The Cheat Sheet

“You mean when you said you wished you could use a Tide pen to wipe all the other women out of my life?” I regret bringing it up immediately. Clearly she doesn’t want to revisit it.

Bree pulls her hand from mine so she can cover her cheeks. “Tequila, Nathan. Tequila made me say it!”

I laugh, hoping to ease her tension even though all I want to do is sink into a depressed ball on the floor. I’ll be better tomorrow when I can reset my brain and wake up without the hope of a real relationship with Bree.

“Alright, listen, I want you to lay really low until I can call Nicole and get her to do some damage control. No walking home alone, and if you have to go to the grocery store or somewhere public, I’ll send my bodyguard with you until all of this blows over.”

“Damage control?! I damaged you! Oh my gosh, I’m the worst friend.”

“Bree—the damage control is for you, not me.” I’m not the one who despises the spotlight. Or the idea of a romantic relationship between us.

Her shoulders relax. “Oh. Okay. Well, that’s a little better.” She pauses and looks at the pile of fan mail like she’s trying to harness magical abilities and send it all into another dimension. It doesn’t work. Her powers aren’t strong enough. “Can we just go eat and forget about all of this for a little bit?”

“Sure. I’m just going to change my shirt, because ironically, this one has a stain on it.”

We both laugh, and it lifts a little of the tension in the air. I pull off my shirt and walk toward my dresser to grab a clean one. That’s when I catch Bree’s face in the mirror. She’s still in here, staring at my back with her mouth slightly open. She’s not looking away. Her eyes are glued to me, and I have to work so hard not to flex. Wait, should I flex? No. That would make it ridiculously obvious that I see her checking me out, right?

But she is checking me out. There’s a spark in her eyes I haven’t noticed before. I mean, she’s seen me with my shirt off probably close to a hundred times, and I always thought she was indifferent to my body. Unimpressed. Now I’m wondering if she always looks at me like this when I’m not watching her…

Hope springs back up in my chest, and I decide to turn this into a little experiment of sorts.

I reach into a drawer and pull out a plain white t-shirt, stretching my neck side to side a few times like my muscles are just oh so tight. I lift the shirt over my head and tug it down in the sexy way I was made to do it in those Jockey commercials. I spread my shoulders wide and lift my arms, knowing full well it makes all my muscles bunch and ripple. Can someone get me some oil right quick? That would be great.

I’m not even sorry because this experiment is producing some very compelling results. Bree’s eyes are fixed on me, and she’s biting her lip almost to the point of drawing blood. Her eyelids are heavy in a way that says she likes what she sees.

That is not the look of a woman with sisterly feelings.

Not. One. Bit.

I turn around, and in that fraction of a moment, she’s looking away like she’s been an innocent little lamb the whole time. Her cheeks are pink though. Pretty ripe strawberries.

“Ready?” she asks in a high peppy voice. She can’t meet my eyes, and suddenly I’m wondering if maybe the tequila didn’t make her spout nonsense. Maybe it removed her filter. And maybe the guys were right.

Something inside me snaps. It’s possible I didn’t hydrate enough during practice today, or maybe I’m having an early midlife crisis, but suddenly, I feel like taking a big chance. Not thinking first, just jumping.

“Bree?” I ask, and my tone clearly says something big is about to go down.

Her eyes widen. “Yeah?”

I step closer. You’d think I would be at a loss for words, but I’ve rehearsed this in my head so many times that I know word for word what to say. “Listen, about what you said in the video—”

I’m interrupted by a loud knock on my front door.

Bree looks immediately relieved, and she practically bounces on her toes as she says, “Oh! Someone’s at the door! I’ll get it!”

Great. Just great.

I open the front door, and Nathan’s agent, Nicole, sweeps in wearing a fabulous grey power suit, a large leather bag draped over her shoulder and a large foam board under her arm.

“Oh, good. You’re already here,” she says to me as she passes.

Her five-inch black stilettos click over the hardwood floor, and I have no idea how she manages to move so fast in those things. I would hardcore eat it on this slick surface if I tried to move like she does in those beauties. Not Nicole. She glides. Floats. A woman who dares you to mess with her. I think I have a girl crush.

Nicole has been Nathan’s agent since the start of his career, and she’s incredible. This woman is a no-nonsense powerhouse, and she’s notorious for negotiating the most ruthless contracts in the NFL. Nicole

has taken Nathan’s career by the reins and steered it to incredible heights.

I want a Nicole. I’ve offered to pay her in lots of hugs and words of affirmation to guide my career in the right direction too, but oddly, she said no then went back to scheduling stuff on her phone for Nathan. Loyal—I can respect that. Besides, I’m doing okay on my own. Well, except for the part where Nathan has been monetarily floating me all this time without me knowing it. And I still can’t bring myself to send in the application to The Good Factory that I’ve filled out five different times. Yep, doing good.