I’m amazed that Brett has insisted on taking me to Clarissa’s art show. But I think if he knew more about what Clarissa was going to display, he wouldn’t go. I should warn him, but there’s a part of me that wonders if he is over the whole cockgate thing, or if he’s taking me for a ride. He never did let me record him on my phone as he promised.

Though the show doesn’t begin until nine, he has invited me to dinner as well. He picks me up at my apartment lobby at five-thirty in his Audi. “You look gorgeous in a little black dress, sports bunny.” He opens the door.

What impresses me is how he opened the door; most guys would reach across the passenger seat and push the door open. Not Brett. He turned off his car and got out to open the door for me. Classy. He also looks delicious tonight. He played it sexy casual in a pair of grey dress pants, a white button-up shirt, and Bugatti sunglasses. His sleeves are rolled up and I can see his toned, muscular forearms.

I sit in the passenger seat, and he shuts the door before he goes around and enters the car on the driver side. As he sits, he asks, “What kind of music would Miss Driver like to listen to tonight?”

I give him a look, “You know what, Mr. Brock, I’m kind of curious of what kind of music you enjoy.”

He snickers, “Not so sure you’d enjoy my kind of music.”

“Fine then. You’ll have to tolerate mine. Country.”

His brows draw together, “You like country?”

“I grew up in the countryside. Most of the time. Guess I’m still a country girl at heart,” I say.

“You’re from the Midwest, right? What part?”

“Here and there. Moved around a lot,” I say uncomfortably. I hate talking about my upbringing.

“Oh. Well, you’re in luck. As it turns out, I love country too.” He reaches over to the dash and presses a button. “Playlist, home sweet home.”

A list of country songs from American artists comes up. The first song in the queue begins.

“So, where are we going, Brett? Better not be a sports bar.”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t think that would impress you. Don’t worry, Driver. I like low-key, too. We’re going to a place where we won’t be bothered.”

We pull away into the traffic and the music continues to play;

The music fades away as I glue my eyes on the road. I check Brett out in my peripheral vision. There are few guys in this world that make my insides quiver, and he’s one of them. I’d been around plenty of men that were chiseled to perfection. Men that radiated alpha strength. There was something more to Brett than his rippling muscles. Unlike other famous people I had been around, he didn’t see himself as better than me, or that I was lucky to be sitting next to him. Not the usual narc traits that come with professional athletes: he listened to what I had to say, complimented me, and was chivalrous at times. Unfortunately, most athletes weren’t like that. “So, where are you taking me, Brett?”

“Don’t you like surprises, sports bunny?” He flashes his perfect pearls.

I think about the surprise he’s going to get later tonight when we get to Clarissa’s show. I wonder if I should say something; content like that should come with a warning. “Do you prefer surprises? I’m kind of thinking that I should give you a heads-up on my friend’s art.”

“I like them. I’m willing to bet that I can tell you what style the art is. I’m more cultured than you think,” he says with an air of confidence.

“You know, it’s not exactly the style of art I’m concerned about, Brett. It’s more the content.”

We pull up to a Japanese restaurant. Holy. “This is Chef Kimura’s restaurant.” My mouth hangs open.

“Sure is.”

“How the hell did you get seats? You have to book this place weeks in advance. I hear they only have, like, ten seats.”

“I spent some time in Japan as a foreign exchange student.”

He doesn’t answer my question, but I’m intrigued. “Really? Why Japan?”

“Ohio got a little boring as a teen. When I found out my school was taking on exchange students, I thought going during the summer would be cool. I considered a few of the countries offered and found Japan’s culture to be fascinating.”

Oh, dear. Is he one of those guys that has a thing for Asian chicks? ’Cause I can’t compete with that kind of fetish. “So, uh, what exactly do you like about Japanese culture?” I ask, watching him as he pulls off his sunglasses and puts them away in the glove compartment. He takes a moment before he answers.

“Before I went, I was excited to buy a bunch of manga comics.” He chuckles. “Being a teenaged boy, I had my favorites. But once I got there, I appreciated the Japanese perspective. Being disciplined, polite, and respectful is valued in their culture. In Japan, you strive to be the best of your chosen profession. Chef Kimura is a master. He makes sushi an art. It took years for him to achieve his reputation.”

I nod in understanding. “Do you have that type of disciplined mindset when you take to the field?”

