The Matchmaker's Playbook

It’s my sister.

Quiet, shy, a bit desperate, but gorgeous. She used to crush hard on a guy from my team. And when I say hard, I mean, she ran her car into a mailbox once when I had him over for the Fourth of July.

The crazy part? He was totally into her, but because of her insecurity and awkwardness, she never pursued him. She was too scared to take that next step and meet him halfway.

I was too selfish to care, and she made me swear not to intervene.

A year went by. He got tired of waiting; she got tired of “rejection.” And she settled for her lab partner, Jerry.

Now she’s married to some loser who thinks video games are an Olympic sport, and that when the beer is gone, a magic beer fairy restocks the fridge while he sleeps at night. Idiot probably thinks buffalo are extinct as well.

My friend, on the other hand? He just got drafted by the Steelers and was recently in a Nike commercial.

I was sitting on my sister’s couch, at her birthday party nine months ago, when my life clicked. My knee hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to seeing the look of complete devastation on her face as she watched my friend on national television while Jerry yelled for her to pick up the baby so he could keep on playing Xbox.

My sister deserved better. Deserves better. And as I iced my knee, thanks to an unfortunate incident I didn’t want to dwell on, I had an epiphany.

If only she had been more secure, known how to read the signs, known how to get the guy she really deserved, she would be happier. An ounce of confidence would have changed her life, and knowing how to read guys, to read a situation? Hell, just learning one rule in my playbook would have changed her life.

She wouldn’t be stuck in Yakima, Washington, the place that’s known as the Palm Springs of Washington but really, if you ask me, is drug and gang central, worse than LA.

She’s a Seattle girl surrounded by cows, drugs, tractors, and a weekly date night at Applebee’s.

To make matters worse, it’s not like she can move back to Seattle, not with her husband taking over the family tractor business and with his entire clan having lived there for over forty years. There was nothing I could do. Nothing she could do except the occasional call or text.

So basically she was stuck in hell until something shifted in their situation. But by the looks of it? World peace would be accomplished before that ever happened.

She’s completely lost to me.

The only family I have left.

Besides Gabi, but I don’t count her, since she’s not a blood relation and would probably stake me with the closest sharp object if I referred to her as my sister. Something about not wanting all the available men to run away when they find out our connection. One time. I threatened a guy in high school one time, and now she refuses to tell me any sort of information about her sex life or lack thereof.

I shuddered. Whenever she wears a short skirt, the only feeling I can conjure up is that of fierce protectiveness and the sudden need to pick up sewing so that I can add fabric to the length.

So, yeah, that’s my story.

It’s how Wingmen Inc. got started.

Think about dating like you would a football game. Coaches have their playbooks, ones that a player will memorize for days, weeks, years on end even, and they work. It’s not enough that you know how to play the game; you have to know how to read the plays, read your opponent.

That’s what Wingmen Inc. is about. What if you could study a playbook for dating? We have rules for every type of relationship scenario, and our process works. Basically, we created a dating version of Minority Report. We see the “dating disaster” before it happens and make amendments accordingly.

Nothing angsty about it. I’m not a sad, lonely bastard in need of therapy because my parents ignored me when I was young—though they did, and probably still would have if they hadn’t died in a freak plane crash when I was seven.

My heart wasn’t broken by the girl next door who finally noticed me and then left me for my best friend. Please. Have you seen me?

And, no, I’m not trying to make up for things in small packages. I think it’s already been established that all’s well in the mechanics department.

I’m rich.

I’m brilliant—ask my professors.

I get more ass than even a man with my appetite can keep up with.

And I’m basically the modern-day Superman, saving women from themselves while my best friend, Lex, plays sidekick.

Before you ask—yes. It sucks. I’m pissed I can’t play in the NFL. But when one can’t play . . . one teaches.

And I was more than just a football player.

I was the player.

Of sports.

And . . . of women.

The best of them all.

So who better to teach women how not to get played than an actual player?

Exactly.

It’s not like I’ve turned over a new leaf; I’ve just learned to use both sides. Brilliant? Absolutely.

“Shit.” I nearly ran into the small Corolla in front of me as Gabi’s ringtone blared over my speakers.

“Yes?” I answered. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m not your client, Ian,” Gabi shouted. “Cut with the smooth-talking love coach voice. You promised!”

“I did.” What the hell did I promise? Movie night? That’s what I thought I promised. The light turned green. My thoughts were still blank. A horn blared behind me, and I took off.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“About our date tonight?” I laughed. “Of course not.”