by P. Dangelico
Lindsey pushes her auburn hair over her shoulder and assesses me with a soft knowing smile on her face. “Run into a fist?”
She’s no dummy. Far from it. In fact she’s one of the top psychoanalysts in the city. Probably not a good idea to date a shrink, but when the shrink in question looks like a Playboy screensaver a man makes exceptions. Besides, she knew the rules when we hooked up.
I make it a point to be very clear up front. Fun and games is all I’m willing to give a woman, and in thirty-four years I’ve yet to consider bending that rule once. As long as you’re honest, I find women are cool with it. Christy being the exception. Besides, it’s not like I’m the one doing the chasing. Liberated women are the best thing to ever happen to mankind.
“A small misunderstanding,” I find myself muttering.
“You know what your problem is, Dane?”
I raise the glass of Macallan to my lips and take a fortifying sip. “No. But I’m afraid you’re about to tell me.”
“You hate women.”
There’s no malice in her voice. Lindsey’s an adult, and much too smart to have developed any real feelings for me. It’s her ego talking ’cause God knows every woman thinks she can change a man.
“Now I’ve gotta stop you there, Doc,” I say with a smug grin that’s bound to grate on her usually steady nerves. “You know better than anyone how much I love women. They come a very close second to football.”
“Cute,” she deadpans. “Really cute. But you’re not fooling me. You’ve got Oedipus complex written all over you.”
“Oediwhatsahoosy?” I learned a long time ago that playing possum gets me out of a sticky situation faster than arguing. Dumbest thing you could ever do is argue with a woman. It’s up there with ice-skatin’ drunk. You won’t get anywhere and you’ll likely end up out in the cold with your nut sac shriveled.
“Your mother must’ve done a real number on you. And as a friend, I suggest you seek professional help.”
The mention of my mother sets my teeth on edge, the shred of amusement I was feeling a second ago draining out of me. “Play nice, Linds.”
“I’m telling you this as a courtesy because I know you don’t have a mean bone in your body. Deal with your issues before you meet her.”
“Her? Who we talkin’ about now?” I’m already bored with this conversation and my eye hurts like a motherfucker. I scan the front entrance, hoping to see my friend, and find nothin’ of interest.
“The woman that’s going to bring you to your knees. Don’t kid yourself, Dane, it may be tomorrow or ten years from now, but it’ll happen. And when it does, it will be tremendously painful for you if you don’t get your shit worked out.”
“Thanks for the advice, Doc. I’ll take it under consideration.”
“Sorry I’m late.”
Suddenly standing at the bar, Ethan’s gaze bounces between Lindsey and me. He smiles curiously and motions to the bartender for a drink. Lindsey takes a long, suggestive look at my buddy. Yeah, doesn’t look like she’ll be losing any sleep over me.
“’Bout time you showed up, brotha.” I half stand, giving him a quick hand grab and back slap.
“See ya, Dane,” Lindsey drawls, an invitation in her voice. One I have absolutely no desire to accept. I’m putting myself on injured reserve. It’s officially time for a break.
“Did I interrupt something?” Ethan asks, sliding onto the bar stool next to mine.
Both of us watch her walk out, the perfect swell of her ass swaying left and right. Being an ass man myself I can say in my expert opinion hers is a nine and a half.
“Nah, man. That was over a long time ago. Three month rule.”
Smirking, Ethan shakes his head. “Seriously? You’re still pulling that?”
“What are you talking about pullin’? That’s the second commandment in the book of Dane. Thou shall not date any woman for more than ninety consecutive days. They get an itchy finger after that.”
I take a sip of my favorite poison, hoping to ease the throb of my eye and the vague sense of loneliness I’ve been feeling lately.
Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, that’s for sure. Most of the time I feel aimless, filling up my days with bullshit chores to justify that I don’t have to work for a living.
