Man Flu

by Shari J. Ryan

My fingers stumble across the keyboard as I type his name into the search bar and watch the little circle thingy spin while it searches the Internet for a lost ball.

  Pages and pages of Logan Grier pop up, and I can’t imagine how I managed to miss hearing about this. There are articles and videos on all the major news and social media outlets, including Facebook and Twitter. I’m a loser.

  I open the top link since it’s apparently the most popular, and I’m greeted by this headline:

  Chapter Twenty

  One Foul Ball for Another

  OUCH. DON’T THEY KNOW the athletes will see these stupid headlines? Assholes. I’m guessing they all still have their balls intact.

  Last night, at the top of the ninth inning, Logan Grier was up to bat when a slider pitch came in at eighty-five miles per hour. It looked as though Grier was preparing to let it fly, but didn’t decide in time. The ball made contact with the bat and ricocheted off of his right foot before bouncing directly upward into an unfortunate bodily location. Grier was knocked out cold, clearly not protected properly by his gear. He was quickly carried off the field on a stretcher, and we are still waiting on a final diagnosis of his injury, but at this time, things aren’t looking good for Grier and his career.

  There’s footage. I don’t know if I can watch. My muscles are hard as stone right now at the thought of what happened. I’m aware I don’t have that body part, but I know how sensitive that area is for men, and the thought of being hit there in those dangling parts makes me cringe.

  Like any car accident, though, I can’t stop myself from clicking play.

  As Logan walks up to the plate, I notice a look on his face I haven’t seen before. I can’t tell if it’s pride, or maybe just a different kind of happiness. It’s hard not to admire what he looks like in his uniform, the way his pants hug his muscles, and the bands on his wrists accentuate his dark tanned muscles. I can only see one side of his profile, but it’s pretty much the definition of perfection. He’s covered with some of the reddish dirt from the encircling field, and it accents his appearance like a halo. Wow, he looks amazing. The pitcher throws the first ball, and Logan prepares to swing but stops. His forearms tighten, and his hand grips the bat a little tighter.

  How could I not have ever been a baseball fan? It just got a lot hotter in here. This Logan is completely different from the Logan I know right now. Not that I know him well, but it’s like he’s two different people. The crowd is screaming his name, and the video switches to the stands where the crowd is watching, enraptured. They love him. Here I am, not knowing who the hell he really is, and he’s been staying in my house for two days. Maybe because I wasn’t drooling all over him, he found me intriguing.

  The announcer begins talking about the pitcher winding up, and—I can’t do this. I can’t watch him get hurt. I won’t be able to un-see it, and it’s all I’ll be thinking about the next time I see him.

  I hit pause and close out of the search engine. My mind is everywhere but mostly centered on how life managed to bring Logan and me together in such a peculiar way. I mean, it all started when he got assigned to my office as a temp. Then he wanted to have lunch with me. Nothing was coincidental. He had intentions, but what were they if he didn’t want me to know his secret? I love how men think women are so confusing, yet I’ve spent more time scratching my head over the men in my life than those men have probably spent scratching their balls. It’s not right.

  I head down to the kitchen, grab my phone off the center island, and text Brielle. I don’t usually send her messages on the weekends, but I need to know if she knew about Logan. Maybe I’m the only one in the world who didn’t know who he was or what happened to him. The whole “living under a rock” thing I’ve been doing since Rick and I divorced doesn’t always bode well for me.

  Me: Hey, have you ever watched a baseball game that Logan was playing in?

  I’m not surprised to see the dots flickering immediately. Brielle lives on her phone, even when she should be working. I told her she should get the thing surgically adhered to her palm.

  Brielle: Who hasn’t? LOL

  Me: …

  Brielle: Hannah, really? You didn’t know about Logan?

  Me: No.

  Brielle: So, you saw it?

  What does it look like? I’ve heard it looks like a flat tire. Poor Logan.

  Me: I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Brielle: Lame. Byeeeeee.

  I’m circling the downstairs feeling completely out of my element, just as I remember I’m leaving for a trip in two days. It totally slipped my mind, and I’m nowhere near prepared for this expo.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nothing like a good cup of Monday morning to get you moving …

  I’M SITTING IN THE parking lot with my coffee mug from home. I’m a little early, but rather than go inside and get to work on all the shit I have to get done before I leave tomorrow morning, I’ll just take a few extra breaths as I watch snowflakes falling from the dark sky.

  I decided to avoid the weather channel this morning in fear of what they’ll say is coming. I wasn’t ready to face it. However, the sky is basically black, and I can pretty much assume what we’re all in for. School will be canceled in three hours because no one knew a storm was brewing, and we need to make sure everyone gets home safely before the buses can no longer get up hills.

