Page 43 of Just for the Plot

Cougar Vajeenand a number.

“That’s for your friend.” He continues to walk away.

“Wait, are you not going to introduce me or anything?”

He spins on his heel to face me. “Is it a date for you or a date for her?”

“A date for her,” I answer.

“Then good luck.” With that, he keeps walking into the zoo while I’m on my way out.

I stare down at the number, the back of my neck tingling with irritation.

Before he gets too far, I call out, “Does he know?”

Shouting before he walks into a building, he says, “He’s expecting her call.”

And then he disappears.

He’s expecting her call, words I didn’t want to hear, but also words I set up myself. This is what I wanted, right? It’s all part of the plan?

Then why the hell does it make me feel incredibly nauseous?

This is what Nolan suggested, though. At the time, it all made sense, and there seems to be logic behind it all…so might as well just rip off the bandage.

Not wanting to second-guess this, I pull out my phone and send Cougar’s name and number to Bower before heading to my car.

There, now to finish executing the plan. All she needs to do is—gulp—go on a date with the douche, realize he’s a douche, and then come crawling back to me and see how great a guy I am.

Seems simple enough.

Foolproof.

One of the best ideas I’ve ever had.

I get in my car, start it, and pull out of the parking lot, headed straight to the stadium for my game tonight. We got home yesterday, but I haven’t seen Bower because we got in late and I had to report to the zoo this morning to fulfill the hours of this stupid PR bullshit, and I really didn’t do much other than help prepare food for the lions. Still wondering how this is helpful for my image when there aren’t even cameras following me around. It feels like court-ordered community service, not some publicity stunt that’s supposed to get the fans to like the team again.

Thankfully the stadium isn’t too far from the zoo. When I pull in, I nod to the security guy at the gate and then park my car next to Nolan’s, who is getting out of his car at the same time.

“Fucking hell,” he says in greeting once I lock up my vehicle.

He’s sporting gray sweatpants, a red Pikachu shirt, and slides with socks. Large, dark sunglasses that you would only truly find on an octogenarian cover nearly half his face as he sucks on a lollipop and props his hand against my truck.

“What the hell happened to you?” I ask.

“Dude, I’ve seen hell and somehow resurrected myself.”

“What do you mean?”

He tilts his glasses down to look at me. “Whatever you do, don’t getthe lamb at Quints.” He presses his hand to his stomach. “Motherfucker, I might throw up again.”

“Jesus,” I say, taking a step away. “Can you play?”

“If Michael Jordan can play after getting food poisoning, then so can I.” He grabs a hold of my arm. “But can you walk me into the stadium? My legs are a little wobbly.”

He clutches on to me like I’m a life raft, and because I’m that good of a friend, I let him as we walk slowly—and I mean very slowly—into the stadium.

“When did you have Quints?”