Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

by Paige, Rochelle

  Me: I know. Sorry.

  Rex: Apology accepted.

  Okay, now I’m just weirded out. That was way too easy; telling him the truth and not having him act like a dickhead isn’t something I’m familiar with. The guys I’ve gone out with in the past, or that my friends have dated—act like assholes when things don’t go their way. Spoiled brats.

  Jerks.

  Before my bestie Skylar was talking to her boyfriend Abe, she thought she was chatting with his roommate, JB. See, Abe was actually pretending to be his friend, knowing JB wasn’t good with the ladies. Not as articulate and horrible with communication. Basically: a huge jerk.

  A few times, I’d even gone on a few double dates with Abe; got to watch JB in action—let me tell you, that guy…when she told him she wasn’t interested in dating him, he became the biggest prick. Showed up late for their first date, so conceited he thought. Didn’t pay for her tab at the restaurant—she had to throw down cash before walking out. Little did she know, JB wasn’t the guy she was in love with.

  I’ve had a few gems in my past, too. Guys who reply with one worded texts. Barely able to make the art of conversation on a date, so it’s like pulling teeth finding out about them—never mind them trying to find out things about me. What makes me tick, what my likes are. What I want out of a relationship.

  It’s not too much to ask for someone to actively be interested in me.

  Let’s just say over the years I’ve become a little…jaded with the entire college life dating scene.

  Or lack thereof.

  I want someone who is going to tell me good morning. And be the last person to say good-night. I want someone to laugh with on a date and, who wants to have sex with me afterwards. Who is nice to my friends, and treats them good, too.

  I want what Skylar and Abe have.

  I’m only going to get it if I let this guy help me.

  Me: So you’re just hanging out at home?

  Rex: Don’t know if you’d call cleaning “hanging out,” but yeah, I’m home.

  Me: Right. I forgot about that.

  Rex: **loud sigh**

  Me: What.

  Rex: Just say it, stop beating around the bush. I literally just told you BLACK AND WHITE AND NOT GRAY.

  Me: I…I’m TRYING

  Rex: Try harder.

  Me: You’re going to make me say it? You’re not going to take pity on me?

  Rex: You’re already taking enough pity on yourself.

  Me: Ouch!

  Rex: **taps foot** Get on with it, I’m not getting any younger, and as you so kindly pointed out, I’m 24 and not a student. Aka: Practically ancient.

  Me: Um. Get on with it? Are you British now?

  Rex: You’re diverting. Why is this so hard for you?

  Me: HARD. Haha, that’s what she said.

  Rex: Wow. Okay. Alright, Hannah. Have a good night.

  Crap—he’s right. I am diverting. Instead of asking the guy to meet me tonight so we can talk about how…something as simple as asking a guy to meet me out—is proving extremely difficult when it shouldn’t.

  I don’t know this guy. It shouldn’t matter to me what he thinks—I know he’s not judging me. And based on what I’ve read abut him online, he would have no room to do such a thing.

  Not when the campus blogs slam him for being something of a douchebag. A guy that rides the coat-tails of athletes. A guy who left school with his tail between his legs after a small scandal. A guy who is so brutally honest, no one could stand to be around him his senior year.

  Me: Ok, ok, you’re right. I’ll stop fucking around.

  Me: Rex, would you PLEASE meet with me tonight because I CLEARLY need help.

  Rex: Yup. Meet me at Mad Dog Jacks at 8:00. You don’t mind if I have a burger or something, do you?

  That’s it? Yup? It was that easy? Why did I expect him to give me a hard time before agreeing to meet me out?

  Because most guys would have, just to be jerks.

  Me: That sounds good. And a burger sounds good, too.

  Rex: So I’ll see you later, then?

  Me: Yes.

  Rex: Just to be clear—later TONIGHT?

  Me: Lol, yes. TONIGHT.

  Rex: Just checking, I don’t need you to bail and pretend you screwed up the day.

  Me: I wouldn’t do that.

  Rex: Sure you wouldn’t…

  Me: Hey, you have my word.

  Rex: Whatever you say, Hannah.

