The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Chance
Google and I need to stop meeting like this.
The search engine knows far too much about me.
Like: Is Tinder a good idea?
Worst things that happened on Tinder.
How to cancel my Tinder account before I use it.
Like right fucking now because that shit is scary. Scarier than spiders.
Spiders that live in bathrooms.
Spiders that can kill you.
Are all spiders deadly?
Something to take my mind off spiders…Like, is dating even called dating anymore? Is it grabbing a coffee? Or is it…chilling? Hanging?
How to ask a woman to hang out with you.
Is there anything that sounds douchier than asking a woman to hang out with you?
Ohhhhh. Asking her to have low-key coffee.
Got it.
Thanks, Google.
But wait. There’s one more thing to ask the engine of the Web.
How to ask a woman to be your wedding date when you haven’t been on a date in ten years.
What the hell do I say to Sierra? I contemplated stopping by last night when she texted, but I need to get my talking points in order first. Wait. Is that what they’re even called? Fuck, it’s hard navigating dating terrain after a decade-long marriage.
I met my ex-wife at our freshmen orientation in college and we were together for more than ten years. I’ve never been on Tinder. I’ve never met a woman at a bar. I’ve never picked up a gal at the gym.
Hell, I’ve never banged a fan, since I’ve been steadfastly single for the last year, and monking it up.
And my brother was right. I need a date to the wedding. I try again with Google. And I get a lot more specific.
How to ask a woman to be your fake date at a wedding.
After all, I can’t ask her for a real date. Team Bro Code Rules and all.
As I whip up protein pancakes for breakfast, Google serves up the simplest of solutions to my dating query—find an interesting conversation starter, be friendly, and most of all, be direct about the need for the fake date.
Piece of cake. I can do that no problem. I ponder great conversation starters as I eat.
Cocktails? No.
Baseball? She’s probably had enough baseball talk to last a lifetime.
I glance around my place. Plants? Doubtful she wants to shoot the breeze about my green thumb.
I finish my breakfast and clean up, then water my succulents. “What would you do, Mariano?” But I answer my question quickly. “Of course that’s what you’d do. You’d find a killer opening line.”
Next, I feed the panda plant on the windowsill, then give some H2O to the aloe plant, Trevor Hoffman, then, the jade, Dennis Eckersley.
Three of the greatest closers of all time. I owe them all a huge debt, and I’ve got to represent the position. A closer can motherfucking close.
* * *
At the gym an hour later, with opening lines on my mind, I join today’s workout crew. Grant’s here, along with Shane Walker, a pitcher for the New York Comets, and Harlan Taylor, a wide receiver on the Renegades.
I move behind Grant on the bench press, spotting him as Harlan does squats.
“Question of the workout: What’s the most embarrassing place you ever fell asleep?” Grant tosses out as he pushes up the weight bar.
I answer as I spot my catcher while he lifts. “I fell asleep at the barbershop the other week, getting a shave and a haircut. My guy is such a pro, though, he didn’t even nick my chin while I did the head slump.”
Shane chuckles as he lifts free weights in front of the mirror. “Thought for sure you were going to say while shagging,” says the Brit.
“Spoken from experience?” I fire back. Shane—also a closing pitcher—has been in town visiting family, so we’ve adopted him as our workout buddy for the week.
“Bet that happens to you a lot, Shakespeare,” Harlan quips as he switches to lunges. “Maybe try being better in bed.”
Shane scoffs. “Please. If I were better, I’d attain god-like status in the sheets. As it is, women say sex with me is rather transcendent.”
Grant sets down the bar, sits up, rubs his hands along his shorts. “Transcendent as in they have to escape to another plane of reality to make it through even your two pumps?”
The Brit laughs it off. “Even if I were a two-pumper, those two pumps would be enough to give her multiples from another world.”
I shake my head. “You are too cocky even for a pro athlete, Shakespeare.”
“And that level is pretty much maximum-ego already,” Harlan says. “To answer your question—I fell asleep on Abby’s giant teddy bear the other night.”
I laugh at the mention of his young daughter. “That doesn’t sound so odd. Cute, but not odd.”
Harlan looks up, pauses his lunges, his brown eyes twinkling. “Oh, did I mention the teddy bear was in the living room and Abby had three kindergartners over, and they decided to paint Daddy’s toenails while he was asleep.”
We all crack up. When Harlan unties his sneaker and wiggles his rainbow-colored toes, we laugh harder.
“You’ve got a budding pedicurist on your hands,” Grant says.
Harlan pats his light brown locks. “I’m just glad she’s not a budding hairdresser.”
The football player puts his sneaker back on as Shane scratches his chin then gestures to Grant. “And what’s the most embarrassing place you’ve had a lie-in, Grant?”
“Dugout. In between innings last year. I was zonked from our travel schedule, so I caught a few winks while the end of the lineup was at the plate. Anyway, I guess it runs in the family. Sierra told me she crashed at work last night. Fell asleep on the couch at her bar.”
Yes!
That’s the perfect conversation starter to pop the will you pretend to be mineat the wedding question.
It’s personal, it’s fun, it says I know her.
I send her a text that I hope is flirty, and I don’t even have to google how to flirt.
This’ll be as easy as throwing a fastball for a strike.
