Shark Bite Page 2

  So, I’ve relegated myself to the role of friend. Not the kind of friend you text frequently or hang out with one-on-one, but we see each other at group-type stuff, like Meric and Lindy’s wedding (which was a total trip…I swear we came close to hooking up that night too since we were both in the wedding party), and every time someone hosts a get-together. I’ve forced myself to admire her from a distance, knowing we want very different things, and there’s really no way to meet in the middle.

  I’m not a relationship kind of guy. I knew that from the moment my parents got divorced when I was eight, and I had to move to Pennsylvania with my mom. I rebelled quite a bit and fell in with a rough gang of, well, juvenile delinquents, if I’m being honest. I’m lucky I didn’t really screw up my life. But then I went to college and found the sport, the game—the religion—of rugby.

  Rugby saved me.

  There’s something they say about rugby—it’s a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen, or something to that effect. I can leave my inner beast out on the field and go back to good guy mode off the pitch (that’s what they call a rugby field, by the way). All that anger and aggression I’ve built up through the years, it gets released in a good scrum or tackle.

  When the waitress comes back with our drinks, I hand Meric his beer, and his eyes trail past me over to where Megan is talking to his wife. “Did you talk to her yet?”

  “No, man. I will after dinner.” I give him a look that clearly warns him to back off. I don’t mean to be rude to the man of the hour, but I don’t like being told what to do. I hope he didn’t say anything to her.

  I was telling Meric about my rugby team’s problems earlier tonight when I first arrived at his birthday party, and he suggested I talk to Megan, who recently got a job with a public relations firm here in Rehoboth Beach. Apparently they have some pretty well-known clients, and he seems to think she can help us improve our image and bring in some new sponsors. Since our fall season starts in only a few weeks, we have to move fast.

  The problem?

  I keep stealing glances at her and getting lost in her eyes. It’s almost impossible not to. They’re this really unique color—dark green on the outside and, in the middle, a coppery color. If I’m going to have a serious conversation with her, I can’t be distracted by those eyes or remembering how soft her lips are.

  I can do this. My rugby team is too important to let it fold now. Walt, myself, and a few of the older guys on the team (meaning, we’re in our thirties, unlike the young twenty-somethings who’ve been getting in trouble) have worked so damn hard to get this club up and running. So even if I have to beg Megan for help and bite my tongue every time I consider flirting with her, I’ll do it.

  Sucking in such a deep breath, my lungs visibly expand my chest, I give a curt nod to Meric and prowl toward my target. I bend down so close my lips nearly graze her ear and breathe in a whiff of her perfume. She smells like summer. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  She nearly jumps when she feels my breath on her neck, then whips around and punches me in the bicep—right in the shark, my biggest tattoo. “You scared me half to death, you jerk!”

  I shrug. “Sorry, didn’t mean to. Didn’t know you were so engrossed in conversation with Lindy and Hannah.” I shoot both ladies a smile, and they’re both immediately charmed.

  Megan purses her lips. “Well, move so I can get up.”

  Feisty, huh? I retreat a step so she can scoot back her chair and follow me to the patio door that leads to a little courtyard area with outdoor seating. It’s pretty late, and there’s no one out there, but the door is unlocked, so I slide it open and turn around to make sure she’s going to follow.

  I stop a few feet away from a tall light on a pole, around which about a billion moths are swarming. The August air is thick with humidity, and I already miss the A/C, but this isn’t a conversation I can have in there with all our friends around.

  “What do you want, Shark?” She taps her sandaled foot on the ground as she crosses her arms over her chest and pins that green and copper gaze on me.

  “My rugby team has a problem,” I confess, all I can get out before the scowl on her face deepens.

  This was a bad idea. I knew it. I’d have to kick Meric’s ass at some point—when it’s not his birthday. She still hates me because I didn’t want to date her after our hookup two years ago now. I haven’t really spoken to her one-on-one since then. We’ve always had our friends around us, a buffer zone.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  Well, her tone is one hundred percent bitch, but she does have a point. “I heard you work for a PR firm now…is that true?”

