“So, tell me,” my date says, leaning forward coyly. “What was it like to face down Evan Porter’s pitching at the top of the ninth? After what happened the year before?”
“Intimidating, yeah. Sure was.” I’ve been pushing a grilled chicken salad around my plate for twenty minutes. It looks good enough, but I’m just not hungry.
And it wasn’t the cookie appetizer that killed my appetite.
My date’s a nice girl—pretty, interesting, smart. She’s a friend of Hakeem’s wife we ran into when we were all out for dinner the other week. But, since we sat down, she’s been asking about my baseball career. It’s flattering, and yet I have absolutely no interest in rehashing the past. That’s all I did for over a decade.
“Is your food okay?” she asks.
“Uh huh.” I nod. There’s no slick way to admit you ruined your appetite on cookies without sounding like a seven-year-old.
There’s also no way to admit that my head is swimming with another woman.
The one and only Jenn Walker.
I can’t help thinking about our fun trip to the pier this morning. Her eyes, her nose crinkle laugh, her delight in the small things like a surprise cookie… I keep wanting to reach for my phone and text her to check in.
But I don’t. because I’m a gentleman, and the least I can do is make polite conversation with the nice woman in front of me. But clearly, I’m not polite enough, because by the time our bill arrives, my date is struggling to hide her exasperation. She’s bringing the lion’s share of the energy to the table, and we both know it.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, as I leave cash for our meal. “My mind’s elsewhere today. Business, you know,” I offer lamely. “The launch.”
The confession seems to ease her mood. She offers a warm smile. “It’s okay. Text me if you want some distraction.”
She adds a wink, making it clear what kind of distraction she’s offering. But even though I smile, and nod as we say our goodbyes, I already know I won’t be taking her up on it. It’s been a while since I hooked up, sure, but I’m not about to go leading anyone on when my heart—and my head—is just not in it.
I head back to the office, and take my time touring the ground level, aka, spa central. There’s still way too much to do before things are even half-way presentable, but if I check my list again, I know, I’ll just spiral.
Standing in the lobby, I close my eyes, trying to imagine what it’ll feel like to be up and running.
The work done, no dust sheets and paint cans, just calm, clean space, full of happy guests and skilled therapists. Light shining through the windows. A soothing trickle of water lulling everyone—
My eyes snap open. “Asher?” I call to my assistant. “Where are we at on that waterfall wall?”
“Uh, waiting on a call back from the installation guys.” He says, tapping on his tablet.
“Call again. every day, if necessary.”
“Yes boss.”
I take a deep breath. There’s so much riding on this, it makes my stomach lurch just thinking about it. And not just because I’ve sunk every dollar of my substantial savings into this place, as well as all my investor’s money, too.
What I told Jenn was true: It’s not just about the money but proving that there’s life after baseball to me. That I’m not some dumb jock who’ll be washed up by the time he’s thirty-five. I see it all the time in my teammates. Guys who lived life for the game—and then just faded away when their time on the field came to an end. They get sportscaster gigs, or coach, or even just sit around at the bar every night, talking over former glories because they just can’t let those victories go.
I want more than that. I want to be taken seriously for more than just my athletic training. To build a future, for me and my family. Something to pass down, someday.
And, yeah, make a shit-ton of money and be the best around.
What can I say? Some competitive streaks die hard.
“Hey, Bossman.”
I look over to see Dash and Sebastian stroll in, looking curiously around. “Hey,” I greet them, smiling. “What brings you to this part of town?”
“Just checking out the progress,” Seb says. “Since Flynn won’t stop going on about the herringbone floors.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, nodding. “They’re pretty sexy, I’ve got to say.”
“Sexy floors?” Dash laughs. “You’ve been spending way too much time with Flynn.”
I grin. “You’re right about that. Although, the other day he went on for like a full half-hour about concrete treatments, I zoned right out. Still, I’m lucky he could make the time.”
“Hel-lo…” Seb perks up, looking past me. “And who is that?”
I turn.
It’s Jenn, walking through the lobby doors with an armful of important-looking folders, her hair pinned up in a messy bun.
