Playbook

In the middle of the pool, where none of the villa’s microphones could pick up their conversation, Jordan reached for Casey. He grinned for the cameras, flirting with his eyes, hands grasping her ribcage as he guided her back and forth, her light brown hair floating on the water.

Her smile was sweet. “If you really want that twenty thousand,” she said in a low voice, “we need to break up. This morning.”

“Twenty thousand?” He pulled her in, kissed the tip of her nose.

“After we split it. After taxes.” She nuzzled his ear. “Follow my lead.” She headed for the side of the pool. As required, they reattached their personal mics as soon as they climbed out. The cameras overhead came on. He spread his towel next to hers on the sand. They lay on their bellies and watched the rest of the cast of Summer Romance, lounging, lifting weights, or moving around the kitchen island.

Casey interlaced her fingers with his. “Looks like Alyssa is finally talking with Sam again. I hope they can be friends.”

Alyssa was perched on the daybed, Sam beside her, not looking at her directly. Their Summer Romance connection had lasted until Shaunice had arrived and won Sam away with her black bikini.

Was Casey hoping Jordan would agree? No, he needed to say something crass here, so that sweet Casey with her unshakable morals could be outraged.

Crass – but true. That way, the voting public would still agree with him.

He knew how it worked. The day he’d torn his ACL was the first time he’d ever watched an episode of Summer Romance, alone in his hospital bed, out of boredom.

He’d convalesced on his father’s couch, with nothing to do except watch TV, binging all six seasons, sometimes yelling at the contestants. Couldn’t they see that stealing a kiss or flirting too much would lose them the finals? Didn’t they want to win?

His father, stopping home for lunch, settled beside Jordan. “What’s this you’re yelling about?”

Jordan’s cheeks went warm. “Just a stupid show.”

His father ogled the row of girls in bikinis, palm trees in the background. Episode 1, Season Five. “Nothing wrong with that view. What are they doing?”

In case his dad was working his way up to dating advice, Jordan kept his answer simple. “Six hot guys come in. They choose the girls. Last couple standing gets $50,000.”

His dad snorted. “That would almost cover your hospital bills.”

Jordan kept his eyes on the screen. “I know, Dad.”

After work, his dad brought home Chinese. They ate in front of the TV. “Wasn’t the redhead with the guy with the tattoos?”

“Luis? He got dumped. Claire’s with Jesse now.” Jordan didn’t want to pause the show to explain. Sonja was about to make a move on Jesse. He could really screw this up. Claire was a sweetheart.

On the TV, Sonja waited for Claire to leave the bedroom and slipped into her spot, stroking Jesse’s face.

“Don’t touch him,” Jordan said. He snapped one of his chopsticks in half.

His dad chuckled.

On the program, Jesse blinked awake.

“Tell her to get out of Claire’s place!” Jordan demanded.

But Jesse didn’t move away as Sonja went in for the kiss.

Jordan put the box of noodles down hard on the coffee table. “Idiot!”

His dad looked amused. “That’s exactly how you were during games. Yelling out advice, reminding everyone of the rules, pacing the sidelines. Trying to get everyone to play fair. You really are your mother’s son.”

“But he’s blowing it! It was just one more week.” Jordan flung a hand toward the TV. “They were shoo-ins.”

His dad shook his head. “No such thing. Not in love. You gotta risk everything to win.”

“Or play it safe,” Jordan insisted.

“You could do better?”

Jordan had always been good at keeping a playbook. With any game, there was strategy. “If I were on that show, I’d win.”

His dad glanced at his leg, propped on a pillow. “Any of those guys limp?”

The applications for Season 7 of Summer Romance were online. Sitting at his mom’s old desk, Jordan rose from her computer with a wince and limped to the hall mirror. He could pull off the five o’clock shadow, get his hair styled. He already had a soccer body.

He’d make a playbook. In the desk drawer he found a small black notebook, empty except for his mom’s name written inside the front cover and the words “To Do” on the first page in her handwriting. Nothing beneath them. He carried it over to the couch and queued up Season One.

Watching the show again made him sure that he could do this. He filled out the online application and attached a picture of himself. The questions were personal, but he understood why: the producers wanted contestants with drama, to make the show spicy.

“How do you handle tension?” they asked. He answered, “Sometimes I yell. Sometimes cry.”

“How many sexual partners have you had?” and “How many relationships?”

He needed to sound interesting. Cringing, he made himself type that he was the best soccer player ever at his school, that he scored “on and off the field.”

Taking notes, watching reruns, Jordan decided the show was giving him lessons. He could definitely see what not to do.

Don’t be crude, he wrote in his notebook. Don’t talk about her body.

Don’t overcompliment her.

Don’t spend too much time with the guys.

The winning couples all had one thing in common: they didn’t seem fake. They were sweethearts. The girls looked stunning in their bikinis, but didn’t act catty.

Choose wifey type, he wrote.

His share of the fifty thousand? He pictured himself paying off the medical bills. But winning – that was the challenge.

