The Playbook

Why am I so angry about this? There’s something about Rhonda’s vulnerability that makes me want to protect her from these assholes. They can tease the fuck out of me, but what they do to her could scar her for life.

I glare at Murray, then turn back in the direction of the table. Rhonda stands a few feet away, watching the whole thing. I examine her red, puffy eyes and wonder if I did the right thing sticking up for her.

Murray is helped to his feet by a few of the players as he curses under his breath. I ignore them and gesture to Rhonda to sit back down at our table She does, wiping her eyes and smiling through her tears.

“I always knew I’d find my prince.”

Say what? I swallow hard. Shit, now I’ve done it. How the hell do I get out of this?

“Rhonda, it’s been great chatting with you, but I don’t think I’m ready for anything serious,” I say. I’m trying to let her down gently, but I get the feeling it’s not going to be easy.

Her face falls, but she recovers quickly. “I can wait. When something is meant to be, you can’t fight it, right?” She gets up and grabs her jacket, clutching it tightly with both hands. “I’m going to go because I don’t want you to say anything you might regret. I had a great time, Jake.”

She gives me a shy smile, before rushing for the exit. Shaking my head, I get to my feet, glad that date one is finally over. As I walk out, I pass the waitress I’ve been eying all night.

“Your date finish early?” she asks, her tone light.

“She’s my cousin,” I lie. “And I’m hoping my night is just beginning.”

Chapter Eleven

Abbey

“Dinner. Tonight.” Mel speaks in her best ‘don’t argue’ voice.

“Tonight?” I repeat with a sigh.

“You’ve been so focused on work that I don’t see you anymore,” Mel whines through the phone. “I know you’re chasing a promotion, but live a little, damn it. I’m determined to force you to let loose, if I have to.”

I make a face because I know she’s right. I’ve been neglecting my friend, but it’s not why she thinks. Work, as usual, is just a distraction from everything else going wrong in my life, but I can’t tell her that. If I do, she’ll ask questions I’m not sure I’m ready to answer. Then there is the whole Playbook thing. I can’t talk to her about that either.

“Fine,” I grumble. “When and where?”

“Dolci’s, at six,” she replies, satisfied. “And wear something nice. You never know how many sexy waiters are working the Friday night shift.”

I roll my eyes and end the c

all, turning my attention back to my latest masterpiece, a review of the top five incontinence aids on the market. At the moment, it’s a toss-up between Depends and Natural You.

This is why I spent the last five years studying my ass off. The worst part? I’m actually expected to try these things on for comfort. Kill me now.

The last thing I want to do is go out, but I know if I cancel, Mel will be over here dragging me out by my hair, so I begrudgingly get in the shower. After my shower, I throw on a pair of jeans and a light blue top that highlights my eyes. Hardly dressy, but it’s at least a pass. I run a brush through my thick, tangled hair until I’m presentable enough to get through the doors of the semi-classy restaurant.

I arrive at the restaurant five minutes early and give Mel’s name to the waiter. I don’t bother checking to see if she’s there already, because if she is, it will be a first. I’m glued to my phone while I wait to be seated. It’s possible I might’ve become slightly obsessed with checking my email—just in case any new emails need my urgent attention and all.

“Ma’am? This way, please.”

Just as I’m about to follow the waiter through the crowded dining area, I stumble under my feet. Glancing down, I see a pair of my lacey knickers curled around my ankle. Yikes. I swiftly bend down to retrieve them, shoving them deep into the safety of my purse. That’s what I get for rushing to get dressed.

The waiter leads me to a table near the back. I glance around, feeling underdressed. This place is nicer than the type of place she’d usually drag me out to. I hope she’s planning on paying.

“I’ll show your date over when he arrives,” he promises. Date? I glance at the flickering candle in the centre of the table, surrounded by bright red rose petals and swallow a laugh. They obviously got their wires crossed, unless Mel is planning on confessing her feelings.

“Thanks,” I say, not bothering to correct him. He’ll find out soon enough.

A few minutes pass and no Mel. A cheer erupts near the front door. I crane my neck to see what’s going on. Is that Jake Tanner? And Murray Pennerson? I count at least half a dozen high-profile footballers I recognize—a number of whom I’ve named and shamed on The Playbook.

“Go get em, Jakey Boy,” Murray’s voice booms through the restaurant. I roll my eyes and pretend to busy myself with my phone, but I can’t take my eyes off Jake Tanner. I watch as he walks toward the back of the restaurant—in my direction—seemingly oblivious to the attention he’s receiving from everyone. His eyes meet mine and I start to panic. He’s walking directly for my table. He couldn’t know who I am, could he? I swallow hard, not sure what other explanation there could be.