  Rick will be too busy to help, and the world knows he had Cora for an entire day and a half. That’s like an eternity for him, and he needs at least a day’s break before he’s forced to parent for the rest of the week while I’m gone.

  I’ll also have to figure out how to clear a path in the driveway tomorrow at five in the morning so the airport shuttle car can pick me up. There will be delays flying down to Orlando, and I have a layover in Chicago, so there’s that excursion to look forward to. So yeah, cheers to you, fracking, dark sky. I hold my mug up and tap the windshield. FML.

  I kick my company’s door open without a care that I am not dressed professionally today. I’m probably getting fired anyway since I molested the temp in his sleep. Is that a felony or just a slap on the wrist? In any case, today called for knee-high boots, holey jeans, and a flannel blouse.

  I swing the glass door open and barrel through the foyer like I’m on a mission. If I get fired, I don’t have to come to work anymore. I won’t be able to pay my mortgage, which means I’ll have to sell the house, and between unemployment and child support, an apartment will work out nicely. I’ll be away from Rick, and there’s a whole lot less cleaning to do in a smaller place. I can do a little freelance editing and marketing, and bam—life is perfect. Why haven’t I done this before?

  I walk past Brielle’s empty cube, Logan’s occupied cube, and close myself into my office. I toss my coat onto the guest chair and drop down into my seat.

  In an attempt not to destroy my day today, I answered some emails yesterday afternoon, but with the event tomorrow, my inbox is full again. Somehow, I’m supposed to prepare to leave while also answering every minor question in the world. It would be awesome if we had a facts and questions page on our website, rather than tossing all the questions to me. Plus, sales can’t be bothered. They’re too busy planning for their parties and dinners.

  A blur walks past my door, and I can’t see what it is because the glass has ripples to make sure no one can see anyone having sex inside when the doors are closed. Seriously, I do wonder if that really happens in offices. It must. If not, there’s no real purpose of having windows that aren’t see-through.

  A tap on my door startles me a bit because I’m trying to figure out how two people would have sex in an office this size? It doesn’t sound like a good time. I think the utility closet would probably be a better option.

  The door opens even though I didn’t invite anyone in, and Logan is standing in front of me in a pair of gray slacks and a white button down. “Do you have a minute?” he asks.

  Without waiting for an answer, he closes himself inside my off
ice before I say anything. “I’m sorry for leaving on an awkward note like I did. I realized when I got home that I didn’t have your number, so I figured it was a sign that I should just keep quiet until today.”

  I shift my weight around in the chair because I’m super uncomfortable. I didn’t think he would bring this all up so quickly, or at all for that matter. Men are usually experts at avoidance, but he must not be one of those men. “You have nothing to apologize for. I was out of line,” I tell him.

  He looks down and drops his hands into his pockets, and I notice his hair is perfectly styled with product, which I find hot because Rick never knew how to take care of himself. I had to do his hair before he left for work in the morning, or he’d leave with it sticking straight up in the air.

  “Yes, you were kind of out of line,” he agrees. “However, I should have been upfront with you before things got as far as they did on Thursday night.”

  “It’s none of my business,” I tell him, feeling ashamed of my behavior. I most definitely owed him this apology at the very least, plus I’m sure I screwed everything up.

  “Is the video as bad as everyone says it is?” He hasn’t watched it? I guess I probably wouldn’t want to watch myself go through that either, but I also don’t understand the people who enjoy watching their own sex tapes. I’d end up critiquing myself, and it doesn’t sound like a healthy situation.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him.

  “You didn’t watch?” He seems surprised that I had the willpower to stop myself from watching his incident.

  “I couldn’t. I saw you step up to the plate, watched the first ball fly, and my heart started to race. You have a lot of fans, huh?”

  “I did.”

  “Anyway, I shut it off. I couldn’t fathom watching you go through that, and I’m positive I don’t ever want to see it, so I’m glad I stopped.”

  “My friends watched it over and over. I didn’t understand why they wanted to, and it was all they would talk about, so I cut them out of my life. I cut everyone out of my life, actually. I don’t want to keep reliving that damn accident, but it’s a part of me now, and rather than just living with some stupid scar, I feel the need to warn people, so I don’t have to deal with the aftermath over and over.”

  “People? Have there been a lot of people since your divorce?”

  “Just a few who ‘wanted to see it for themselves.’ That hurt. One girl actually got up and left in a fit of laughter before we—you know.”

  I recoil at the thought. Who the hell would act that way? Who the hell would try to look down a man’s pants while they’re asleep? “I guess I’m no better.”

