Page 10

When I was twenty, the game was about winning.

Get her number. Get her upstairs. Get her to forget you didn’t know who you were.

Confidence was a volume knob. You turned it up, said something borderline clever, and hoped she laughed before she noticed the emotional vacancy sign blinking behind your eyes.

It worked. More than it should have.

Now?

Now the game’s about being chosen —not just wanted.

It’s about showing up with your whole self, minus the armor.

Telling the truth and hoping it’s still attractive.

Making room for someone else’s fear without disappearing inside your own.

And yeah—

That scares the shit out of me.

But none of that matters right now, because fifty guys just paid three grand each to sit in a Marriott conference room and listen to me tell them how to be a fucking man.

The room smells like three brands of deodorant fighting for dominance. Folded chairs, scuffed mirrors, a giant flip chart with the words "ATTRACTION ISN’T AN ACCIDENT” in all caps. Chairs creak. Someone’s bouncing a leg like they’re revving a motorcycle.

I don’t even call it a session. I call it floor time. Because these guys don’t want to feel like they’re in a classroom. They want to feel like they’re part of something .

A pack.

They didn’t come for structure. They came for initiation.

“Alright,” I say, standing at the front, arms folded like I’m about to hand out mission orders. “Who’s got balls today?”

A few guys laugh. One fake coughs “Not me.” The energy is a little twitchy, a little defensive.

And then—

“I’ll go.”

Matt.

He stands like a guy who bets on himself every day—and still braces for the loss. Mid-twenties. Shorter than most in the room. Compact frame—didn’t win the genetic lottery, but hit the gym anyway. He’s the kind of guy who meal-preps on Sundays and keeps showing up even when no one’s watching.

My favorite kind. Quiet engine. Long game.

Girls don’t see it right away. They clock the height, the glasses, the social hesitation—and miss the discipline.

But give him a year, some coaching, and the right shirt?

Different story.

“I’m tired of being the guy who doesn’t speak up until it’s too late. Tired of pretending I’m okay with being overlooked.”

He glances around like someone might heckle. No one does.

“I don’t want tricks. I want to be seen. But I don’t know if there’s anything worth seeing.”

Dead silence. The kind even dudes in gym shorts respect.

I nod slowly. Arms still folded. Trying not to show that I felt that one in the chest. “That,” I say to the group, “is what showing the fuck up looks like.”

They murmur. A couple nod. One guy claps once, fast .

Pack sees him now.

“There was this girl,” Matt says.

Heads turn. You’d think he just said there’s a bomb in the room .

He’s fidgety. Hesitant. But he’s standing. That’s the work.

“Coffee shop in Silver Lake. Saturday morning,” he says. “She was wearing, like... this tan coat thing. Big scarf. You know that vibe?”

“Autumn librarian?” someone calls out.

The group laughs — not mean, just relating.

Matt shrugs. “Maybe. She ordered a cortado with oat milk.”

I lift my hand. The room quiets like someone hit mute.

“Where were you sitting?”

“Corner. Charging my phone.”

“What was the vibe of the place?”

“Kinda quiet. Mostly laptops and headphones. Indie playlist, but not pretentious.”

“Did she look at you?”

He hesitates. “I think? Maybe once. Hard to say. I was watching through the lid of my coffee like a coward.”

A few chuckles. I don’t join them.

I’ve seen that move. I’ve done that move.

“Okay. Did she have a book? Laptop? Phone?”

“She was just... waiting,” he says. “Like she didn’t need to be doing anything. That’s what got me.”

I nod. Not just to him — to the whole room. I feel them recalibrate.

“Alright,” I say, stepping forward. “Next time, here’s what you do. ”

The chairs creak as they lean in. I could sell this moment for $900 a seat. But this isn’t content. This is the part I actually love.

“You don’t compliment the coat. Don’t open with a line. You notice something about the space — something you both share. The playlist. The long line. The fact that this place still sells macadamia cookies like it’s 2003.”

They laugh. Good. Still with me.

“Then you make eye contact. Real. Quick. Just enough to give her a decision.”

“She’ll either look away or smile. That’s your moment. You say one sentence. A real one.”

I pause.

“‘I was gonna get the same thing. Now I have to pretend I wasn’t.’”

Someone mutters “that’s good” like it’s sacred text. One guy nods like I just unlocked the Matrix.

“Then you walk away. Pay for your drink. Sit somewhere visible. If she’s interested? She’ll make herself approachable. If she’s not? You didn’t lose anything. But you showed up.”

I look back at Matt.

He’s listening harder than most people ever do.

“You weren’t afraid of her, man,” I say. “You were afraid of being seen by someone who might matter.”

I let it hang.

That silence? That’s the new edge.

“And that’s the game now. That’s the only one left worth playing.”

** *

Most of the guys are gone, still buzzing about the playlist and how that macadamia cookie line landed. A few fist bumps. One guy asked if eye contact counts if you’re wearing sunglasses. It does not.

I’m packing up the notes I didn’t look at once when I notice Matt — still standing near the coffee urn like it might pour him courage if he stares hard enough.

“Something still cooking?” I ask without looking up.

“I, uh... yeah. Just...”

I glance over. He’s got that look — post-breakthrough vulnerability mixed with decision paralysis.

“Are you still thinking about the scarf girl?”

He shrugs, sheepish.

“You think I should go back there?”

I click the pen in my hand once. Let it punctuate the silence.

“No.”

His face falls a bit. Like he was hoping for permission.

Then I add, “I think you should go back there on purpose. ”

I cross the room. Lower my voice so it’s just between us. Big brother energy. Pack leader to cub. Whatever metaphor makes it easier to say what I actually mean.

“Same café. Same time. Same seat. And you don’t go there to get her attention. You go there to remember who you were when you saw her the first time. The guy who wanted to be seen, not just get a number.”

Matt swallows. “And if she shows up again?”

“Then you try again. No pressure. No performance. Just a human moment. Make a joke about the line. Say something about the playlist. Or hell—ask if she’s the one who keeps buying the last damn macadamia cookie.”

That makes him smile. Not big. But enough.

I clap a hand to his shoulder — not hard. Just solid. Just real.

“And Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not going back for her. You’re going back for you. That’s the only part that sticks.”

He nods, slowly. It sinks in.

“Still feels like a movie,” he mutters.

I nod, just once.

“Yeah. But this time, you’re the one writing it.”