Jones

The sizzling rice soup with shrimp is delicious. The pepper steak is some of the tastiest I’ve ever had. And the company is unequivocally the finest—my girlfriend. When I offer her a taste of the pepper steak, she opens her mouth and I feed it to her. In public. At a Chinese restaurant she loves.

Someone might snap a picture.

Someone might not.

Both options are fine by me.

If anyone did capture our date, they’d have a gallery of images of one of the happiest guys in the city, walking into House of Nanking with his arm wrapped around the woman he works with, one who now happens to be VP of publicity for the San Francisco Renegades. They’d see me hold her hand at the table as we ordered. They’d see her reach across to ruffle my hair when I made her laugh.

After we finish, the waiter brings a plate of fortune cookies, and Jillian grabs the one pointed at her, cracking it open. Her eyebrows wiggle as she reads. “Ooh, this is a good one.”

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘You have the hottest guy in the city wrapped around your finger.’”

“Sounds less like a fortune and more like the truth.”

“I speak no lies.”

“What does it really say?”

She takes a breath. “It says, ‘Good things come to those who wait.’”

I scoff. “That’s kind of vague.”

“I don’t know. I waited for you.”

“Did you?”

“You know I had my eyes on you for a long time.”

“I had my eyes on you for even longer. So much so I was always getting naked in front of you. Why didn’t you have your eyes on that?”

She laughs. “I’m making up for lost time,” she says, then tips her chin at my cookie. “What’s your fortune?”

I break the cookie and fish out the white strip of paper, reading the red words aloud. “‘May your life be as steadfast as the mountains and your fortune as limitless as the sea.’” I nod, taking in the sentiment, letting it roll around in my head. “I like that. In fact,” I say, folding the slip of paper and tucking it into my wallet, “I’m keeping it with me.”

“Like a good luck symbol,” she says knowingly.

“You know luck and me are like this.” I twist my middle and index fingers together.

That’s why before every game, I follow my ritual. I eat a pomelo, whether home or away. So far, it’s been working. We’re only a few games into the season, but we have a winning record.

The record that matters most to me, though, is the one I have with Jillian. Every night I tell her I love her. Every morning, too, and usually several times during the day.

What can I say? I text her a lot. Many are naughty. Many are not. But she’s never far from my mind, or my body, since I’ve convinced her to spend nearly every night with Cletus and me. I have a big appetite, and I find the one streak I don’t want to break is having her every damn day.

That’s what I plan to do tonight, and as we leave and walk past a laughing Buddha statue, she stops, rubbing its head. I do the same. She grabs her phone, asks me a question with her eyes, and I say yes.

She takes a picture of us rubbing the Buddha and posts it to my Instagram, tagging it with #luck, #goodfortune, and #love.

Out on the street in Chinatown, I pull her in close and kiss her as we wait for a Lyft. Someone walking by mutters my name. Maybe that someone takes a picture. Maybe it’ll show up online. Maybe it won’t. Whatever happens is all good because I don’t have to worry anymore. I’ve learned the best way to rehab a reputation is to be a good guy and to fall in love with a woman who makes you want to be even better.

* * *

Jillian

My boss was right. Being involved with a ballplayer means you’re under scrutiny. A lot of gossip papers wanted to know why her? What does she have that the model, the actress, the Tinder chick didn’t have?

Let the press speculate. I know what I have—a guy who declared his intention for me, and then declared it again and again and again. I have a guy who has a heart as big as his hands.

And, well, a certain other part.

I do love when he uses that part on me.

And when I watch him use it for himself.

I still have my fantasies.

But now, they’re my reality.

Like tonight, when I told him I wanted to come home from a long day at the office to find him in bed, a sheet riding low on his hips, a hand wrapped around his hard length, stroking absently. I drop my purse in his living room, kick off my shoes, say hello to Cletus, and head to the bedroom.

The light is low. Only the rays of the moon streak through the window. I stand in the doorway, and a shiver runs through me as I savor the view.

His eyes are closed, his muscles ripple, and his right hand grips his erection. I bite my lip as I watch him, like the voyeur he lets me be. Everything about this turns me on wildly, especially the sounds—his groans, his grunts, his heavy breathing. The pants as he strokes faster. The moan as he grips tighter.

Most of all, how he always says my name.

That always breaks me.

Tonight, when he utters it in a raspy, needy voice as his hand shuttles up and down, I strip off my skirt and yank off my top.

My panties are gone in seconds, and I climb on him.

I know why this turns me on so much.

It’s because he’s getting off to me, even when he’s by himself. I think that will always turn me on because it makes me feel so wonderfully wanted.

Right now, I want to show him how much.

He lets go of his dick, grabs my hips, and brings me down on him. I draw a sharp gasp as he fills me completely.

He’s completely bare.

I’m on birth control, and he’s safe, and I love the feel of us like this. Together. No barriers. He moves me up and down, and with every stroke, I moan. I breathe out hard. I shudder.

I’m not sure how sex that’s been this good can become even better, but as he runs a hand up my back and into my hair, I’m given the answer.

It comes as he brings my face near to his. “Need you closer to me.”

He’s never held back in bed. He’s always made it clear where he stands between the sheets. This man has the biggest appetite. He wants more of me, as much as he can have. And I love giving myself to him. He makes me feel beautiful, sexy, and alluring.

He makes me feel like I’m all he needs.

As he draws me closer, telling me to ride him harder, faster, rougher because it’s so fucking good, it’s all so fucking good with me, I know he’s all I’ll ever need.

A little later, as we lie in bed, sated and sweaty, he positions us so I’m in the crook of his arm. “You know you can sleep on me anytime, right?”

“I do know that, since I sleep on you every night.”

“Sleep on me, sleep with me. I love it all,” he says, then he shifts to his side and drops a kiss on my nose. “I love you. Have I told you that today?”

“Maybe ten times?”

“Let’s make it eleven.” He kisses a trail up my neck to my ear, and I tremble again, then I shudder as he says, “I’m so in love with you.”

Cletus jumps on the bed, wagging his tail and plopping down between us.

“He’s also in love with you,” Jones says as I rub the dog’s little head.

“I love him, too. And the other guy as well,” I say when a soft paw swipes my shoulder. I crane my neck to see Smoky sitting on my pillow, purring.

Cletus and Smoky are good buddies now, ever since we adopted the orange kitten as soon as he was ready for his fur-ever home.

The four of us fall asleep.

When we wake up together the next morning, Jones whispers in my ear, “Told you I like waking up next to you.”

Then he shows me why it’s my favorite way to wake up, too.

* * *

Jones

A week later, we’re at another restaurant, and Jillian’s boss holds up the charity calendar before the crowd.

“And look at February,” Lily says, showing off the cat and me at the winery.

The crowd cheers, and I wave from my spot next to her.

“And how about March?” That’s the shot from Stinson Beach.

More hoots and hollers abound.

When we make it to the Miami shots, my heart beats a little faster, and I look to Jillian, standing at the bar. Love those, I mouth to her.

Me, too, she replies.

They remind me of the best play I ever made. The one for her heart.