her.
But being friends without benefits feels like the first responsible decision I’ve made about this woman in weeks.
It’s what I need to do.
“I leave on Monday for spring training. I’m going early this year to get in some extra workouts when pitchers and catchers report. Then I’m gone for a little over a month anyway.” I can’t quite fathom how I’m willingly ending something that has barely begun. But I have to do this. I have to know I’m not nuclear any longer.
I force myself to think with my head rather than the pathetic organ in my chest that wants to smother her with kisses, hide out with her in bed the rest of the day, and never let her go.
Brain, you’re at bat.
Just take a fucking swing.
“And while I’m in training, since we can’t be together,” I continue, doing my damnedest to be rational, “maybe we use the time to be apart. To take it slow and measured. To be patient.” I swallow roughly. “We can go to the golf event tomorrow as friends,” I offer, like I’m dying to go platonic with her.
Being just friends only sounds like a forking awful consolation prize, but it’s the opposite of my past mistakes, and that’s what I need to do.
“Sure,” Nadia says, a little uncertain. But she takes a shuddery breath and seems more resolved. “It’s what we were supposed to do anyway. Besides, I need to focus on finding a new GM, and all my plans for the team. There’s no lack of work for me to do,” she says, crisp and professional.
In a similar tone, I say, “Then we’ll see how things are after spring training. After we’ve done the friendship thing for real.” I sound much more decisive than I feel. “We’ll wait for our pitch. That’ll be our new rule. Rule number six.”
She gives me a faint smile, drains her coffee, then nods like it’s all settled. “Friends.”
“For now,” I agree. We’re not calling it relationship-quits forever. We’re just sensibly slowing down.
So why do I feel like we just broke up?
28
Nadia
My niece, Audrey, brandishes a paperback in each hand, waggling one then the other.
“Girl spy or girl warrior?” she asks, debating her purchase as we peruse the shelves at An Open Book.
I screw up my lips, tapping my finger on my chin, studying each cover. “That’s a good question. But with books, you truly can have it all. I vote for both,” I declare.
She nods resolutely, her black ponytail bouncing. “You’re right. I’ll ask my dad to buy me both.”
This is one of my favorite bookstores in the city, perched at the edge of the Marina, a soaring view of the Golden Gate Bridge beyond. I scan the titles and tip a copy of a sports biography into my hand. “While you’re at it, maybe add this one. Girl athletes are cool.”
She takes it with eager hands, reads the back jacket, then glances up at me with inquisitive eyes. “Will you ever have a girl athlete on your team?”
“There have been some female kickers. You never know. We might have one in the NFL someday. But you want to hear something cool?”
“I do.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “I think I might hire a female general manager.”
“You’re so cool, Aunt Nadia.” She spins on her heel and rushes off to find her father in the travel section, thrusting the books at him.
An elbow nudges my side. “Did I just hear you say you’re hiring a female GM?”
I turn to my sister, Brooke, who’s joined me in the kids’ section, some new thrillers tucked under her arm. “It’s looking that way. She’s the leading candidate.”
“Dad worked hard to create equal opportunities and build a diverse workforce. He’d be proud of you for carrying that on.”
“Thanks,” I say, a lump sticking in my throat. Emotions are riding me like I’m a surfboard today.
Breaking up with a guy you weren’t technically dating is the worst.
Especially when you’re falling hard for him.
Brooke studies my face. “You don’t seem as happy about that as I’d expect. What’s going on?”
That’s my sister, seeing right through me.
“Nothing is going on,” I say with fake cheer.
Cheer she bludgeons with one sharp snort. “Right. I don’t buy that. What’s the story with the man?”
I sigh heavily, slumping against the Jenny Hans. “I wish there were a story.” My voice is tight, my chest heavy. But I’m not one to dwell, to go all “woe is me” over a man. Then again, I’ve never experienced