“Austin, hey, perfect,” she says, greeting me with a flustered smile. “Can you grab the ones on top? No, the blue ones. Perfect. I need your take on the web copy.”
Seb clears his throat loudly. “Ahem.”
“Right, sorry, I should introduce you guys,” I remember.
“Guys, this is my new marketing manager, Jenn Walker,” I say. “Jenn, meet Sebastian and Dash, my college roommates, business partners, et cetera.”
“Fellow Renegades?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“At your service,” Dash says.
“Enchanté,” Seb says, taking her hand, and—yup, kissing it.
I scowl. Guy has to lay it on thick with every woman in town. “We won’t keep you,” I tell Jenn, before Seb can turn his flirt level up to ten. “I’m sure you have a ton to do.”
“Always,” she smiles. “Which reminds me…” She reaches into her tote and produces a ball cap with the Vital logo on it.
I blink. “How’d you do this so fast?”
Jenn gives a smirk. “Maybe I’m good at my job. Maybe I use cookies as bribery for expedited service requests. Who can say?”
Seb snatches the hat from me and settles it onto his head. “All right. What do we think?”
He gives his best model pose, clearly for Jenn’s benefit. She laughs happily, and I glare at my idiot friend.
“It’s Austin’s call,” Jenn says. “He was brainstorming merch, and I thought it’d be easier to consider with a visual.”
“This visual?” Seb strikes another pose, and now Dash is egging him on, humming a terrible falsetto of Madonna’s Vogue.
“I’m truly sorry,” I tell Jenn with a sigh, “that someone let these clowns into your workplace.”
Seb turns the hat around so it’s backward. “We, sir, are your advisors.”
“Wait, is one of you the guy with the cookie truck?” she asks.
Dash slides his amused to look to me. “You took her to Sweet, Sweet Dough? Man, I love that team. Great project.”
“I had the Rocky Road S’mores for lunch,” Jenn admits. “Heaven. But I should get back to the grindstone. Nice to meet you both.”
“Thank you, Jenn,” I say. Then, gesturing to Seb, “And sorry he defiled your lovely hat.”
She laughs. “Keep it,” she tells Seb. “I think you pull it off.”
She heads upstairs, and yes, I notice the swing of her hips in those pants. I’m only human, after all.
“Well, that was quite the show.”
I turn back at the sound of Dash’s voice. “Seriously, man,” I agree, giving Seb a look. “Dial it down, won’t you?”
“You think I was talking about him?” Dash says with a smirk.
Seb grins. “So, is she single? Straight? Looking to mingle?”
“Hands off,” I snap automatically.
His eyebrows shoot up.
I clear my throat. “I mean… Jenn works for me. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. In her workplace.”
“Uh huh,” Dash says, with another infuriating smirk. “Sure. That’s why you don’t want Seb asking her out.”
“Don’t,” I say, with a sigh. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t.”
But do they listen? Nope.
“Banksy’s got a crush.” Dash says it like a seventh grader at a sleepover, amped up on soda.
“She’s a colleague,” I insist. Because I think about all my colleague’s curves like this.
“We get it,” Seb agrees. “And since you want to… Get collegial with her, I’ll back off.”
I shake my head. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it isn’t, buddy.” He slaps me on the back. “Keep telling yourself that.”
And I do.
So why, once I’ve given them the tour, and head back upstairs alone, do I find myself stopping by Jenn’s office?
Professional courtesy, I tell myself. I value her opinion, that’s all. As a colleague.
Jenn’s hard at work, focused and tapping away on her laptop. I admire her for a moment—her thoughtful expression… and her shiny, dark hair.
“Hey,” she says, catching me in the doorway. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I cough. I’m busted, aren’t I? Just staring. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but… Do you want to grab something to eat? Something more substantial than cookies?”
“Oh,” she says, looking confused. “I thought you had lunch.”
No, I lost my appetite while failing to vibe with a perfectly nice girl. “Right.” I clear my throat again. “But I’m doing a trial run for a possible chef. I thought you might want to join. Maybe the menu options will spark some marketing ideas.”