  She nods, and there’s the slightest hint of a coy smile playing on her full lips.

  “Well, are you taking clients?”

  “You’re actually going to pay for my services?” She scoffs like she doesn’t believe for one second I’m prepared to pay her for her time and expertise.

  “We don’t have a lot of funds in our account, but we could trade advertising in our programs and other sponsorship opportunities—like a big banner on our pitch during games. We just—” I don’t want to come across as desperate, but…I’m feeling desperate. And I hate feeling that way. Any form of weakness makes me want to haul off and punch something.

  Yes, I’m still working on some anger issues from my childhood. That’s another reason rugby is so good for me. And my therapist. She’s definitely helped a lot.

  “I’d have to talk to my boss about that.” Her expression softens a little as her eyes bounce between mine. “What’s the problem with your team?”

  “The gist of it is some of my younger teammates have forgotten they’re supposed to be gentlemen off the pitch. One got arrested for a DUI. Another got himself involved in a brawl at some bar in Dewey Beach a few weekends ago. And another pair of bozos got arrested for public intoxication and disorderly conduct just a few days ago.”

  “Pitch?” she interrupts me, her brows arching. That’s what she got out of everything I just said?

  “The field where you play a rugby match,” I explain, trying to tamp down my frustration. This was not a good idea.

  “Okay, sorry, go on.”

  I suck in another deep breath and swallow it down. “Yesterday morning, I found out two of our biggest sponsors pulled out. We’ve not only lost the company that was going to sponsor our new jerseys, but we’ve also lost the bar where we were supposed to host our post-match parties.”

  “Oooh, that doesn’t sound good.” She taps her finger on her chin like she’s thinking. “So, you’re asking if my company will sponsor your team?”

  I shrug. “Well, that would be a start, but ideally we’d like to repair our image in the community—you know, do some damage control. Walt—our team captain—and I are kinda at a loss here. And we both have our own jobs, you know?”

  She smiles, the copper center of her eyes blazing around her black pupils. “I understand. Well, I don’t know if my boss will be open to quid pro quo instead of actual money, but I can ask.”

  “The fall season starts soon,” I tell her. “Beginning of September. We don’t have a lot of time.” Damn it, that sounded way more desperate than I wanted it to sound.

  “I see. Let me talk to Andrea tomorrow, and I’ll call you, okay?” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other like that’s the best she can promise me under the circumstances.

  A little ripple of surprise rolls over me. “You still have my number?”

  I am one hundred percent positive her cheeks flush red when she realizes the implication of her still having my number in her phone two years after our hook-up. And I don’t know why, but my ego soars at her confession.

  “Uh, yeah.” She shrugs and flashes me a sheepish smile. “You know, just in case.”

  As much as I try to force my lips to stay neutral and avoid curling up, they defy me and do it anyway.

  I still have her number in my phone too.

  Late
r that week, I’m on my way to rugby practice when my phone buzzes with a text.

  MegA (a nickname I thought was funny at the time when I put her number into my phone. There’s a lot of mega and extra about Megan Adams): Hey loser

  Me: Loser?

  MegA: It’s an expression. So. I talked to my boss.

  Me: Yeah?

  MegA: Yeah, she liked my ideas. Wants to haggle a bit over the sponsorship thing. But she’s kinda given me free rein. I have to come up with a proposal.

  Me: WTH does that mean?

  MegA: That we should meet in person and go over the details—text isn’t exactly the easiest way to do business.

  I suppose she has a point.

  Me: When can you meet?

  MegA: Tonight?

  Me: I’m going to rugby practice.

  MegA: After? Where’s it at?

  Me: The field next to the American Legion.

  MegA: Meet at Mitch’s? Text me when you’re on your way.

  Me: I’ll be dirty and sweaty.

  MegA: We’re just going to chat. It’s not like I’m gonna jump your bones.

  Me: Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  I put down my phone and park my truck in the lot at the Legion. It’s not like I’m gonna jump your bones. Why did she find it necessary to remind me?