  Me: I promise. I’ll be at Mad Dog Jack’s tonight, BEFORE you, in a corner booth.

  Rex: Will you be wearing yellow and carrying a red rose?

  Me: LOL, no. I’ll be wearing gray sweats and carrying a Big Gulp.

  Rex: No carry-ins allowed.

  Me: Don’t be so literal.

  Me: And Rex?

  Rex: Yeah?

  Me: Thank you.

  Rex

  Hannah is here when I arrive, seated in the corner booth, just as she said she would be. Why this surprises me, I don’t know. I walk past the bar and remove my jacket along the way, I motion with my head to the corner so the bartender knows to send a server over.

  I’m starving and need to eat, pronto.

  I’d cleaned my place for a bit after talking with Hannah then lost motivation, totally distracted by the idea of a date. No, not a date—she made that very clear. We’re here for classes and not to get chummy.

  Fine by me, I might be looking for something casual, since I won’t be here past next semester, but I’d rather that someone casual be sweet. Not a girl with a lack of experience, who treats men like punching bags for her one-liners and put downs.

  Why are you here, then? To punish yourself?

  I’ll admit, for the longest time I thought I was in love with my best friend Annabelle. The wrestling coach’s daughter, I spent three years on the team as their manager, getting close to the players, and Annabelle’s father, Coach Donnelly. When she transferred to Iowa, we were warned to stay away from her.

  Did I listen?

  No.

  I made a stupid bet with another guy on the team that he couldn’t sleep with her—he didn’t—but the damage was done. Coach found out and brought the fucking hammer down.

  Did I pay the price?

  Yes.

  I was kicked off the team, moved home for the summer to live with my folks and lick my wounds of embarrassment. Came back at the start of the semester, and happened to have a class with none other than Annabelle Donnelly.

  She forgave me. Was gracious. Pretty.

  And pregnant.

  Pregnant at the age of twenty and in desperate need of a friend, since her ex-roommate — aka: Baby Daddy—had no clue she was knocked up, and in grad school hundreds of miles away.

  She let him leave without telling him so he could make a life for himself without the burden of a newborn.

  Fucking Annabelle. Always thinking of everyone else.

  I was there when she told Coach. I was there to hold her hair back when she was throwing up at two in the morning. I was there when she cried herself to sleep, stroking her back and telling her everything would be okay.

  I became her best friend in a place where she knew no-one. Had no one. I was there for her.

  Elliott wasn’t.

  Talk about bitter; I resented his reappearance for a long time.

  Anyway.

  I recognize Hannah as soon as I walk into the door, and it has nothing to do with the fact I knew she’d be parked in the corner booth.

  She looks exactly like her pictures.

  Better, even.

  True to her word, Hannah is wearing gray sweats—but they’re athleisure wear, and not dowdy in the least. Sexy, even. When she stands, I note the tight fitting yoga pants hugging her curvy ass. The loose gray, cotton sweatshirt does nothing to hide her full breasts beneath the fabric sway when she stands to greet me.

  Gray sneakers. Hair pulled back into a pony.

  Silver hoop earrings.

  Basic but�
�gorgeous.

  “Are you usually on time?” Is the first thing I ask, sliding into the booth on the opposite side of her. She’s gotten us both water and two menus are resting between the place settings.

  “Honestly? No.” Since I didn’t hug her or shake her hand, momentarily she seems lost, then slides in, too. “Um.” Hannah busies herself by placing the paper napkin on her lap, then smiling. “Not usually. I’m almost always late.”

  “I’m not.” Years of being on the wrestling team under the watchful eye of Joe Donnelly, have trained me to value punctuality. He would tolerate nothing less; still doesn’t. “You know what they say; if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late.”

  “Who says that?”

  “Everyone.” How has she never heard that quote before?

  Hannah rolls her pretty eyes at me, punctuating the expression with a smile. I notice she has a small indent in the side of her cheek. Dimples.

  God I love those.

  She shifts as I study her, my eyes lingering on the hair she has pulled back off her face; her smooth skin that seems to be glowing under the soft lights of the pub. It’s not the classiest place for a first date, but then again—this isn’t a date.

