Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,2

better known to every Bostonian as The Gahden. It’s the most loving gesture he’s showed me in… well, maybe ever… and I smile as we jostle through the crowd with our hands entwined. There are people everywhere, a sea of green jerseys and foam fingers and face paint crowding in from every direction as nearly 20,000 fans cram inside and fight to find their seats.

Boston takes its sporting events very seriously.

We find the box office and collect our tickets, and I pretend it’s not annoying when Ralph speaks over me to the window attendant. He doesn’t even let me hold the tickets I won as we make our way through the arena, but he is still grasping my hand as we walk down a billion steps, and I figure that has to count for something.

Right?

Down, down, down — light-years closer than I’ve been at any kind of event before. The only tickets I’ve ever been able to afford on my artist salary were nosebleeds at Fenway three summers ago, and, if I’m being honest, it was to see Bruno Mars, not the Red Sox. Sports aren’t exactly my thing.

Still, when we hit the court it’s so surreal, I nearly stumble, my Chucks squeaking against the high-polished wood. Instead of steadying me, Ralph drops his hand so I don’t take him down too if I fall on my face, which is kind of a dick move. Thankfully, it doesn’t matter — I manage to right myself at the last minute and prevent a potentially mortifying moment in front of thousands of people.

A dowdy-looking usher looks me up and down skeptically — rude — before scanning our tickets and pointing us toward a stretch of empty seats on the mid-court sideline.

Jeeze, I already know I look ridiculous, lady, you don’t need to rub it in.

Frankly, I’m considering writing a sternly-worded letter to KXL the moment I get home, suggesting that next time they give out free tickets, they also provide a pamphlet with “what to wear” guidelines. That’d be really helpful and would probably prevent people like me from wearing bridesmaid dresses to basketball games.

What you have to understand is, I’ve never been to a basketball game in my life — and certainly not a playoff game. Courtside. With cameras and celebrities and giant, gorgeous NBA players so close I’ll be able to see individual beads of sweat on their brows. (Side note: Yum.) So, naturally, I called Chrissy this afternoon, hoping she might have a little fashion insight to help me blend in at an event like this.

I can see from the usher’s expression that I’m definitely not blending. In fact, I think Chrissy’s advice (“Wear something fancy, you’re going to be on television if you’re sitting courtside! Hell, Ben Affleck might be there!”) has led me very, very astray.

See, I’m an artist. A freaking oil painter. Which means there are maybe four items in my closet free of paint-speckles and grime-smudges. Of those four, only two could possibly be considered fancy — and they just so happen to be my old bridesmaid dresses from Chrissy and Shelby’s weddings.

So, here I am — crammed into a two-year old, blue-black cocktail dress that’s at least a size too small in the boob region and makes my ribs ache if I breathe too hard. And, because I’m me, an idiot, I listened to not only Chrissy, but also to the sincerely-flawed Gemma-Logic that thought it might be a good idea to “dress down” my ridiculous getup — not with a casual-but-still-appropriate pair of heels or flats, but with my beat-up, black Chuck Taylors.

In other words, I’m a walking disaster.

Ralph is so self-absorbed, I don’t think he’s noticed. That’s possibly due to the fact that he’s been on his cellphone since I told him I scored us tickets, calling every guy he’s known since fourth grade to brag about the “seats he won.” Whatever. Hopefully he’ll put the phone down when the game starts.

The sad thing is, even if he doesn’t, this is still the best date we’ve ever had.

Chapter Three

Dickwad

“Wooo!” I yell, my fists thrown to the sky. “Nice block, 33! Look left, he’s open — Number 14 is open! Ohmigod, he’s open are you blind?”

Ralph glares at me out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge my screams. Apparently, I’m making it hard to hear whoever he’s chatting with.

Oh, did I mention he’s still on the phone?

But that’s okay. I’m not letting him get me down. I’m having a