Rules of Play (The Script Club 2)

“Which is?”

“I’ve been taking online courses in sports management to become a baseball analyst,” he said in a rush.

“Cool. What’s that?”

Aiden furrowed his brow and not gonna lie, even in his semidark truck, it was a formidable look. “You’re a space analyst. It’s like that, but for baseball.”

I shifted in my seat, nearly choking myself on my cape. “I’m not an analyst—I’m an aerospace engineer. More specifically, my field is orbital mechanics.”

“Does that mean you’re the guy to call when my rocket won’t blast off?”

I snort-laughed. “You got problems with your rocket, Aiden?”

He threw his head back and guffawed. “You dirty-minded little fucker. I have no problems and zero complaints about the state of my rocket.”

“But you also just claimed to be in the midst of a dry spell. Perhaps there’s a correlation,” I teased.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’ve just been busy.” The standstill traffic gave him ample opportunity to pull off a scathing glare before refocusing on the road. He smacked the steering wheel grumpily. “Damn, this is like a parking lot. Do you have time to grab a drink? We can chat about a possible deal over a beer. What d’ya say?”

“Sure.”

I texted my roommates so they wouldn’t worry about me, while Aiden navigated around slower traffic. He turned right on a side street, parked in front of an antique shop, and met me on the sidewalk.

“Jack’s is around the corner. Let’s go there,” he suggested, clicking his key fob at his vehicle. “Do you want to leave your cape in the truck?”

I slid my cell into my pocket and shook my head. “Oh, no. I need it.”

“Suit yourself.” Aiden shrugged before heading toward the main street. “But I gotta ask…what’s the point of a cape anyway?”

I fell into step beside him. “A cape is more practical than a jacket. It keeps you warm and protects your whole body from the wind and elements.”

Because timing was everything, a hearty gust whipped around the corner, blowing the garment sideways and over my face.

“So I see,” Aiden drawled as he opened the door to Jack’s.

I batted the fabric away with a sigh. “This isn’t my day.”

He chuckled lightly as he held the door open. “Come on. Let’s see if we can make it better.”

2

Aiden

George made a beeline for the two leather stools at the end of the bar and flopped onto the one closest to the wall. I perched on the one beside him and inclined my head toward the bartender.

“What are you having?” I asked, glancing at the craft beer selection listed on the chalkboard under a spotlight.

“The cheapest beer on tap, please.”

“It’s on me.”

“I’ll have the most expensive beer on tap, please,” he replied with a shit-eating grin.

I rolled my eyes and placed our order. When the bartender set our drinks in front of us a few minutes later, I lifted mine in a toast. “To our first date.”

George froze for a beat, then tapped his glass to mine. “Cheers.”

I sipped my beer, scanning the interior as my eyes adjusted to the dark. The long, narrow space reminded me of a saloon from the Wild West with its low tin ceilings, wide-planked flooring, and the antiqued mirror behind the glass shelves stocked with bottles of booze.

The after-work crowd commandeered the high tables near the window and the stools in front of the flat-screen perched above the bar. A young woman with frizzy blonde hair sat alone a couple of seats away from George, humming loudly to the Beyoncé song playing on the overhead speakers.

Old bars like this were the perfect place to tell a story or forget a story. No doubt these walls had heard it all over the past hundred years. Even a tale as ordinary as mine. I could see the headline now, “Mechanic seeks a slice of his glory days.”

I set my beer down and jolted backward when George wiggled his fingers next to my temple.

“What are you doing?” I huffed, swatting his hand away.

“Casting a spell.” He lowered his eyes and chanted in a monotone voice, “You will now rule out super-expensive repairs.”

I snickered. “I’ve missed you, you little weirdo.”

As expected, George flipped me off.

I hid my shit-eating grin behind my glass and got swept away in the sudden blast of déjà vu.

It was so strong, I could almost smell the lingering scent of pancakes when I’d waltzed into the Murphys’ kitchen and spotted George standing in front of the open refrigerator in his pajamas. He’d been thirteen at the time and a little awkward.

Okay…a lot awkward. The guy had a book in his hands at all times. That morning, George was reading…and I shit you not, War and Peace. I didn’t know anyone who read twelve-hundred-page books for fun. I’d stared at the cover for a second and tried to think of something smart to say. At sixteen, my brain wasn’t my greatest asset.