  It’s not a date, it’s not a class. Actually, I don’t know what the hell we’re doing, but it’s at that moment I notice a blue notebook on the table.

  A pen.

  “You brought a notebook? Why?”

  “Of course I did!” She looks surprised I’m asking. “I wanted to be prepared in case you had actual wisdom. I have the worst memory.” She pushes the notebook forward with the tip of her finger, smile lingering on her mouth.

  I don’t think she’s flirting; it’s hard to tell if she’s just being friendly.

  The last thing I need is her writing down the stupid shit that comes out of my mouth. I’ve seen things I’ve said in writing before, and trust me when I say: no one needs to write it down.

  I swipe the menu, stomach rumbling. “You know—before we get ahead of ourselves, can we order something to eat? I’m fucking starved.”

  Hannah pulls a menu toward her, opening it like a book, gaze trailing up and down the columns. Every few seconds, she makes a little, “Hmmm,” sound from her throat, indecision marring her brow.

  “Do I want a burger? Or pasta?” Up and down her eyes go. “Chicken tenders sound so good, I’m craving ranch dressing.” Up and down. “Oh crap, they have nachos.” She averts her eyes and looks over the top of the menu at me. “Wait. What are you getting?”

  I’ve been so busy staring at her, I haven’t glanced at the menu once, though to be honest: I know everything that’s on it and have already decided on a hamburger.

  “Probably a burger and fries.”

  Hannah squints down. “Are you a sharer?”

  “What’s a share er?”

  “You know—are you going to get all bitchy if I steal some of your fries?”

  “Uh, no. You can have some of my fries.”

  She nods, eyes fixated once again on the menu. “Okay, well in that case, I’ll haveee…I’ll have.” Pause. “Er. Um. Shit, I’m straight up panicking.”

  The server hasn’t even come to the table to ask for our drink order, let alone find out what we’d like to eat.

  “Maybe don’t do this on your next date.”

  “Do what?”

  “Freak out about what to eat.”

  Hannah shoots me a patronizing look. “Yeah right—guys never want to take girls out to dinner, they want to do drinks. It’s cheaper.”

  She’s right, most of them do.

  It’s easy to rack up dinner charges when you’re trying to date—or just get laid—taking girls to eat. If it doesn’t work out, and you’ve shelled out fifty bucks for dinner when you could have simply spent ten dollars on drinks? It adds up.

  “Guys are just as jaded as girls are these days,” Hannah says, eyes still glued to the front page of the menu. “Guess I don’t blame them, but sheesh, put in a little effort. Maybe it’ll pay off.”

  “Okay, well. What I was saying is—be more chill when you’re ordering food if you’re on a date.”

  “Me? I’m always chill.” I can tell she’s tempted to roll her eyes my direction by the way she twitches. She’d make a terrible poker player.

  I snicker into my water glass. “Right. You’re so chill, I can tell.”

  Hannah is anything but chill, but I’m not going to argue with her. She looks way too hungry—on the verge of chewing my arm off, actually, if that glassy look in her eye is any indication.

  “I’ll have a burger, too,” she announces, closing the menu and setting it back down on the table. “With onion, cheese, and mayo on the side. And a pickle.”

  Onion, cheese, pickle and mayo? “Well, there go my odds of getting lucky tonight? You’re definitely going to stink to high heaven.”

  “Haha, very funny. This isn’t a date.”

  “I know I was just teasing.”

  “But if it was,” Hannah goes on. “I’d still order the same thing. I don’t smell from onions.”

  “Are you bragging?”

  Her shoulders rise. “Nope, stating a fact. I can eat asparagus, too, without it stinking.”

  She’s definitely bragging. “Maybe now is a good time to write: don’t discuss bodily functions on a first date.”

  Hannah tilts her head. “Bodily functions? I’m talking about body odor, not farting or shitting whatever. Is that bad?”

  Did she just say farting and shitting? Jesus, I’ve been told I have no manners in public. “No. I mean. No, but—there are a billion things to talk about and this is what we’re discussing.”