Truth be told, I’m bored with myself. I’m bored with the celebrity golf tournaments. I’m bored with the fucking interviews and the chicks sending me nude pictures of themselves, or asking for dick pics. I’m bored with requests to do Dancing with the Stars. I’m not doing it and that’s final.
Most of my NFL buddies are settled with families. When the cheering stops, and the fans unfollow them on Instagram, and they become just another name on a stat sheets, they have someone who’s there for them.
Don’t get me wrong, a wife is about as appealing to me as having my junk hot waxed. I’m talking about legacy. I’m talking about a son. The problem is to get a son, you need a woman…that’s the tricky part I have yet to work out.
“Itchy finger?”
“The kind that can only be cured by the feel of cold hard metal.” I take in my friend’s appearance. “You’re not lookin’ like yourself these days. Everything alright?”
Looking down at his stained and wrinkled white dress shirt, he answers, “I’m moving. I’ve been packing all day.”
“Moving? Where?”
“L.A. I’m getting married.”
I nearly fall off my bar stool while, smiling to himself, Ethan brings the glass of wine to his lips.
“Are you shittin’ me?”
He shrugs. “She’s it for me, man. The one.” An eager grin flies across his face.
“Do I know this lucky lady?”
“You met her at the Titans’ Wild Card game this year.”
Flipping through my memory bank, I hit on something. “Davis’ daughter? The hot doctor?”
“No, the skinny blonde.”
“The stinger?!” I nearly shout. Pretty blonde––a little too skinny for my taste, but pretty. And if my memory serves me right, a tongue like a butcher knife.
He nods, smiling like a fool once more. “What can I say––I’m in love.”
“You’re marryin’ the stinger?” I repeat in the hopes that I misheard, my voice holding all the disappointment I’m feeling.
“Yep.”
With that, I motion to the bartender for another. The whisky will go only halfway to soothing my mood.
“As soon as I ask her.”
My attention snaps back to him. One glance at the goofy look on his face and I have my answer. “Oh, you poor fucker.” Laughing at his circumstances seems like a shitty thing to do, but I just can’t help myself. “Do me a favor, if I ever have that look on my face take me out back and put a bullet between my eyes.”
“Gladly.”
Then it occurs to me. “What if she says no?”
“I’ll keep asking until she says yes.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? You’re what? Three years younger than me, right? And she ain’t even pregnant. Why the hell would you get married?”
“Because she’s been gone ten days and I haven’t slept a single night. The thought of not being married to her…” He shakes his head, his hand falling over his heart. “Makes me anxious.”
For a moment, in that worried look on his face, I see my father and dread pools in my gut. God save me from love.
Lindsey was wrong. I love women. I love their bodies. I love their brains. But as fun as they are, and they are fun, they are also devious, faithless creatures.
Who do you think tracked down Bin Laden? That’s right, a woman. You want loyalty? Get a dog. You want to be robbed of your money and your masculinity? Get married.
I had a front row seat at what it does to a man. Over the span of thirty years, I watched my father turn into a pale almost unrecognizable imitation of the great man he once was.
“Does that mean you’re not selling the agency?”
�
�Correct.” Ethan takes another slow sip of his wine. “You think you’ll ever get married?”
“Not for me.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my mind shoots to a long-ago memory––something that’s been happening a lot lately––my dad puttin’ his arm around me after a brutal loss in Pop Warner football.
I was crying because I dropped the game-winning touchdown. Never liked to lose, not even back then. Anyway, I was inconsolable. And my pops, he hugged me until I stopped, held me tight and told me over and over that it was okay until it was. Something about that gets me choked up every single time.
That memory is sacred to me. And it’s high time I made new ones. I have the time, I have the financial means. All I need is a woman to agree to my terms.
“But I would like to have a kid. A son. Hell, women can go to a sperm bank. Why can’t I get me a babymaker?”
Ethan shakes his head and chuckles.