It’s weak. I know it is. But Jenn smiles like this is a normal suggestion and rises from her chair. “I’d love to.”
We head up back downstairs, to where the restaurant space sits, with windows out onto the street. Like most things, it’s still unfinished, but the tables and bar area are in, and the kitchen is fully functional. I take a moment to chat to the kitchen assistant, to let the chef know we’ve arrived. Right on schedule.
“I love this,” Jenn says, looking around.
“You love sawdust with your meal?”
She laughs. “No, feeling like I’m getting a special preview. By the time I get to all the hot new restaurants, they’re six months out of date.”
“Well, consider yourself the very first guest,” I say, settling into a booth across from her. “Even I don’t know what this chef is like just yet. I’m trying out a few of them, to see what they can do.”
“Like an audition?”
“Exactly.” I look hopefully to the kitchen doors. “I’m starving.”
Jenn gives me a puzzled smile. “Didn’t you just have a lunch date?”
“Not exactly…” I search for a more flattering way to put it. “It was a bust. My fault, completely. My head wasn’t in the game.”
“Ah,” she nods. “I get it. For a while, I gave myself a goal of going on at least one date a week,” she confides. “I thought I should keep at it from, like, a numbers perspective. Dig long enough, and you might strike gold, right?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t love thinking of Jenn meeting random men all over the city. “Did any of them stick?”
“Not one,” she says, with a rueful laugh. “But let’s face it, I wasn’t exactly setting myself up for success.
I mean, forcing myself out for a drink when I really just wanted to stay home and unwind after work.”
“With your knitting,” I add.
She smiles. “Exactly. When you’re more excited about merino wool than your date… Well, that’s no way to start something.”
I chuckle in agreement. “Bingo. Minus the wool, I mean. But I probably shouldn’t be out here dating until the spa’s up and running. I’m just too preoccupied.”
But not too preoccupied to notice the way she lights up when she smiles.
I cough and look around. “I wonder when the food will start coming.”
“What’s the deal with this chef?” she asks. “I’m glad you’re testing,” she adds, “The restaurant is like my number one priority, anywhere I go.”
“Me too.” I grin.
“All I know is that the chef’s name is Robby.”
“Robby…?”
“Just Robby. That’s all he goes by, apparently. He’s supposed to do great healthy food.”
“Oh,” she says, surprised. “I must be out of the loop. Is he recognizable-by-one-name famous? Like Nigella or Ina?”
“Asher assures me that he’s ‘very hot right now,’ I say, with a shrug.
Finally, Robby bursts out of the kitchen door in a white chef’s coat embroidered with—yep—Robby. He’s no older than I am, and he’s wearing a fisherman beanie and rolled up bandana around his neck.
“My guests,” he says, clasping his hands together. “Today, I take you on a culinary journey to the new world. Health and innovation, hand in hand.”
“Sounds great,” I smile.
“Can’t wait.” Jenn agrees.
The doors swing open, and the server presents us two small, clear glasses.
“Enjoy this amuse-bouche,” Robby says grandly, and then he sweeps off into the kitchens.
“What is this?” Jenn whispers. There’s a pale cloud of foam on top of amber liquid.
I consult the menu print-out. Regretfully, I inform her, “Celery foam on bone broth.”
“But… Why?” Jenn whispers, in horror. Then, with more resolve, “Okay. Might be great. I’m just not used to my green veggies being whipped into a foam.”
She gamely takes a sip, nods stoically, and puts it down.
“Well?” I ask. I take my own sip and nearly spit it back up.
“Swamp water,” Jenn whispers.
“Worse,” I whisper back. “It tastes like a locker room smells.”
We try to stifle our laughter. Then I realize Jenn is looking at me curiously. “What?”
“Nothing, I just… Well, what you were saying about dating. I’m surprised, that’s all. I can’t imagine you having much trouble.”
Her cheeks turn pink. Was that a… Compliment?
