The Game by Vi Keeland by Vi Keeland

“It could be. But stress can cause it too. When my mom got sick a few years ago, I kept getting the worst burning in my chest. Team doc made me get a battery of tests to make sure it wasn’t my heart. Turned out to be heartburn. I’d never had it before. Doc prescribed something, and it went away.”

“I’m sorry about your mom. Is she okay?”

Christian nodded. “She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the day before the first game of the season. The survival rate is low, and it was tough to not always be with her during her treatments. But she’s been cancer free for three years now with no recurrences. Anyway, your heartburn could be stress, too. What do you do for that?”

“To treat the heartburn?”

He shook his head. “No, to treat the stress.”

“Umm…eat too much chocolate and drink wine?”

His left dimple deepened. “You’re going to need something better than that, being in the NFL.”

“What do you do for stress?”

A dirty smile spread across his face. “I could show you, if you’d like.”

My belly fluttered a bit. God, I bet he’s really good at destressing.

“In all seriousness,” Christian said, “you should find something that helps you clear your mind. Do you exercise?”

“Does walking up the stairs to my apartment count?”

“Afraid not. If you don’t like exercise, maybe give meditation a try. My brother swears by it. He’s even into oils and stuff. I tried it, but it wasn’t for me. I need something more physical. So I usually work out until my muscles ache, and then I go to my happy place.”

“Your happy place?”

“Grass. Barefoot in the grass, specifically. It makes me feel content. Started when Coach coached my pee-wee football team. We’d practice hard all week and usually had games on Saturday mornings. But the last practice on Friday afternoons ended a half hour early, and Coach would have the ice cream truck come. We could all get whatever we wanted, and then we’d take off our cleats and run around the field barefoot, trying to tackle each other and stealing the ice cream from anyone we could get to the ground. I always got a Chipwich, vanilla ice cream between two chocolate chip cookies. It was my favorite time of every week, and ever since then, when I’m stressed, I have an ice cream and stand barefoot in the grass.”

“It’s not easy to find a patch of grass you’d want to stick your feet in anywhere in Manhattan.”

He grinned. “I know. That’s why I planted a ten-foot-by-ten-foot patch of it on my balcony. The guys make fun of me, saying it’s like my child because I’m always watering it and telling people not to be too rough on it.”

I laughed. “I’ll have to try that sometime. Though I think the closest thing I have to grass in my neighborhood is some fuzz on the fruit that’s been hanging around too long at Mr. Zhang’s.”

“Your toes are welcome in my grass any time.”

We were both smiling when my office door suddenly whooshed open. Tiffany did not look happy. “What’s going on here?” she barked.

I took a deep breath. “Hello, Tiffany. It’s nice to see you. As you can see, Christian and I are in the middle of eating, but what can I help you with?”

“Why are you eating together?”

“Christian is helping me with a project.”

Her hands gripped her hips. “What project?”

I put down my taco and cleared my throat. “Did you need something, Tiffany?”

She looked between Christian and me. No, actually, she glared at us. “Have you seen the board of directors meeting minutes binder from 2020?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

Tiffany waved her hand at the wall full of binders. “It’s probably one of those.”

“Actually, it’s not. I’ve gone through those, and I didn’t come across one with board-meeting minutes.”

“You went through all those binders?”

I nodded. “Last week.”

“I doubt it. But whatever. Can you just look for it? The players’ union wants a copy of a policy we adopted at a meeting, and I’m missing 2019 and 2020. My father always kept them in here.”

“I’ll double-check. But I don’t think I have them.”

Her lips pursed as she turned her attention to Christian. “I didn’t think you were the kind of man who preferred chuck to filet mignon.”

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out, Tiff,” Christian said.

She smirked. “The ass you’ve seen.”

The door slammed shut, and I struggled to digest the last ten seconds. “You’ve seen Tiffany’s ass? You two—”

Christian shook his head. “Definitely not. Remember when I told you she sort of solicited me?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to spare you the visual, but a few months ago she called me into her office and locked the door, then started to strip out of her clothes.”

“Are you joking?”

Christian shrugged. “Nope. By the time I got her to stop, she was bent over her desk, aiming her ass at me, wearing nothing but a thong.”

I rubbed my temples. “And I guess her chopped-meat comment means she thinks we’re…a couple of some sort. My God, does the entire world think we’re together?”