“Not a joke, brotha. Not a joke. If I could find a way to do it without the headache of a woman wantin’ to make me hers, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
“Don’t lead with that on your next date. Everything looked good with the ESPN contract, by the way. Are you signing?”
“Not sure yet.”
“You thinking about going back to Oklahoma?”
“Nah…my home’s here now.” That’s close enough to the truth. I raise my glass. “Time for a toast. Here’s to the lady sayin’ yes. And here’s to me not lookin’ for a new manager.”
Chapter Three
Stella
“Gross. Someone farted,” I whisper-hiss.
I really hate hot yoga. I really do. The dripping sweat. The odors. The strong urge to bathe in a vat of bleach afterward. The things we do in the name of friendship.
In a moment of weakness, I allowed my best friend to talk me into buying a ridiculously expensive package of classes for the yoga studio every New Yorker is flocking to like flies to dog poop, The Bend. “It’s the guy next to me. I’ve gotta get out of here or I’m going to barf.”
The friend in question is currently glaring at me, her dark eyes two slits communicating her lack of sympathy for my predicament. Nothing new for Delia, sympathy is not a dominant trait in her bloodline.
“Suck it up.”
“You suck it up. I’m leaving.” Ungracefully uncurling my body from its pretzel-like state, I grab my hand towel and place it over my mouth and nose. “Are you coming?” I inquire, the sound muffled by Egyptian cotton.
“Wimp.”
Delia stretches her full five-foot-ten-inch length out of king pigeon pose. While we quietly gather our stuff, the yoga instructor scolds us with an eyebrow, if an eyebrow can be scolding, which in this case it can. Then we head for the exit.
Cordelia Lawrence, aka Delia Law, as she’s known to her throng of fans. Dels is a best-selling author of over twenty paranormal romance books. She’s also my best friend. Has been since my freshman year at Princeton when she walked up to my table at the Starbucks close to campus and said, “Can I sit here, or are you a total asshole?”
There was no good answer to that.
Heavily immersed in my economics textbook, I had no idea the question was directed at me. It didn’t register because no one ever spoke to me. Mostly because I never spoke to anybody. A loud rap of knuckles on the table startled me out of my reading zone.
“What?” I snapped. Needless to say, there are only a handful of things I despise more than people interrupting me while I’m reading.
A pair of toe-tapping Doc Martens lace-up boots moved into my line of sight. My eyes climbed up the leopard print tights attached to those boots, to a faux fur shaggy black coat. They kept climbing until they reached wild red hair and an obnoxious glare.
“I said––”
“I know what you said,” I interrupted, projecting all the irritation I was feeling. “Why are you saying it to me?”
“Because those two are assholes––” she reiterated, jerking her chin at the only other tables with available chairs. “King of the douchebags over yonder needs the chair to rest his million-dollar leg. And the bonehead at the table next to his is being stood up for her blind date and refuses to accept it.”
At one table sat the captain of the soccer team. I only knew who he was because everyone in the history of Princeton knew who he was. And at the other, a mousy blonde sat across an empty chair looking around furtively. I wasn’t sure about the blind date. However, it must be said that she was wearing way-too-much makeup for the four o’clock Starbucks crowd.
“I can’t go back to my room, man,” the angry giant whined. “My roommate’s having a sexathon with her new dude and I can’t listen to her scream ‘fuck me harder, Daddy’ one more time. I just can’t do it.” She exhaled raggedly, her desperation coming through loud and clear. At my unsympathetic expression she seemed to lose some of her spine. “Can I sit here, please?”
“Fine,” I answered with great reluctance.
It was the relief on her face that got to me. She didn’t seem to be winning any popularity contests either, and I knew what it felt like to be marginalized. The difference was I had stopped caring long ago, whereas this bizarrely dressed, tall stranger still cared. It was easy to conclude that the bluster was all an act.
Her face lit up. She pulled out the chair with gusto, scraping the floor loud enough to raise the dead, and sat. “Sorry,” she whisper-hissed. “I’m Delia.”
