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Chapter 2

Lia

Did I pinch the inside of my arm to make sure I was indeed awake when Brooks Pittman casually gave me a drink recommendation? Yes. Did I think I was seeing things when one of my favorite NBA players appeared to be sitting at the same bar I was? Also, yes.

Brooks Pittman waits for me to answer. Do I want to have dinner with him? Absolutely. One hundred percent yes. I press my lips together, giving myself a sliver of space to decide and not make a complete ass of myself.

“You want to have dinner with me?” I ask, trying to sound like I’ve said these words before.

“Yes. Come on.” He reaches his hand for mine.

I blink slowly, afraid to move because this doesn’t feel real. I’m worried I’ll do something to jostle myself awake and into the real world, out of the dream I must be having.

I gently put my hand in his and he squeezes it, which pulls the breath right from my lungs. I look from our hands to Brooks, and he smirks. Maybe I’ve had so many horrific dating interactions I've built up enough karma to have something like this happen? Something amazing.

The hostess leads us to our table, and I try to act like this is normal and not a fantasy I’ve dreamt of. A jolt hits me when I think about texting Shelbie. She has no idea who Brooks Pittman is—she’s not a big sports person—but she’ll scream when she hears about my comeback to that dating app disaster before casually going on a date with an NBA player, in true best friend fashion.

Should I try to get a photo of us at dinner? Honestly, I don’t know if anyone would believe me if I told them this story. The sound of a glass being set down brings me back to the table where it’s only Brooks and me. When did the hostess even leave?

I try to keep the nervous laughter to a minimum when Brooks locks his eyes, the color of warm caramel, on mine.

“I’m Brooks,” he waves, and I’m still waiting for him to say this is a joke. But then he continues. “Even though this isn’t the date you had planned, I'm comfortable saying I’m probably better than whoever the fuck the guy was.”

Smiling and laughing, now at Brooks Pittman instead of as my standard defense mechanism, I reply, “I know who you are.” I take a long drink of water, thankful for the ice.

“You do?” His face is etched with doubt, evident by the raised brows and side-eye glance.

I need to choose what kind of woman I am in this situation: the one who simply knows he’s a professional athlete, or Lia Stone: lifelong Jags fanatic and sports obsessed.

Slowly breathing in, I choose to be myself and go for it. “Brooks Pittman, shooting guard for the Jersey Jaguars. You played college basketball at The University of Alabama, where you basically bullied and willed your team to make the tournament your senior year.” I sit back and get comfortable—each word has Brooks jaw falling a little bit more. “You took the Tide all the way to the Elite Eight and lost with a buzzer beater half-court shot. Heartbreaking. And when it comes to the Jags, you typically play the two, but I think the team has a better point differential when you’re at the three.”

“Oh. My. God,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief .

I don’t typically like to show off my knowledge of how the basketball positions translate to numbers for player sets and rotations, but I think my drink got a little ahead of me. My heart beats too quickly, rattling in my ears. I take another drink of water, considering the small speech I just delivered. “How was that?”

“Pretty good. I think I love you,” he praises and laughs—like, really laughs. The sound, full and radiant, has me matching the energy with a grin.

Shrugging my shoulders, I reply, “Just a fan.” I act like his love comment won’t be running around in my brain for the rest of time. Like, remember when Brooks Pittman said he thought he loved me?

Brooks opens the menu and muses, “Well, I only know your name because of the hostess, so it looks like I have some catching up to do.”

I give him an out. “You don’t have to stay if you already had plans or whatever. It won’t be the first time I was disappointed by a date.”

“Believe me, this is a much better plan than having the bartender feed me disgusting drinks he’s trying out for the winter menu. And you can’t tell me you think I’m better at the three and then leave me hanging.”

Brooks is wearing a navy shirt—it's kind of odd to see him in non-Jags colors, but athletes don’t go around living in a team color palette. His muscles press against the fabric, ones I’ve seen on TV but never in person—never like this. His hair is dark under his backwards hat and he is the definition of a man crush Monday.

“Thoughts on the lobster wontons to start?”

Looks like we’re doing this.

I’m on a date with Brooks Pittman.