I clear my throat. “You’d be surprised,” I say, feeling weirdly self-conscious. “Meeting women can be a bit weird with the whole baseball thing. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just a story for them to tell their friends.” I suddenly realize that in all the times we’ve talked so far, baseball has hardly come up. It’s refreshing, to feel like, in Jenn’s eyes, “baseball player” isn’t the cornerstone of my identity.
“Oh, poor little rich famous sports star,” Jenn says. She smiles up to let me know she’s just joking.
I smile. “I know, I know, and I’m not complaining. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so grateful for all the opportunities baseball has given me—”
“Like sitting here, tasting this incredible swamp shooter,” Jenn adds, holding up her shot glass.
“Exactly. But… People have this image of me now,” I try to explain. “I was really calm on the field, but only because I could channel everything into those moments of the game. In real life? It’s a whole other story.”
Jenn’s smile softens. “Nobody has to be relaxed all the time.”
I shrug. “But there’s an expectation, right? That I’ll have this jet-setting, glitzy life so everything’s easy-breezy. I’ll take it all in stride.”
“… Says the man who took me on a helicopter the day we met,” she says, grinning.
“We met before then,” I remind her.
“Right,” she says, glancing away. “Not my finest hour.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I thought you were great. An avenging dick-punching angel.”
She laughs. “And I wonder why I’m single,” she adds wryly.
“Why are you?” I ask, before I can stop myself. Because seriously? I don’t understand it.
Although a traitorous part of me is very, very glad.
“Sorry,” I add, realizing I may have overstepped. “That’s kind of a personal question. Forget I asked.”
“No, it’s fine.” Jenn flashes me a smile. “I mean, I’m not dealing with the heavy burden of fame and talent here, but…”
I chuckle. “Try me.”
“Where to begin?” she rolls her eyes.
“Dating is such a delight. I mean, I had a drink with a guy once, and, afterward, I sent a tactful text, saying it wasn’t a match. He texted back: I get it. Then, a few minutes later, Can I get a pic of your feet?”
I snort with laughter. “No!”
“Yup!”
I can’t help myself. “Did you… Do it?”
“Of course not,” she says indignantly. Then she adds, with a serene smile, “My feet are very cute. I wouldn’t give them away for free.”
I burst out laughing, surprised at her blasé humor about a fetish request. For being such a reliable person, Jenn Walker is also never quite what I expect.
We’re interrupted by Robby bursting out of the kitchen, his hands pointing in finger guns. “How are we doing with those shots? Feeling healthier already? Immune system revitalized?”
I cough. “I’m a changed man.”
“Excellent,” Robby says, snapping his fingers. “Next course.”
The server brings out a platter, and all I can do is stare. On a long, flat piece of toast, Robby has lined up several ingredients: a shrimp, a cherry tomato, three green beans, one tiny roasted potato, and half a hard-boiled egg. I’m too confused to react, and by the look on her face, Jenn is too.
Robby leaps out from behind the server and says, proudly, “Voila! Deconstructed Niçoise. Reaction?”
“Shrimp,” Jenn squeaks out. “Fascinating. I thought a Niçoise had tuna.”
The chef whirls his hands like a magician. “That special Robby touch. Mr. Banks?”
“I… I’ve never seen anything like it before,” I conclude. Jenn is coughing into her water glass. It’s a miracle we haven’t burst out laughing.
“Excellent,” Robby says. “I’ll leave you to your savoring.”
Once we’re alone, Jenn finally lets out her laughter
“So, let me get this straight,” Jenn chokes, examining the dish. “We pick up an enormous toast with like it’s a foot-long sub? And then eat each ingredient of a Salade Niçoise in totally separate bites?”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, with a pang of guilt. “Honestly. I thought I was taking you to a delicious meal. I wouldn’t have dragged you along if—”
“Oh, please,” Jenn grins, moving her hands toward the dish. “You think I’d miss my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to try salad ingredients spread out on some bread? Not a chance.
She lifts the toast in both hands, angling it toward her mouth. She takes an enormous bite, trying to keep a straight face, and she chews thoughtfully.
“Well?” I prompt.
She swallows and takes a drink of water. “Tastes like… shrimp on toast.”