A week after the application deadline, he got the notification: he’d been selected! No guarantee how long he’d be on the show, but airfare to Hawaii and accommodations would be provided.

Surreal. That was how waiting felt. His physical therapy was working, his limp almost gone. He bleached his teeth and even went to a tanning salon.

During the ten-hour flight, he studied his playbook, turning the lined pages slowly.

Choose the sweetheart.

Don’t have sex on the show.

Don’t gossip.

Production company employees were waiting for him beyond the arrival gates, so he stashed his playbook in an airport locker, missing it as soon as the door clicked shut.

Jordan wasn’t chosen as an original resident. They brought him in during week two, just after the excitement of the original pairings had died down, just in time to break someone up. Perfect.

He was driven by Jeep through green hills, past waterfalls, his heart beating hard as he strolled into the villa, a cameraman moving backward in front of him.

Everyone was gorgeous, almost unbelievably so as they stood in a circle by the pool to welcome him and the other new boy. He felt all the eyes on him and pasted a friendly smile on his face. Straight from the playbook: Don’t be standoffish. “Hi everyone.” But stay a bit mysterious. “I’m Jordan.”

There were cocktails and banter, girls vying for his attention. He joked around with the guys. A bodybuilder type, Eric, talked smack about one girl, stirring up trouble. Was he somehow getting paid to play that role? In answer, Jordan shrugged. “I try not to talk about women that way.” He imagined approving nods from the watchers at home.

But don’t be a wuss! he told himself. So he won the kissing challenge the next day and was partnered up with Christina, a sexpot. When her hands roamed over his abs, he thought of his playbook and slid out of her reach.

The girl for him was Casey, a slender sweetheart passed over by the other guys, their eyes focused only on cleavage. She had thick brown hair and her original nose. She talked about dogs and ballroom dancing. Last chosen in every coupling.

He caught her smiling shyly in his direction, checking him out. He made a little joke to Eric about wanting to count her freckles. A nearby camera light blinked on.

At the partner ceremony that night, Christina chose him. Erik scowled. Was he being cast as the spoiler? He longed to review his playbook. Instead, he lay half-drunk in the bed next to a passed-out Christina, going over strategy: Step back for Erik. Tell him you’re not the guy who steals a girl. Ask someone a question about Casey. Find an opportunity to sit next to her.

Three days later, he’d done it. He’d let Christina down easy, taken Casey aside for a conversation that was half-flirtation, half serious discussion about saving dolphins, then chosen her in the next partner ceremony. They scored a two hour beach date where they shared a cheeky kiss during a sudden rainstorm and were now designated bed partners.

Under the covers, she wrapped the personal mic in her hand to muffle it and gestured to him to do the same. She put her lips to his ear. “Do you want to win?”

“Yes,” he whispered hesitantly.

“We kiss four times a day. I’m the little spoon. Tell the guys if they ask that it’s torture, but we’re waiting until after the show ends to have sex.”

“Got it.” He joked, “Do I get to second base?”

“Two nights before the final vote.” She met his eyes, all seriousness, and let the covers slip down.

He went in for the kiss, not hiding his thrilled enthusiasm.

When Erik tried to stir up trouble during week five, calling his relationship with Casey fake, Jordan reassured her through her tears that his feelings were real. If he dropped the L Word, it would help seal the deal, but he held off. Too soon.

Their kisses began to feel more authentic. Off camera, she made him a mai tai with a green cocktail umbrella. He draped a yellow lei over her head.

He began having deeper conversations with her. Giving her piggyback rides. Cameras turned as they walked past.

Now, with one week to go, Casey lay next to him by the pool, water droplets sparkling on her arm, and told him she was glad Alyssa and Sam were finally getting along.

He knew what was expected. He’d say something crass. She would storm off, crying. The other girls would comfort her. He would brood miserably. By tonight, they’d make up, sealing the win.

But the words wouldn’t come out. He didn’t want to argue with Casey. For some reason he pictured his dad and mom holding hands as they left a restaurant, a year before she died.

Casey was waiting. Her expectant gaze went hard and glittery.

“I hope they can be friends too,” he said, and it was true.

Casey lowered herself to her towel. Her hair fell like a curtain, hiding her from the cameras and from him.

He was risking the win. And not just twenty thousand, his share, but all the perks of being the winners. Paid appearances on TV shows, modeling for clothing lines. He’d signed the release forms.

Could he do a promotional year of Casey at his side, kissing her, holding her hand, smiling for the press?

Yes. He could.

Or, back home, he could just drive the two hours to visit her. He leaned nearer, reaching out his fingers to trace the freckles dusting her shoulder.

After a moment, she lifted her head, smiling as sweetly as ever.

Something in his chest twisted, wrenching just like the tearing of his ACL.

This moment would win it or lose it. Not any last minute, made-up fight.

He’d never thrown a cheap shot. “I really like you, Casey. Even if we don’t win.” It was all the truth he could manage.

Play fair. The rule got its own page. He’d underscored that line five times, the words whispered into his memory.