He chortles, “Spoken like a true journalist. No, I put that kind of discipline into everything I do.”

I smirk, “Cocky, much?”

He leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “I’ll put that much discipline into eating your pussy.”

Huh? I can feel my cheeks turning pink. I crack a smile as a flash of the last time he went down on me in the limo comes to mind. “So.” My voice cracks, “ahem, you want to show me some Japanese culture. Prove to me you’re not some meatball jock?”

“Yes, Driver.” He gets out of the car and opens the door for me. I extend my arm and he helps me out. “Lock.” I hear the locks on the doors click down.

“So, what is so interesting about Japanese food? This is New York. Sushi restaurants are everywhere. What is it that you think you can show me?” I ask.

“Plenty.”

We enter the restaurant, and the moment Brett walks in Chef Kimura greets him with a bright smile. They exchange a few words—in Japanese. Shit. I was not expecting that. As I listen to the two talk, I realize that he’s not speaking phrasal Japanese. It’s conversational. Seeming busy, Chef Kimura excuses himself. Brett looks at me from the corner of his eye, “Admit it, Driver, you’re impressed.”

“Alright. Perhaps I assumed that you may not be the cultural type. But I still don’t think you’ll be interested in Clarissa’s show. There’s something about it I need to tell you.”

A hostess interrupts our conversation, “Konnichiwa, Brock san.” She gives a deep bow.

“Let’s go, Driver.” He takes my hand and we follow the hostess who seats us at the bar. Brock helps me up onto a high stool then sits next to me. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had Chef Kimura make a special meal for us.”

“So, I don’t get to order?” I ask, miffed.

“I thought since you are the cultural type, you might like more of an experience tonight.” His lips curve.

“Come on, Brett, I never said I was the cultural type. This girl in my apartment block happens to be an artist. She invited me to go. I should let you know—”

Chef Kimura puts down two plates in between us. “Enjoy!” One dish is a colorful assortment of sashimi and the other, sushi.

“I’m going to guess that you’ve had the basic kind of Japanese dishes?”

“Yes, Brett. I’m aware this is sashimi and sushi.”

“Ah, but do you know what raw fish you are eating?”

“Alright, I don’t. I live on the edge. I don’t need to know what I’m eating.”

He’s floored. “Really, Driver? You have no interest in knowing what you are eating?”

“I’m eating raw fish.” I shrug. “What could be so horrible about that?”

“So, while we eat tonight’s entrée, you’ll have no problem if I suddenly tell you what you are actually eating?” He guffaws.

“This isn’t a reality television show, Brett.” I take a piece with my chopsticks. “Besides, I can pretty much stomach anything.”

“Alright, Driver, that pink piece you put in your mouth is tuna.”

“Not surprising, is this not the most common of raw fish?”

He looks over at Chef Kimura, “Chef, is tuna the most common fish?”

Chef presses a finger to his lip, “I believe so. Depends what part of Japan you are in, many places are known for different types of food. One thing I do know; you are having one of the rarest of Japanese dishes tonight.” He looks back down at his work and begins to slice the fish. I stop eating and watch him, thinking of what Brett had said earlier about Japanese discipline. Chef Kimura is a prodigy. Unlike most chef’s, he seems calm and collected. He swiftly moves about his kitchen as though he were in a ballet. I’m amazed and mesmerized watching him while he arranges several plates—with so much love and attention to detail. He enjoys his work. It makes me think of how Brett plays on the field. Like so many players, he has passion, watches and calculates his every move. But unlike so many, he doesn’t get angry. If the game isn’t going Dion’s way, he’ll often throw a fit. He’ll take it out on other players, refs, and sometimes coaches.

Brett gestures to the food with his chopsticks, taking me out of my reverie “What? Only going to try one piece, Driver? I thought we were here to eat?”

“Right.” I drop my stare from Chef Kimura. I pick up another piece with my chopsticks and place it in my mouth. As I do, Brett takes a pot of tea the hostess has set out for us and pours me a cup. I blush at his chivalry.

“Don’t be too impressed. I’m pouring tea.” He puts the pot down.

“Gentlemanly nonetheless.” I pick up my cup. “Besides, I know one too many athletes that have their wives and girlfriends wait upon them.”

“Ah, but this is Japanese culture,” says Brett, holding his hands out. “In Japan, I pour your tea, and you pour mine during a meal.”

