It was storming outside by the time Justin made it upstairs and back to his tucked-away private office. Rolls of loud thunder and streaks of bright lightning crashed violently as the sheets of heavy rain slammed against the wall of the room that was all window. He sat down in his high-backed leather chair and swiveled it around to stare out at Mother Nature's vivid fury. He should be working, he knew. But redirecting his concentration to the pitch for Deer Park Spring Water's business was going to be near impossible this afternoon (even though he already felt sure he could easily top their current lame slogan: "Water that tastes like water oughta." Boring as dried crap.) He couldn't stop thinking of the card he'd snagged off that damn board at the restaurant, wondering why he'd been strangely possessed to do so. He hadn't played racquetball in years, since high school, and he'd only done it then because the guy he'd been dating at the time had played several times a week. Yes, it'd been mostly done to appease Ryan, the boyfriend, not because Justin particularly loved the sport. So racquetball now? Is that what he was looking for to bridle his inner edginess? A different kind of recreational activity? Something more physical to burn off some energy? A new game? And why keep second-guessing himself anyway? What the hell was that all about? He slipped his fingers inside the pocket of his coat and pulled out the crisp little rectangle of thick paper. Yep. Check that out. He'd been right. The last four digits of this mystery person's phone number: 0131. Justin's birthday. The thunder-n-lightning symphony crescendo-ed strikingly outside the window for him at the odd, symmetrical revelation. Freakish coincidence? Justin had never believed much in coincidences, freakish or non-freakish. He did put some stock in fate, however, which, to him, had a little more weight and credibility than mere coincidence. He figured that there was probably a fate-like reason - a significant and meaningful one that only the gods and the cosmos knew about - why he'd chosen that restaurant today and stopped in that hallway in front of that board and been drawn to that one particular card which had not only his date of birth on it but also a name he wasn't sure how to pronounce but had no doubt at all that somehow the sound of it would be simply delicate and beautifully exotic when he first heard it. Puhleeeze, Timberlake. You. Ass. You're such a romantic fool. President of Dorks Unlimited. That would be you. Here's you a new hobby - getting yourself a damn grip on reality. Get back to work. It's just a card, for Christ's sake. Not that kismet thing or the ulterior workings of unseen demigods and flying fairies. Get real, you idealistic dreamer. Loser. Jeez. After a few minutes, when the vicious weather finally began to subside and lighter shades of the sky could be seen in the distance, Justin stood up and softly stepped over the plush carpet to close his office door for quiet privacy. Returning to his chair, he faced the window once more, flipped open his cell phone, took in and let out several deep breaths, and punched in the numbers he'd subconsciously already memorized. He told himself he wasn't nervous. He refused to acknowledge the breezy stir of flutters in his gut. Hell, he made his living talking to strangers every day, winning them over with his charisma and wit, didn't he? Why in the hell should he get the jitters about a tiny little phone call? So, not really knowing what to expect and wondering if there was any kind of proper protocol or etiquette for this type of thing - whatever the hell this type of thing was - Justin almost dropped the small phone from his sweaty fingers when, after three rings, a female voice answered with a simple "hello?" He definitely hadn't expected that. So much for fate and all that flowery, dreamy bullshit. "Fuck!" shrieked through his head but didn't come out of his mouth. Nothing came out of his mouth for a good five or six breathy seconds while he told himself silently what a dumbass he was for not realizing the obvious gender ambiguity of a simple name like "JC." Why had he just assumed that it wasn't a chick? Because he'd secretly fantasized about it being some sexy, athletic guy whose sexy, athletic services were just a phone call away? Fuck. Now, he'd have to take the damn card back to that Baja Grill place and give this girl on the other end of the line a better chance at offering her racquetball expertise to someone else. Because it'd just be wrong not to. No, wait. It was just a simple game, wasn't it? Did it honestly matter if the instructor was a chick or a guy? "Hello?" she said again, calmly waiting. And Justin realized he still hadn't made any intelligent responsive sound. "Oh, uh, I was trying to reach JC, um………." The questioning lilt of his voice trailed off quietly. "Sure. Hold up just a sec. I'll get him," the girl said and abruptly laid the phone down on some hard surface. In the background, Justin then overheard her tell someone else in the room with her, "Hey, it was your phone. I