I try to figure out what the fuck is going on with my football team. The general manager has been cutting guys left and right. Practice yesterday was miserable. No one knows what kind of shake-ups there could be before the season kickoff. And it starts soon.”
Carter knows this. He splits time between Los Angeles, his hometown and where his family still lives, and San Francisco, where he plays for the Renegades. He’s in town since his team doesn’t have practice today, but he’ll be heading back later this week as we get ready for the regular season to start.
“I feel for you,” my buddy says, then claps my shoulder. “I mean it. Even with my two rings, I still feel for you.”
“Jackass,” I mutter, then we trash talk the rest of the way to the Santa Monica Pier. When we get there, we head toward Ocean Avenue, where I spot a familiar figure at a café at the edge of the beach. He sits facing our direction, arms crossed loosely, almost as if he’s been expecting us.
I slow my pace, pointing. “Dude, is that our agent?” What the hell is Maddox doing here?
