Nearly Eight Years Ago
1
Harlan
There are two kinds of men in the world.
Those who love suits and those who hate them.
Why love one? A well-made suit fits like a dream.
As for why you might hate one, don’t ask me.
I’m a lover, not a hater. No one ever came to this guy for the negative on anything. Hate isn’t my style.
But suits are, and I have a whole closet full of hand-tailored duds for occasions like the colleague’s wedding where I’m headed tonight.
I pad across the carpet of my walk-in closet and appraise my options, flicking through the crisply pressed shirts hanging along one wall. I bypass the charcoal, midnight black, and dark blue, the paisley and the striped, until I reach a shirt in the palest of blues.
I slide it off the hanger, put it on, and smooth the front.
This color always wins the eyes of the ladies.
Now, for the suit. I’ve got more than a dozen custom ones to pick from. Comes with the territory—as a pro football player, I’m required to dress to the nines on game day. I consider my faves and zero in on the winner.
“Ah!” It’s not your father’s navy suit, that’s for sure. No bankers would wear this color either. The deep, rich blue speaks up, gets noticed. It’s a hue that says, Let’s have some fun tonight, sweetheart.
And I am a fun kind of guy, so that’s the romantic vibe I like putting out in the universe.
I put on the pants and a chocolate-brown belt, then head to the tie hanger. I opt for a pink silk one with tiny illustrations of playing cards scattered over it.
May luck be a very lovely lady tonight.
I grab the suit jacket, sling it over my shoulder on one finger, and spin around in front of the full-length mirror.
Yep.
“Well done, sir,” I tell my reflection.
I am ready for the celebration. The bride and groom will say I do, and hearts will go a fluttering.
Ahhhh, yes.
Weddings—another thing I love.
Two people vowing to cherish each other for the rest of their lives. It melted my heart every time one of my sisters tied the knot, promising forever and fidelity.
Whether a couple can keep that promise, stay true to that vow . . . well, that’s another issue.
I shudder, shucking off those unpleasant thoughts.
Not today, brain.
As I head down the stairs, I laser in on the best thing about weddings—for me, that is, as an attendee.
Weddings are the best place to meet women. Talk to women. Dance with women.
Three of my favorite things in the world to do.
Fuck this online shit. Swiping left or right and snapping this or that is not for me. I’m all about face-to-face chemistry and real-life chitchat. Weddings are perfect for a social cat like me as they’re usually brimming with single women in the mood for a man.
Pretty sure I’ve never met a wedding where I haven’t gotten laid, and I wouldn’t mind keeping up that streak tonight.
I leave my place and head to the limo waiting at the curb just outside on California Street. I slow to survey the sleek, black set of wheels and whistle in appreciation.
The driver—a slim, efficient man in a black suit—pops out to open the door for me. “Thank you very much,” I tell him. “And nice to meet you. I’m Harlan.”
The man gives a surprised smile. “Darien. Pleasure to meet you too,” he says.
I slide into the back seat to join my teammate Jones Beckett. “Damn, you look almost as good as I do,” I say, checking out my friend in his Tom Ford suit.
The team’s star receiver rolls his blue eyes. “Thanks. You look almost as rich as me.”
I laugh as I smooth my hand down my tie. “Thanks for giving me a new goal.”
Jones settles into the seat as the driver pulls onto Fillmore. “Thanks for being my”—he stops to sketch air quotes—“’date’ tonight.”
“Of course. Anything for the cause of love, buddy.”
Jones sighs heavily and drags a hand down his face. “Fuck, man. I’ve got to figure this out and soon.”
“No argument here.”
My friend has it bad for the Renegades’ lead publicist. He tried to keep it a secret from me and everyone else, and I understand why, but I put two and two together. Jillian’s perfect for him—whip-smart and loyal. But Jones has been rehabbing his reputation, trying to shake off a checkered past, and he hasn’t figured out how to bring their forbidden romance into the light.
More power to the two of them for running the relationship obstacle course. But just the thought of all those hurdles is too much for me. I prefer my dalliances simple, mutually enjoyable, and free of angst.
The strategy has served me well—mostly, I should say—for the last several years. I like to date, I like to have fun, and I like to fuck. But with my career still on the upswing, anything more complicated than that is not part of my playbook.