I take the next bite because fair’s fair. The tomato is the best—essentially bruschetta—and the green beans are the worst.
The server comes out to refill our waters and wait for requests, so we can’t fully react to the next courses in his presence. The buckwheat noodles are tolerable, and the side dish is made of mostly pea tendrils.
Robby sticks his head out of the kitchen. “We ready for the dessert course?”
“Didn’t know we were doing one,” I say. It wasn’t on the menu.
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Jenn calls. Then, in a whisper to me, “I bet you ten dollars that there’s a green vegetable in it.”
“You’re on,” I whisper back. “My money’s on it being completely sugar-free. Not even coconut sugar or some shit.”
Robby appears through the door, hands raised in a flourish. “And for the final course, we tempt your senses with a spa classic—the smoothie—and we elevate it.”
The server whips the cover off the tray.
It’s a piece of angel food cake with a big glug of strawberry-banana-spinach smoothie on top. The color is a pale brownish pink.
“Wow,” Jenn says, drawing out the word.
“I know,” Robby says proudly.
“I feel like… I’ve won something.” Jenn knocks her knee against mine. Sure enough, there’s a green vegetable, but the cake has sugar. “Can’t wait to try.”
We dig in after Robby leaves.
“Is this not bad?” I ask, poking the remaining cake with a spoon. “Or were the earlier course so awful that my standards have dropped?”
“This is not good.” Jenn makes a face. “Trust me. Not to brag, but I’ve eaten about six types of cake in the past month. I’m an expert, and this, my friend, does a disservice to the good name of cake.”
I shake my head, smiling, but as we thank Robby politely for his meal and head back upstairs to the office, I’m adding yet another task to my overflowing to-do list. We still need a chef and culinary team, the final decorating finished, the launch week prep…
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Hakeem.
“Hey,” he says when I answer. “We’ve got a problem.”
I pause. Hakeem is literally the most upbeat person I know, so if he’s saying there’s a problem…
“What is it?” I ask, bracing myself. Jenn gives me a quizzical look. “He just posted a video from his island in Costa Rica, and, well… You should see it for yourself.”
A video pops up on the chat, and I click the link.
‘This is the start of a new dawn of civilization. Beyond bodies. Beyond minds!’
It’s Sinclair, on a beach, wearing nothing but a grass skirt, raving to the camera with wide eyes.
Jenn moves in closer to watch. Sinclair is babbling about some next-generation spiritual awakening, looking out of his mind on… Something. In the blurry background, a group of people are lolling around in a cabana in various states of undress.
‘It’s about the mind’s eye,” Sinclair raves. “Post-human optimization, pure consciousness, baby.”
Jenn giggles beside me, and I have to laugh too. The guy looks truly ridiculous.
“I guess two billion dollars can’t buy you sense,” Jenn whispers, grinning.
I click away, talking to Hakeem again. “So, the guy dropped some acid, what’s the big deal? We knew he was eccentric. He’s still good for the investment, right?”
“Yeah, but the investment isn’t good for us.” Hakeem replies. “Shit’s gone viral. Millions of views. They’re saying he’s totally lost his mind this time… Which means if you launch with him as your biggest investor, this is all anyone’s going to talk about. Whether it’s part of his new kooky movement, if you agree with his bullshit ramblings…”
Realization dawns. I can just imagine the headlines. All my careful planning and strategy… Blown to hell, because some billionaire thinks he’s a new god.
“Fuck,” I curse.
“He’s toxic now,” Hakeem says sadly. “You’re going to have to return the money, find a new investor and buy him out, before any of this leaks. We need serious distance from this, and fast.”
“Let me get my head around this,” I tell him, reeling. “I’ll call you back.”
“I’ll be here,” Hakeem says.
I hang up and find Jenn watching with concern. “Are you OK?” she asks.
I nod and fake a smile. “It’s fine! Just need to figure some stuff out.”
“You will,” she says reassuringly.
“Uh uh.” I wish I could be so confident, but as I walk away, my head is fucking spinning. Less than a month from launch, and my major source of cash just dried up?
What the hell am I going to do?
This is a disaster.