  Her lips twist. “Once again, you’re the one who brought it up.”

  Shit, she’s right. Again. But only because she’s going to order onions and pickles. Gross combo.

  I give her notebook a light tap, and nudge it in her direction.

  “I think I can remember those few things without writing them down, but thanks.” Her sentence is laced with sarcasm.

  “Really though? Because the list keeps growing. Ordering food that smells, mentioning farting and shitting, panic about what to order and interview the table.”

  “Wow, Rex, tell me how you really feel.” She sets her elbows on the table and leans forward. “Am I really that terrible?”

  Crap, now I feel bad. She suddenly looks a bit beat down, and that’s not my intention. Hannah is way too cute for that; honest and direct. Beautiful. Smart. Quick and clever and totally my type.

  Too damn bad I’m obviously not hers; she’s just using me for information. Whatever, I’ll take what I can get until I find someone who also wants to use me for my body.

  Honestly, who am I trying to kid. I actually want a relationship, not to be jerked around by some girl who’s bored. Fine. I don’t think Hannah is bored, I think she’s just clueless about what she wants and the kind of guy she wants to date.

  She probably thinks she wants a meathead; some guy who spends all his time in the gym, lifting weights so he looks incredible. Good-looking. Hot.

  I know she thinks I’m too skinny for her; a bit nerdy, even, though that’s not the case at all. Far from it—I spent most of my college career surrounded by athletes, and picked up most of their personality traits: cockiness. Ego. Confidence.

  The last thing I need to feel good about myself is a pretty girl on my arm. I know I’m not handsome, but I have a great fucking job for someone my age, and a renewed respect in the campus community (thanks mostly to Annabelle and her dad). So I’m a fucking catch—Hannah just doesn’t care.

  Which does not make her the girl for me.

  Which means I’m not going to chase her.

  Help her, yes. Chase her? Uh, no.

  “You’re not terrible, just rusty. When was your last date?”

  For a few seconds, she looks affronted. “Not that long ago—I mean. Actually, it wasn’t technically my date? I was on a double date with my roommate and
her boyfriend, and his roommate—but she was dating his roommate at the time and…” I must have a confused expression on my face because she stops and laughs. “Never mind, long story. The point is, my last date was maybe a few months ago, and it wasn’t an actual date.” She pauses. “Oh. And I fought with the guy. But like I said, he wasn’t my date.”

  I give my head a shake. “I’m not going to ask questions or try to figure out what the hell any of that meant.”

  “You know, if a guy is going to like me for me, don’t you think I should drop the pretense and just be myself?”

  Yes.

  “Pretending to be polite, and sweet, and…classy is way too much work.” Hannah cranes her neck, searching the room for the server. When she makes eye contact with one, she calls the guy over. “I think we’re ready to order, the little guy here is ravenous.”

  She winks at me. Gives the server her order first.

  “I think I need a beer? And a burger—hold the onion, but add pickles? Cheddar cheese. Mayo on the side, some ranch dressing, and I’ll take the burger medium well.” She hands the kid the menu. “Thanks.”

  So, she nixed the onions after all.

  I hide a smile, stifling a chuckle and hand over my menu, too. “I’ll have the same.”

  * * *

  HANNAH

  “I think everything you do and say is false bravado.”

  “I’m sorry—what?”

  He shoves a fry in his mouth. “You’re adorable and sexy and all, but you’re basically showboating because you’re a chicken shit.”

  Showboating? A chicken shit? “I am not! What makes you say that?”

  Another fry goes in his gullet. He chews slowly, and I want to strangle him. Oh my god, hurry up and spit the words out!

  Instead, he takes his sweet time, taking another fry from the basket and dipping it in ketchup. Poke, poke. “You avoid getting hurt by being funny and making fun of guys, but it’s because deep down inside you’re scared.”

  In goes the fry.

  “What makes you say that? We just met.”

  He grins, still chewing. “I know your type.”

  I roll my eyes hard, chewing my fry like a cow chewing on cud, half the end hanging out of my mouth. So classy. “My type?” I add a snort to let him know he doesn’t know shit. “And what type would that be?”