swear I thought it was mine, going off like that. Same ring tone, you know. Sorry. I answered it before I realized it………..It's for you. Duh." "I don't know," she added a couple of seconds later as if in response, although Justin hadn't heard a "someone else" ask her anything. "No, I didn't recognize the voice. It's some guy." She laughed lightly. "Of course." "Yeah, yeah. JC here. What can I do you for?" were the next spoken words that wisped through Justin's phone, a masculine but gentle voice this time. The sound was directed at him and melted like warm chocolate over his eardrum. "What can I do you for?" Almost as charmingly dorky as that text on his business card, Justin thought. Um, don't kid yourself, kid. You're a raging doofus too. Remember, say, nine seconds ago? "Oh. Hi. I'm calling about the, um………." Justin's brain suddenly froze up solid on him, which was a bit odd since he'd given about 34 thousand presentations and speeches in his short career without that, the freeze thing, happening at all. Think! It was a SPORT, damnit! A sport played on a court! Think, moron! He is SO not going to have time for you and your lame empty head, man. Wake up! "About the guitar?" the soft voice asked patiently from the other end of the connection. At that, Justin's mind magically revived itself and then began to reel. Did the guy just say "guitar"? Hadn't Justin just been delusionally self-analyzing about a guitar in the car after lunch? Something about strings and chords and playing the right melodies and stuff? Hadn't he? How weird was that? Or was it even weird at all? "Um, the guitar?" he stammered. "The ad in the paper about the guitar. I'm trying to unload it. Is that what you called about?" "Oh. No. I was actually interested in, um," Justin managed and glanced at the card in his hand again. "The racquetball lessons. I saw your sign, I mean card, and thought I'd check it out since I need the exercise and all. You know, if you're still doing that." "Oh, yeah?" Amazingly, the lively, roundaboutlazytakeyourtimerollingout laugh that came through the phone didn't indicate that this guy thought Justin was the world's biggest tongue-tied loser, although Justin himself was still totally convinced of it. "Where'd you see the card anyway?" "At a restaurant. On one of those community info board things." "Which restaurant?" "Baja Grill. The one on Sunset." "Oh, that one. I see. Cool. So yeah. I'm still into the racquetball thing. Sure." There was another breezy, comfortable snicker from this JC character, and Justin was unsure whether the emphatic "that one" meant they'd just pinged each other's gaydar or not. True, Baja Grill morphed into a festive gay drinking hole at night, but it was also a festive eatery in the daytime. And straight people patronized that joint too and could tack their info up on those damn boards just like the queers, couldn't they? Of course, they could. And, again, did it even matter anyway? It was just a game of racquetball, for the love of God, not Matchmakers Anonymous. Besides, this guy with the nice laugh was probably the most heinous ogre in all of LA. That laugh was most likely his ONLY winning asset. Yep, that would be Justin's luck. He was having a conversation with Shrek. Or Hellboy. Or Freddy Krueger. Probably. Completely Justin's luck. If one were even keeping score, that is. Justin suddenly felt a chill creep over him, suddenly wished he'd given this whole venturing-outside-his-shell business a little more practice drill run-throughs in the ol' noggin before he'd gotten enough balls to call. True, he was a pro at thinking on his feet. But right now wasn't exactly the greatest time to be talking himself out of this. It's not too late. There's still time to back away slowly and forget everything, you know. "Look, um, JC. I suck at racquetball, man. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. I don't know what I was thinking. I'd be wasting your time, totally-" "Well, if you suck at it, that's, like, why you rang me up in the first place, right? So I can help out with the suckage? You're not chicken-shitting out now, are you, dude? C'mon!" Justin had been. He'd been high-tailing it back to the safety of life in Dullsville. "It's just that, well, not embarrassing the crap out of myself seems like a better idea all of a sudden." "Dude, it's your choice. But you could at least give it a chance. Like just once. Don't be scurred. You might be surprised." That voice. So confident. So carefree. So smooth. So sexy. Almost hypnotic. Even if he did just say "scurred." "Man, I'm the pits. If I show you my so-called game, you will totally laugh me off the court." "Possibly. But not to your face. I promise." JC snickered again. Justin grinned, beginning to feel slightly more relaxed. This guy's easy as hell to talk to. At least he's got that going for him. At least he's got that going for me. "Great. Now I can't wait for the humiliation and abuse." "Hey, man! I'm not a pro myself. Don't go busting on yourself 'til you get out there and try. What have you got to lose anyway?" "Okay, okay. You