“Are you sure she’s going to be here?” I ask Banner as I glance around the intimate baking class.
Yes, baking class.
Can you guess whose idea this was?
Banner’s, that’s who.
Since seeing Myla at the trivia night, I’ve been talking to her on Instagram, you know, like the start of every healthy relationship. And even though I’ve hinted toward taking her out—that’s when she responds—she hasn’t taken the bait. Because I’m a desperate man who apparently has no self-respect, I asked for Banner’s help.
He contacted Nichole through Instagram—remember, healthy adults over here—and asked to meet up with her for coffee. That’s when the planning happened. Apparently, Myla has been on a mission to try new things and attending a baking class is one of them.
The plan is for Myla and Nichole to come and then for Nichole and Banner to bail at the last minute—aka, go have sex somewhere—leaving me alone in the class with Myla.
See how that works?
Lame, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.
“Yes, they’ll be here. Now just chill, dude. You’re starting to get sweaty.”
“I’m not sweaty.”
“I can see the beads of sweat on your upper lip.”
“I’m not sweating,” I say and then pick up a napkin and dab my upper lip, causing Banner to laugh.
“Oh, well, hello there,” I hear a familiar voice say. “I didn’t know you two were into baking.”
Nichole. Right on time.
I turn around to find a smiling Nichole and a frowning Myla. Just as I suspected, she’s not thrilled to see me. But hey, we can change that with some flirting.
“Wow, what are the odds?” Banner asks, his acting skills pure shit. “Never in a million years would I have imagined seeing you here.”
Way to keep it chill, bro.
“Yeah, this is so unexpected.” Nichole sighs and looks at her watch. “Gee, I can’t believe I forgot about that thing I have to do. Right when we get here, too.”
“Oh shit, I have a thing too.” Banner pats my chest. “Sorry, bro, I have to bail, but hey, looks like Myla might need a partner.”
Myla folds her arms at her chest. “Would you look at how that worked out? And so quickly too.”
Yeah, they could have at least waited a minute before ditching us.
“Perfect if you ask me,” Nichole says. “Okay, well, this has been fun. Looks like class is about to start, so we’re just going to get out of your hair. You two have fun.” Nichole presses a quick kiss on Myla’s cheek. “Love you. Be nice.”
And then without another word, Banner and Nichole take off together. Their job is done.
Now it’s time to wipe that frown off Myla’s face.
Hands in my pockets, I rock back on my heels. “Crazy how that all worked out.”
She eyes me, those light-blue eyes carving me with sheer suspicion. “Yeah . . . crazy.”
“But hey, we’re here, might as well do some baking.”
Head tilted to the side, she asks, “Don’t you have practice or something?”
“Off day.”
“Uh-huh, and you just so happen to like to bake on your off days?”
“Thought I would try something new. Is there something wrong with me baking?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who enjoys baking, you know, since last time I checked, you barely keep food in your pantry.”
“I’ve changed my ways.”
“Have you?” she asks with a tilt of her brow as she moves toward our kitchen setup. Ten individual counters in the classroom each have their own stove, oven, sink, mini fridge, and appliances as well as utensils.
“Yes, I have. I now make sure I have pretzels in my pantry at all times.”
“Pretzels? Why is that a requirement?”
“I was reacquainted with them a while back, and now I always have them at my house.”
“And how were you reacquainted with them?” She picks up a folded apron from the counter and drapes it over her head. I do the same.
“I like to eat them with a few of the guys before games. We all sit in the cafeteria together, chat, and have fruit and pretzels.”
She pauses as she’s tying the string of her apron to look me in the eye. “That sounds so . . . elementary. Like you’re sharing a snack in the schoolyard.”
“We keep things simple.”
“I guess I just thought you would be sucking down pre-game powder and pumping iron. But sitting around the table with fruit and pretzels? Well, that paints a new picture in my head of professional athletes.”
I chuckle. “Is that a positive picture or a negative picture?”
“Positive,” she says as I tie my apron. “I like that you’re not some meathead jock, looking to break bats over your knees and whatnot.”
“Never said I wasn’t that guy either.”
“Please.” She shakes her head. “I don’t believe it for a second. You’re all mushy on the inside, aren’t you?”
“No, hard as a rock.”
She rolls her eyes. “Tell me this, when you’re traveling for away games, how many women do you bring back to your hotel room?”
“Hundreds,” I answer. “Sometimes ten at a time.” If only she knew I never take women back to my hotel. It’s just not my thing.
She smirks and props her hip against the table as the instructor walks into the room and starts setting up her station at the front. “Ten, huh? Wow, you must go through a box of condoms a night.”
“I get paid so much, so I can afford all the condoms.”
“Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you? I figured you went back to the hotel after a game, takeout in hand, and turned on some sort of show you’d talk to the guys about later in the locker room. You know, just a bunch of guys gabbing about Stranger Things.”
I chuckle and lean close. “You don’t know how scary accurate that is. But instead of takeout, there are occasional nights when the boys and I go out to our favorite restaurants in each city. Then we go back to our rooms and watch Stranger Things.”
“Ooo, so close to getting that right.”
“Welcome to How to Bake with Beatrice,” the instructor cuts through all the chatter. “I’m Beatrice, and I’ll be your instructor. Who is ready to learn how to bake éclairs?”
Myla raises her hand and adds, “Woo,” which of course draws attention toward us.
Because I don’t want her to be alone, I fist-pump the air and say, “Éclairs, fuck yeah.”
“Sir, please refrain from swearing . . . and shouting.”
“Oh, sorry. Uh, éclairs, hooray!”
Myla snorts next to me, and when I glance at her and see that big, beautiful smile of hers, I know I’m doing something right.
“Don’t open the oven,” I say as Myla reaches for the handle.
“But what if they’re burning?”
“They’re not burning. Just turn on the light if you’re that concerned. If I learned one thing from my mom while she baked hundreds of cookies every year at Christmas, it’s that you don’t open the oven unless you have to, as it lets all the hot air out.”