My nostrils flare, “So later, are you expecting me to make you a smoothie?”

“Absolutely,” he says, joking. “I know that’s how you love to spend your evenings.”

“I’ll wipe your ass too, then?”

He snorts as he swallows his food.

“So, tell me, why did you pick out the menu for us tonight?” I bring another piece to my mouth.

“Want to see if you’re a risk taker.” He winks.

“Thought I proved that the other night in the limo.”

He continues, “Tonight you and I are going to have fugu. Do you know what that is, Driver?”

My mouth hangs open, “Isn’t that the poisonous fish? Don’t people die from that?”

“Not to worry, chances are slim,” he says seriously.

“How slim?”

Brett looks over at Chef Kimura, “Depending on if he makes any wrong cuts.” I watch Chef and notice he has begun to cut a pufferfish. The insides are white. “Which part is poisonous?” I ask.

“The part we are not eating.” He nudges me, chuckling. “Though, I should tell you, you can’t sue Chef if something happens to you because I requested this.”

“I’ll be dead. Definitely can’t sue him.”

“What about your family?”

I pause. My family is gone. “They’ll probably thank him,” I say, jokingly. I don’t want to tell him my life story—not yet. “So, tell me about your family. You’re from Ohio?”

“Yup. Grew up there with my mom and my sister.”

“Father?”

“Left us.”

“Sorry.” I rub my forearm.

“I’m not,” he says casually. “The guy was an asshole. I mean, who abandons his wife with two kids?”

I’m impressed with his attitude, but I still worry. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t have issues with any of that still, do you?”

“No. My mother saw to it that my sister and I didn’t feel any guilt.”

“How did she do that?”

“Well, she made sure we had other fatherly influences. I’m close to my uncle. Unfortunately, my sister, Elena, had to see several therapists.”

“You didn’t? Why’s that?” I ask.

“I did get some therapy, but Elena has always had fears of people leaving her. Growing up, she often asked my mom what to watch out for in men. She doesn’t have many friends, either. She has a real hard time trusting people.”

“That’s understandable.” I take a sip of my tea, then realize I still haven’t poured his. I’ve been slow on the uptake, “Sorry. Tea, Brett?” I take the pot and pour some into his cup.

“Wow. I seriously was beginning to wonder about you, Driver.”

“Sorry.” I put the pot back down, my face flush. “At least I figured it out before the next dish came out.”

“Yes.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “Truth is, we were supposed to get soup first, but it seems the hostess has forgotten.” He looks over to another part of the counter and I notice two small bowls of soup.

“Should we say something?”

“Nah. Chef’s focused on what he’s doing. I’m sure the hostess will eventually notice. At least you’re not that slow on the uptake.”

“Anyway, you wanted to see what kind of risk taker I was,” I say, changing the subject. “Why?”

“Well, in the off-season, I enjoy other activities.”

I’m overwhelmed that we are talking about the off-season; I thought this was going to be a fling. “What other activities?” I ask.

“I enjoy race car driving, skydiving. I love to try anything involving a little risk.”

I give him a sultry look, “I don’t mind a dare. Doesn’t always have to be a sport. But, I’ve gone diving with sharks in Australia.”

“You have?” he asks, his eyes widening. “When did you do that?”

“I went to Australia for a trip after university. A little gift to myself. I was out with some friends at a Marina and they were offering different kinds of adventures. One of them was to go shark cage diving. How many times will I get that opportunity?”

“You could have gone to the Great Barrier Reef. How often does anyone get that opportunity?”

I guffaw, “I was trying to come up with an adventure that would impress people. I’ve swam with sharks—not everyone can say that.”

He looks at me through hooded eyes, “So, tell me all about it. What do they feel like?”

“Sharks?” My eyes fall to the floor. “Well, I wimped out in the cage. The only ones I actually pet were the ones in the nearby aquarium.”

He smiles knowingly, “Ah, let me guess, they were no bigger than the plate in front of me?”

“Nope.” I take another bite-sized piece of sushi with my chopsticks. The hostess finally notes the small bowls on the counter and smacks her head in humiliation. She discreetly goes over and picks them up. I notice Brett’s eyes watching her. I feel sorry for her. I’m not sure how Chef is going to react to her fluke with a pair of celebrities at his bar. She walks over to us and puts them down on the table. I’ve decided not to say anything. She looks guilty, her head hanging down, “Gomenasai … Sorry,” she mumbles.