“No talking.”
“Gotcha.”
“I mean it. I have an advanced econ exam tomorrow.”
“My lips are buttoned.”
For obvious reasons, I didn’t believe her; the mere existence of her was loud. After a warning glance, I buried my gaze in my econ textbook. “Get all the stuff you need out of your bag now because I don’t want to hear you rummaging.”
When my instructions were met with silence, I looked up to find her staring back at me. She smirked. No smile was forthcoming from my side of the table, and none would be. I had scholarships to worry about and an impossibly high GPA to maintain.
“Hoorah,” she sang, adding a jaunty salute.
She had me at hoorah. Against my best attempt to stop it, I smiled.
“Stella.”
That definitively unquiet afternoon marked the beginning of an epic friendship.
It’s uncommonly hot for May. Spring seems to have sprung into summer early, the sidewalks of SoHo congested with overly pale people seeking a bit of sunshine.
“Balthazar’s for steak frites?” I suggest with a guilty expression.
The minute we stepped out of that humid pit of stink my stomach started rumbling. Another reason I hate hot yoga. What’s the point of suffering through all that if the second I get done I feel like dive-bombing into a gallon tub of ice cream?
“You’re the worst influence,” Delia returns.
I’m usually on my best behavior around her. Food is a major trigger she’s been struggling to control her whole life, and I one hundred percent support her, but today I can’t muster the requisite self-control. Ten minutes later we’re shown to one of the outdoor tables.
“How’s the search going?”
Her question has an immediate effect on my mood. As in it is now wallowing in the pits. “Jeff finally called me back.” Delia has always hated Jeff, which is why the disgusted look she gives me is no surprise. Swiping a French fry from the middle of the table, I angry-chew. “He started to laugh before I made it halfway through my bullet points.”
Jeff, my one and only serious relationship. If you can call having semi-regular sex and catching a movie every other week a relationship. We dated for two years while he was attending Harvard Law and I was getting my MBA.
At the time, it worked. Mostly because we were equally busy, consumed by our studies and our soon-to-be careers. Was he my one true love? No. And I never assumed I was his. Then, the day of his graduation, he proposed.
To say I was surprised is putting it lightly. I was bli
ndsided. He knew how I felt about marriage. I told him repeatedly. Did he listen? Of course not. And made me out to be the bad guy.
Although I’d received offers from a number of financial institutions based in New York, I hadn’t accepted one yet. He, however, had already accepted a position at one of San Francisco’s most prestigious law firms and had assumed the little wifey––the little wifey being yours truly––would dutifully follow him to California.
If I had serious reservations about marriage before that moment, then afterward I had none. The last proverbial nail drilled into the coffin, marriage was officially dead to me––may it rest in peace.
“He said I was too closed off to be a mother. His exact words. This is the same man that when I asked him why he wanted to marry me, he said quote because we make a killer team unquote. Never mentioned love once.”
“Swoony. It’s a mystery how he’s still single.” Delia stares at my French fries with ambivalence. I stop chewing. “Should I ask them to take these away?”
“No,” she practically barks. “I’m made of tougher stuff than that. Give me some credit.”
“You’re such a masochist.”
“I do love a good, hard spanking once in a while.”
“I thought you weren’t into that.”
“Tastes change,” she says, with a one-shoulder shrug. “I like to dish it out. I should be able to take it.”
No surprise. Delia has always been the type to experiment whereas I like to pick a lane and stay there. “Back to Jeff. He’s not that bad. He’s just…Jeff.”
“Exactly. Who’s left on your spreadsheet?” She shovels lettuce in her mouth and makes a face.
“How do you know I have a spreadsheet?”
Her brown eyes slowly tear away from the bread she’s eyeballing with intent to destroy and meet mine, a knowing smirk already forming. “You put everything on a spreadsheet.”
“I do not.”
“You’re the only nutter I know that puts her monthly on a spreadsheet.”