Love at 11 - By Mari Mancusi Page 0,26

actually. I smiled and flipped my hair back behind my ears in what I hoped was a “major babe” manner.

“Also, you said you loved European football on your profile. Do you know how hard it is to find an American girl who likes football?”

Uh-oh.

“So, what team do you support?” he asked.

Was it too late to run screaming from the restaurant? “Um, team?”

“Yeah, you know. Football team.”

“Oh, right.”

Think, Maddy! Think! My brain went completely blank. Actually “went” was probably the wrong term since it wasn’t exactly full of European football team names to begin with. In fact, I wasn’t even positive if European football was football at all. Something told me it might be soccer.

“England?” I said as half a question, praying that since England was a country in Europe they’d have a football team.

“Ah, you follow the national teams, eh? Should have known. Probably were a Man-U fan, too, before Becks crossed the pond, right?”

“Um, yes?”

“Can’t say I blame you. I’d much rather see the old skipper in his natural habitat, too—rather than tune in to a pathetic Galaxy match that he probably won’t play in anyway.”

What the hell was he talking about? I took a big gulp of my wine. I knew he was speaking English, but I had no idea what anything coming out of his mouth meant. Oh, why had I written that I followed football on my profile? This was going to be a long date.

Definitely time for a subject change. “So, um, you surf?”

“No.” He laughed. “Sorry. My brother put that on my profile ‘cause he said girls dug surfers.”

Of course. The football thing (which I had no clue about) was real and the surfing thing (which I could at least hold my own in a conversation) was fake. I didn’t want to even broach the topic of the ten kids. So now what did we talk about?

Luckily at that moment the waitress announced our names and we were ushered past other diners to our table in the back of the restaurant. Unluckier, when we got there, The Date From Hell turned the conversation back to football. He was like a mad dog with a bone. Who cared how many goals this player scored last night? Or how so-and-so was probably going to get traded because he screwed up royally in the midfield? Or how this other guy was always diving? I mean, diving? Was there a pool or something?

He paused only for a moment, as the waitress took our orders and then launched back into his incomprehensible spiel.

I desperately wanted him to shut up. But what could I say? I mean, I was the liar who initiated the date under false pretenses, not him. Now I simply had to sit back, enjoy my food and get through the night. Then I’d never have to see this football bore again.

Oh, and I had to get a photo. Might as well get that over with now. Then maybe after dinner I could feign a headache and get the hell out of Dodge.

“I have to make a quick phone call,” I lied, reaching into my handbag for my cell.

“Is that a fake Kate Spade?” he asked. “The label looks funny.”

Oh, nice. My counterfeit bag was evidently so counterfeit-looking that even a macho guy who had been delivering a sports monologue stopped long enough to notice it. I sort of gave him a half laugh which he could interpret as he would, ditched the bag back by my feet, and flipped open my camera phone. Needed to get this over with ASAP.

Pretending to dial a number, I turned on the camera and framed him up. I felt like a secret spy. A double agent. I was on a stealth mission to get photographic evidence of an international conspiracy.

I clicked.

SNAP!

Oh, shit. I forgot to turn the fake camera snapping sound off. I would definitely be fired from James Bond duty. Maybe Ted wouldn’t notice.

“Is that a camera phone?” he demanded, looking a little pissed off. You know, between the handbag and the cell phone, he’d become suddenly become quite observant.

“Oh, ha, yeah,” I said quickly closing the phone and stuffing it in my bag. “I guess so.”

“Did you just take a photo of me?”

My face flamed. “Uh, I think maybe? It went off? By accident?”

“Did you delete it?”

“What?”

“Did. You. Delete. The photo. That you ‘accidentally’ took?” Now Ted looked seriously angry.

“Um, yeah. I did. It’s gone.”

“Let me see.”

I was in hell. Seriously in hell.

“What? Why? It’s fine. It’s gone,”