“It’s fine. Mistakes happen,” Brett says beneath his breath. He doesn’t wish to make a scene either. The waitress’s expression is a mixture of relief and gratitude. I think I’m in love; not all celebrities overlook something a server did wrong. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Come on, Brett. You know how some people can be in a situation like that.”

He looks a little insulted, “Driver, I get that I’m well-known and all, but I fully recognize that it doesn’t mean I get to be an asshole. People make mistakes.”

“I’m sorry. I guess my expectations of people have changed since I’ve come to work in the entertainment industry.”

He smirks, “Don’t feel too bad. I was worried you might make a big deal of it, too. Pretty sad when that’s what we’ve come to expect from our peers.”

“Yeah. Anne works for Maria Monati, and the kind of stories that she tells me would blow your mind.”

He finishes his sashimi, “Who the hell is Maria Monati?”

“Exactly.” I chuckle. “She’s a lacrosse player.”

He snorts.

“This one time, she and Anne were at a country club and she tore into the housekeeper for not folding the corners of her bed ‘correctly.’”

“Correctly?” he asks, startled. “What does that even mean? That’s pathetic, but she’s got nothing on Dion.”

I can only imagine what Dion would be like to work with. I roll my eyes before he goes on.

“One time, me, Dion, and the boys were in a club. There was a gorgeous server sitting in a booth with us in the VIP area. She’s pouring our drinks, and Dion says, ‘Bitch, when are you going to ride me?’”

“Geez.” I wish I could smack Dion myself. “Please tell me she threw a drink in his face.”

“Wish I could, but you know it’s her job, she doesn’t want to lose it. So, she giggles, though you can see it’s killing her to do it. She tells him, ‘I’ve already got a boyfriend’. Guess what he says?”

I can imagine, ‘“Who cares about him?’” I guess.

“Nope. He says, ‘I got a wife, what’s your point?’”

Wow. That’s disturbing. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this,” I say cautiously, “but I hope that bastard can’t come back. He was the worst to interview. Always made me feel like shit for doing my job. Always said the same crap.”

“You know, I always felt sorry for you when you had to interview him. I could tell you didn’t want to.”

That’s because I was wishing I could look at you in the locker room.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why Tristan Huckle?”

I paused. It was a good question. I had never been that interested in him. “First off, I had no idea he had a girlfriend, let alone a fiancée. Secondly, I never would have been with him had I known. I’m glad the Blazers traded him.”

“Don’t feel too bad.” He rubs the back of my hand. “No one knew about Katie. He never spoke of her. We were speechless the day he brought her to a game and introduced her to us.”

“Anne didn’t know either.” I chuckle. “She thought he was single. For months Anne tried to convince me to go on a date with him. I kept refusing. Then, she tricked me into coming to a birthday party for her. Some party. It was just me, Anne, and Tristan there.”

“She went through all that trouble? Why?” he asks in amazement.

“Ugh. She thought we’d make a good pair.” I crinkle my nose. “She used to say that we were both straight-laced homebodies. Whatever that means. We didn’t have much in common. I don’t know why he wasted his time with me.”

“Huh,” he mutters with a thoughtful expression. “Reminds me of someone I once dated.”

I think of Izzy. Christ, I hope he’s not still hung up on her. “Well, once I found out Tristan’s real story, I stayed away.” I continue, “If he wants to be with a girl that would go on as if nothing happened, he’s found himself the perfect match.”

“Someone that does that clearly has issues of their own. Girls that put up with the cheating and act like it never happened are riding on coattails in my opinion. She likes his fame and his paycheck.”

“That, or she has low self-esteem. Enough about Tristan, though. How come I’ve never heard about the girls you date?”

I’m hoping he brings Izzy up. I want to know how honest he’s willing to be with me.

“Well, there have been a few here and there.” He puts both hands on his teacup taking a drink. “I don’t want to bring anything public unless I know it’s serious.”

“Yeah. I don’t think anyone would have found out about what happened between Tristan and I, had Anne not said something to the press. She was so pissed about how he treated me. She wanted him to look bad. Thing is, I wish she hadn’t. Having Jimmy Schnell bring that shit up was awful.”

“Aw, Jimmy’s a dick. If it wasn’t Tristan, it would have been something else.”