  I roll my window down and shout to Walt, who is carrying a bag of rugby balls toward the pitch. “Hey, loser!” I yell, taking inspiration from Megan’s greeting.

  He whips around. “Hey, ya bloody wanker!” he yells back in his British accent. Accompanying his good-natured ribbing is a wide grin.

  I step out of the car, and he waits for me to catch up. “So, no one else is here yet?”

  He shakes his head. “Dylan can’t make it. Morton’s still in jail. Robbie, Gator, Carlos, Zac, Zulu, and Dante should be here soon.”

  I blow out a breath of frustration. “We’re gonna need a better turnout at practice if we’re going to win any games this season at all, bro.”

  “Preaching to the choir, man,” he says, shrugging. “We need some recruitment efforts. And those sponsorships we talked about.”

  I puff out my chest as I fill my lungs with the warm August air. “I’m meeting with a chick who works in PR tonight,” I tell Walt. “She has some ideas for us.”

  “Good.” He sets the bag down on the pitch near a metal bench and starts to stretch his long limbs. “I’m all ears.”

  We go over some drills on his clipboard as a few of our teammates start to trickle in from the parking lot. The other part of my brain not paying attention to the clipboard is thinking about Megan. I really hope she has some good ideas—something that will really help the team get back in Rehoboth Beach’s good graces.

  And I hope I can keep my mind on rugby while I’m talking to her.

  3

  I’m already sitting at a high-top table at Mitch’s when I get the text that Shark is on his way. Okay, so I may have told a little fib. I didn’t talk to my boss about his rugby project. I kind of thought I would take him on pro bono, and then if things go well, I can maybe use my success to help leverage a promotion. I’m not quite to the point of managing accounts at The Buzz PR. I’m currently an assistant, so it’s not my job to come up with awesome ideas but to help the account managers implement their awesome ideas—which are, naturally, not as awesome as my ideas. I really want to be the idea person, you see.

  I’ve been accused more than once of putting the cart before the horse, but when the cart is Shark…well, have you seen him? He’s hot. And maybe Lindy is right. Maybe I do need a new tool in my toybox. A Shark-shaped one.

  And maybe his thoughts on relationships have changed over the last two years. Just because he hasn’t brought a date to our groups’ get-togethers doesn’t mean he’s not open to dating someone. Maybe he hasn’t found the right woman—or doesn’t know he has. That’s where I come in, right?

  “Hey,” he says as he treks toward my table, his phone still in his hand. My phone simultaneously buzzes with a text announcing his arrival.

  “Hey.” I gesture toward the other stool. “How was practice?”

  His cheeks are still that ruddy color you get from physical exertion. I’ve seen his cheeks that color before…but it wasn’t from rugby practice. His dark hair is slicked back with sweat, and there’s a grass stain on his faded yellow t-shirt. He catches me staring and grunts, “Well, I warned you.”

  “It’s okay,” I insist. Breathing in, I pick up that distinct odor of male sweat. I know it’s supposed to smell gross, but there’s something about it. I bite my lip, forcing myself to remember why we’re meeting. Oh yeah. Rugby.

  He flags down a server and orders a beer. “Do you want anything?” he offers.

  Since he’s not going to be paying me for my services, I feel like him buying me a beer might be fair, so I order a cider, then fold my hands together, interlacing my fingers like that will help me get back down to business. It’s quiet at Mitch’s, but it’s also a Sunday night. Most of the tourists in the area have gone home, and only a few locals are out. People are getting ready for a new week starting bright and early in the morning.

  “Okay, so I wanted to pitch some ideas to you,” I tell him, trying to stifle my laughter. “Get it? Pitch?!”

  He purses his lips like it would be physically painful for him to admit my pun was funny. “Yeah. Go on?”

  “I want to approach a few businesses we work with about potential sponsorships, but have you thought about pairing up with a local charity and maybe hosting a benefit?”