talked me into it. Is that an extra charge?" JC laughed again. "Absolutely. I'll bill you." "So, um, when and where then?" "Well, let's see. I like to use that gym called Trinity Fitness and Health in Venice. It's kind of cool. Huge, new courts. You heard of it?" Justin hadn't. He knew precisely nothing about Venice and almost never went down there. The bohemian-lifestyle wildness/weirdness of that whole Venice Beach scene was a little much for his tastes. Lance always rolled his eyes and hissed "square" and "boring" when Justin suggested they go anywhere but there for fun. "Sure," he lied so fluidly. "I've driven by it lots of times when I'm in the neighborhood." "Cool." Through the phone, there came the faint beeping sound of something like a Palm Pilot. JC was checking his PDA, apparently. "Then how 'bout tomorrow evening? You free?" Justin almost blurted out a cocky "No, but we can negotiate if you're hot," but decided instead on the more appropriate "I'll be there. Racquet in hand." "Oh, hey, um, minor detail and all, but do you have a name or, like, something I could call you, man?" Justin snickered. Good God. A-list dorkwad, Timberlake. Totally. You KNOW that's what he thinks of you. Already. Loser. "I'm Justin. Timberlake. Sorry. I'm really not as dumb and rude as I probably sound." JC laughed too. "Guess we'll see about that tomorrow night, eh? Justin? Timberlake?" "You're on. And could you tell your secretary too, please? My apologies to her." "My secretary?" "The one who answered the phone. I kind of spazzed on her too. I'm very sorry. I couldn't say your last name." "Oh!" JC giggled, a little wild, again. "That was my sister, man, not a secretary. She's in town visiting for a few days. Don't worry about her. She's cool……….And, dude, funny how you said 'spazz.' Cats that know me have been calling me that for, like, years." Justin grinned in the somber solitude of his office again and cursed freakish coincidences. Because, damnit, there was another one. "Something we have in common then, I guess." "Yep. That works. So see you tomorrow at eight?" "Sure. Sounds good." "Oh, and Justin, it's Shah-zaay." "What?" "My last name. Pronounced Shah-zaay. Don't sweat it. Nobody ever gets it right." "Well, I will now. Thanks," Justin said quietly, listening in his head to the lyrical echo of the name's sound. Simply delicate and beautifully exotic. "No prob, man. Keep it real. See ya mañana." Mañana. As in Spanish for "tomorrow." Spanish, for Christ's sake. As in Tex/Mex restaurant where certain individuals dined for lunch, including Justin Timberlake? He wondered for a few seconds after the call if this was what it felt like to go totally insane, to suddenly start seeing fluky, incidental happenstances everywhere and using lunatic words like "kismet." Or if maybe he'd just been promoted to Geek of the Universe over Wade and had somehow missed the press conference. Shaking off the thoughts of the weird, he spun around in his chair, picked up his desk phone, and hit Lance's extension on speed-dial. Lance answered right away, sounding irritated. "Hey, J. Whassup?" "Lance, man, listen. I need your help bad. Where do I go to find the latest and greatest in racquetball wear? Like in the next 36 hours or less?" "What? Dude, slow down! How 'bout one sentence at a time? What's with all you asses on the top floor being in such a hurry today? Driving like bats out of hell, talking a mile a minute? Are you psychotic or what?" "Yes! But that's beside the point. Now be a pal. Tell me where to go, more specifically, where to shop, man. Okay?" "Okay." Lance yawned lazily. "Um, am I keeping you awake?" "Shut up. I'm tired. If you had a damn boyfriend, YOU might remember what it felt like the next day after you've been up all night humping your brains out." "Okay, Lance. That was way more info than I needed," Justin sighed breathily, anxiously. "I'm down here in Accounting crunching some numbers for them. Idiots can't do their own jobs. Are you okay?" "I'm fine. I just got myself obligated to something, and I need new clothes. Fast. That means your help, man. You're the fashionista expert." "Really now? Racquetball is it? That guy on the card you stole?" Lance yawned again. "No! I mean yeah, it has to do with the card. I just want to look, well, decent out there. Appropriate." "You want to look fabulous, J. Stop lying. You think I don't know you?" "Whatever. So you'll give me a hand? Point me in the right merchandizing direction?" "Hmmm," Lance groaned slyly. "And what's in it for me?" "How about dinner? Wherever you want to go," Justin offered and chewed at the nail of his index finger. "How about tonight? How about I take you shopping and then you take me to dinner? For, like, 'Thank you a crapload, Lance, buddy, for saving my sportswear-challenged ass.'" Justin sighed a huff into the phone. "Fine. That'll work fine. Bring Jesse along too, man." "Jesse has no interest in your ass, J." "Aww, shut it, Lance. And since you can't stop obsessing over my ass, let me just remind you quickly how much of a pain in it you personally are."