As we finish the miso soup, Chef Kimura puts a large plate of fugu in front of us. “Enjoy,” he says proudly.

“Ready to make another great story to tell, Driver?” he asks.

“Definitely.” I take a piece from the plate and place it on a small dish in front of me. “Have you ever had fugu?” I ask.

“Once, while I was in Japan. I had Chef make it tonight as I remember it being delicious—worth the risk.”

As we go through the fish, Brett tells me what part of the fish each piece is. I’m astonished he knows so much about something he’s only eaten a couple of times.

“Why do you feel the need to tell me about everything I’m eating?” I ask, curious.

“I want to see if you can stomach what I can.” He winks.

As we go further along, he’s still telling me every piece I eat. Though I’d normally find this kind of conversation boring, he somehow makes it sound interesting. Or maybe I like looking at his cleanly shaven face and hair slicked back over his undercut. It brings out his large blue eyes. When I see him in the locker room, he doesn’t have this fresh look; his muscles are glazed in sweat or has a towel wrapped about his waist. Geez, does he ever look bad?

“… and that piece you have there in your chopsticks is fugu sperm.”

“WHAT?” I yelp. I drop my gaze from his heavenly face and look at the white piece between my chopsticks. “Fugu sperm?” I repeat. “Like a guy’s splooge?”

He laughs, almost spitting his food out. He quickly swallows. “Aren’t you glad I told you, Driver? But you have to eat it, anyway. Chef would be insulted if you didn’t.”

“Well, Chef is going to have to get over his ego. I’m not eating fish sperm.”

“Really? I thought you were more of a risk taker. You ate fish eggs earlier. I saw you eat that sushi with the salmon roe on it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I put the piece down on my plate.

“Well, isn’t that the female equivalent. You ate fish eggs, why can’t you eat fish sperm?”

“You literally brought me here so you could see me choke down sperm?” I guffaw. “Not gonna happen, Brett.”

“I’ve seen you do it before,” he whispers beneath his breath. “Well, if you ever tell anyone you had fugu, you’re going to also have to tell them you didn’t have the balls to eat fugu sperm.”

“You’re damn right.” I move the piece over to his plate. “But you have the balls, why don’t you eat it?”

He picks it up with his chopsticks, then stops to look at me, “Sorry, Driver, you’re going to have to do it with me.”

I shake my head, “No way in hell will I do that. Gross. Disgusting. No.” I mutter, trying to keep my volume down. It is a small restaurant.

“Alright, I’m going to have to tell everyone you're a wuss.” He takes the piece and almost places it in his mouth. I stop him, “I’m going to throw up if you do that, Brett.”

“You can’t even bear to watch.”

I see Chef Kimura chortling behind the counter as he watches. “She’s not brave, Brett. I told you most Americans can’t.”

“Aw, come on, Driver, you’re making me look bad,” Brett says, teasing.

“Are you kidding, eating that will make me look insane,” I say, my eyes dilating.

“It’s very healthy,” Chef says.

“Yeah, that’s what every guy says, Chef. I’m going to go on and eat the rest of the food on my plate.” I take another piece off the plate and quickly eat it. Brett sits and watches, pressing his lips tight together. He is looking over at Chef. My eyes follow his and I see Chef fighting back tears with a huge grin behind the counter. I swallow my food. Brett’s in hysterics.

“Oh Lord? What did I just eat?” I ask. “Was that?”

“Yes!” Brett can barely hold himself together, as both he and Chef are now near tears.

“You guys are assholes. But, it didn’t taste as bad as I thought it would.”

The two continue to laugh at my expense.

“Why the hell didn’t you stop me, Brett?” I ask.

“I would have, but you ate that thing so damn fast!” He’s in stitches and barely gets out his next words, “I gave you a warning, but you put another piece in your mouth! Why do you think I’ve been telling you every piece this entire time?”

“Laugh it up, boys, laugh it up, cause later tonight, Brett, I’m going to have a good chuckle at you.” Clarissa’s piece of your huge dong will be great for a laugh.

The rest of the meal was delicious, and Brett pays the bill. I’m curious of what it would have been. Probably hundreds if not thousands of dollars. There wouldn’t be many places in New York that would sell fugu.

As we walk out onto the street, I realize that we are now moments away from Clarissa’s show. I still haven’t told him what is in it. I sigh. I need to tell him.