  He leans back on his barstool till his head hits the wall behind him. I watch the mounds of his defined pecs rising and falling with his breaths as he considers my proposal. “What kind of benefit?”

  “Well, you’re trying to repair your team’s image, and nothing does that better than aligning yourself with a good cause, one people can rally around. It’s simple—if you donate to and volunteer at X charity, and people view X charity as good and worthwhile, they’ll view you as good and worthwhile by association.”

  “Yeah, I mean, I get it.” His brow furrows. “But where would we find a charity, and I don’t know the first thing about setting up a benefit. Who would it benefit? The charity or us?”

  I smile at him, already prepared to answer his questions. “I know a couple of people who work with local charities. There’s the YMCA, and a boys’ and girls’ club, and a few others I think would work well. There’s also the police and fire departments, and so on. It’s not going to be hard to find a charity. Trust me. They’re always looking for partnerships and donations. The biggest part would be figuring out how to collaborate and setting up the benefit.”

  “You didn’t answer my question about the benefit.” I notice the skepticism in his gray-blue eyes, like he’s not sure he trusts me to do this.

  I’m used to people not taking me seriously, even when I’m trying to be extra serious, so I’m prepared. “There are a few different fundraising models we could look at—but the proceeds could be split with the charity, if that’s what you’re worried about. Do you guys need funds too?” He never mentioned fundraising as one of his goals.

  He scoffs. “Do we need funds?” He shakes his head like it was the dumbest question in the universe. “So, we have to pay for our post-game socials and for refs, and each player has to join the league union and pay dues. There are a lot of expenses, and guys in their twenties who don’t have steady jobs, or they have young families, or whatever, make up a big part of our team. It’s like getting blood out of a turnip trying to get dues from some of these kids.”

  “These kids.” He says it like he’s eighty years old, which I find humorous. “Okay. Well, let me talk to some of my connections, and we can figure out what the overhead would be. We could do like a gala or banquet…you know, where people buy a plate for X amount of money.”

  His nose scrunches up. “I don’t really like the idea of anything stuffy like that…though that would
be right up Walt’s alley.”

  “Walt?”

  “Our captain. I’m the social secretary,” he tells me. “I set up the schedule, events and post-game socials.”

  Shark is the social secretary? Now that is pure comedy. “Okay.” I nix the fancy gala idea and shrug, trying to think of some alternatives. “Well, there are also races, like a 5 or 10K race. Or we could do an auction, a carnival or fair—maybe something more accessible to the community, where you’ll get more visibility with a broader range of folks. Maybe it could help with recruitment efforts as well.”

  “Those all sound good. How do we decide?”

  “Part of it will depend on what your partner or partners want to do, and part of it will depend on money.” I’ve learned pretty fast in the PR business that “money” is the answer to almost everything. Sad, but true.

  The slightest inkling of a smile appears on Shark’s face as he assesses me, taking in my features and the professional look I tried to throw together, even on a Sunday evening. I have my long hair all artfully arranged in a bun, and I’m wearing a conservative blouse and dressy shorts. Nothing too fancy, but I tried my best to look businesslike.

  “Thanks for doing this,” he says, his voice softer than before. “So you’ll write up a proposal, and your boss will decide whether or not she wants to take us on?”

  I bite my lip, realizing I’m still working in creative liberty mode here. “Yep. Leave it all to me.”

  I sit there grinning at him, trying to sell my services, which are so dirt cheap they’re free. Meanwhile, I’m basking in the glory of being out in public with a man—a handsome and very eligible bachelor, if Shark’s dating habits are anything to go by. I personally haven’t dated since last winter, and I’m pretty sure I’ve exhausted the local pool of candidates through all the various dating apps. Sussex County, Delaware, is not the easiest place to find single professionals around my age. Trust me, I’ve looked.

  I’ve been divorced three years, and in that time, I’ve probably met at least twenty men. They all turned out to be unacceptable for some reason or another. And we’re not even going to get on the subject of the douchebag I divorced, The One Who Shall Not Be Named.