Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“Well…how do you want to handle it, then?” Bill rasped, his voice gravelly from a few decades worth of heavy smoking.
I stared at the horizon, cradling a warm mug of coffee. “I don’t know. I think we should get through the bake-off first. You’re busy anyway, and—”
“I’m always busy,” he intercepted. “Don’t worry about me. You know…you could incorporate this bake-off thing. I’ll tip People, Sports Illustrated, and drum up some interest in pizza bagels and we’ll casually let the cat outta the bag. Just like bagels come out of the oven, so have you.”
“So in the that scenario, I’m a bagel.”
“It sounded better in my head.”
“Wow, that’s…terrible. Like, really bad.”
Bill snickered. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave the snazzy headlines to PR.”
“Good idea.”
We chuckled softly, each of us no doubt hoping the other would change the subject…pronto.
“Listen, kid. It’s up to you—the timing, the method…as long as you’re the one in control of the narrative. That’s the golden rule.”
“I know.”
“All right.” Bill cleared his throat, a sign he was moving on. “How’s business? They eat a lot of bagels in Northern California?”
“They do, indeed.” I gave him a brief rundown of the store and shared that choosing to open shop in Haverton had paid off. “College students and tourists love their bagels and cream cheese.”
“They probably like that a big-time football player is serving them too.”
“Well, it’s a football town,” I replied neutrally. “One of the owners next door and I played college ball together, which is how the bake-off evolved.”
“Ahh. What’s his name?”
“Mateo Cavaretti. He had a short stint in the pros playing for—”
“Tennessee. No shit. I remember him,” Bill interrupted. “Huh. Good-looking guy, right? Had a rocket for an arm, but he was…a little temperamental.”
“Sounds like Mateo.”
“Hmm. It’s been years and my memory ain’t what it used to be, but I always thought that kid got screwed.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had the wrong representation. People gave up on him too soon. That messes with your head. You start thinkin’ you can’t throw the ball after a rough practice or two, and next thing you know you’re slinging pizza instead of a football. That’s a damn shame. He coulda been somebody.”
“He’s doing well here,” I said defensively.
“That’s nice, but it’s not the NFL or the—hey, I have an idea. We’ll do a piece about Cavaretti too. College teammates on separate paths find themselves back in competition, and—”
“No. This isn’t a personal competition. It’s business, and it’s supposed to be a community event…for fun.”
Bill snorted. “The personal stuff sells the rest. That’s life. Sorry, kid…I got a call on the other line. You know where to reach me. Take care.”
I pulled my earbuds out, frowning as I stared, unseeing, at the Pacific.
Funny that Mateo’s name had never come up in conversation till now. It made sense. He hadn’t made it, and no one talked about those guys. No one wanted anyone’s bad luck to rub off on them. Myself included.
I couldn’t feel bad or guilty. It wasn’t as if Mateo and I had been friends. We’d been teammates whose lives had taken different paths. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to wonder what had happened to him. I’d been consumed with my own worries.
But the years had stripped away layers of defensive pretense and offered perspective.
Maybe Bill was right, and Mateo had been a victim of poor management and terrible timing. He was a smart man, and to some degree he probably knew the cards hadn’t been stacked in his favor. No wonder he’d been so angry when I’d shown up. While I’d played Sunday Night Football, he’d been caring for his ailing father and salvaging the family business. I could just imagine his reaction to a personal puff piece pitting us against each other.
A pizza competition was one thing, but I wasn’t willing to drag Mateo into my narrative for the sake of entertainment.
I didn’t want to hurt him.
I didn’t want to care too much or get too attached, either. Mateo wasn’t the kind of guy you fell for. No, he was the bad boy you fucked and forgot about. And I was definitely going to do that. But I couldn’t deny that I liked him.
Maybe too much.
“You don’t have to bring wine. Aunt Sylvie has the good stuff shipped from Italy.”
“California Pinots are pretty amazing too.” I held up a bottle. “How about this one?”
Mateo inspected the label and nodded. “Sure.”
“I’ll get flowers, too.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbled. “Total overkill. What are you, trying to date my aunt or something?”
“Very funny.” I slugged his biceps and headed for the registers.
I bought the wine and an autumn bouquet much to Mateo’s dismay, and followed him to my SUV, checking my reflection in the driver’s side window to be sure my shirt wasn’t wrinkled.
“You look very nice, dream boy.” He smirked and waggled his brows. “Now open the door, and let’s get this over with.”