  “You didn’t run away. I did.” He does have a point there. “I’m kind of like a bull in a China shop sometimes. It’s like I haven’t figured out how to make this dating shit work, and I just go at it full force.”

  “That’s kind of hot,” I tell him.

  Logan’s face brightens with a blush, which I’m sure matches my own complexion. “Wow,” he mutters under his breath. “So, this whole—you’re my boss, thing—what do we do about that?”

  “Frankly, Logan, I don’t give a fluck.” His eyes widen in response to my statement. “I was wondering why you came in dressed all cute and sexy today.” I might have put a little effort into my outfit. However, I also somewhat expected Logan to avoid my presence.

  The door to my office flies open. “Oh my Blahniks, I’m so sorry I’m late.” Brielle puts her coffee cup down on the edge of my desk and tears her coat off. “It was a crazy morning, you have no idea.” The number of times I listen to her tell me how crazy her mornings and nights are, and she doesn’t have a pet, child, or spouse, makes me want to laugh sometimes, but I refrain like the adult I’m supposed to be.

  “Morning after pill again?” I ask.

  “Han-nah,” she hisses. “No.”

  Logan scratches at his chin, obviously uncomfortable with where this conversation is likely going, but surprisingly, he turns toward the guest chair, moves my coat over the back side and takes the seat.

  Brielle looks over at him with amusement, and she better not say a word. “No, so after we um … remember I told you about that guy, Fray, last week?”

  The threesome. I completely forgot I gave her that amazing advice. “Of course, how could I have forgotten? How did it go?”

  “Wow, so it was way better than I ever expected … like I highly suggest everyone try it at least once.” I instantly remember Logan knew what she was talking about last week because he emailed me to fill me in as she was asking my opinion. I’m not always a super good listener when it comes to Brielle’s stories, so he caught onto that quickly. He’s bright red, looking toward the wall, probably ready to burst into laughter. His eyes are even watering a little, which makes me want to laugh too.

  “I’ll have to take that under advisement,” I tell her.

  “So anyway, because I was so accepting of the ‘activity,’” she air-quotes, still under the impression that Logan is clueless, “Adam asked me to marry him this morning.”

  Act surprised and excited, Hannah. You can do it! “Oh, no way! Let me see the ring!” Was that good? I’m a horrible actress. She’s known him six months, and he needed a threesome to figure out that he wanted to marry her? That’s not good. Not good at all, but if I tell Brielle my thoughts on the situation, she’ll just fly into his arms. She’s not one for listening to advice, except the threesome, of course.

  She lifts her hand up and looks at her empty ring finger. “Oh, yeah, he doesn’t have one yet, but he said he’s been saving up for months, and he should have enough money soon to get me the one I want.”

  “Oh, you guys have gone ring shopping? I didn’t know that.” I’m thinking she would have mentioned that at some point.

  “No, but I told him what my dream ring is, and he wrote it down, along with my ring size, so hopefully, I’ll soon be a promised woman.” She does a little jig and circles around to what must be a tune in her own head. “I’m so excited. We’re thinking about a spring wedding.”

  “Oh! Well, hopefully, he has the ring by then,” I say. Oops. Too sarcastic. She’s mad. She’ll get over it in like three-seconds, but I should have kept that to myself.

  “Maybe another threesome will move things along with the ring a little faster. You know how men are,” Logan says.

  Okay, now my mouth is hanging open. I can’t believe he just said that. She’s going to think I told him, when he just overheard her talking about it last week. “You told him?” She squawks at me.

  “No, of course not,” I tell her while holding my glare on Logan who now knows he shouldn’t have said anything.

  “Oh, I overheard you,” he says.

  “Yeah, right. I was in here when I told her.”

  “The walls are thin,” Logan argues.

  Brielle looks over at Logan with flames in her eyes, and my heart pretty much just stops pumping blood. Please, don’t say anything. Please, please, please. “Okay, I have to get some work done today because we’re probably getting plowed with snow, and of course, we’re leaving first thing tomorrow, kids,” I announce.

  “I’m older than you,” Logan reminds me.

  “I know, I know. Just go work or something.”

  “I have so much I could say to you right now,” Brielle tells him, narrowing her eyes.

  “Baseball fan?” Logan asks. I’m kind of flattered he didn’t assume I ran to her, even though I did.

  “I was when I was dating my last boyfriend.”

  “Congratulations,” Logan replies. “And yes, it looks like a flat tire. Happy now?”

  Brielle jerks her head back, and her mouth twists into an uncomfortable, sneering glower. “No, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he says.

  Brielle grabs her coffee and quietly leaves the office. “The flat tire thing is a thing?”

  “Thanks to the Sunday morning newspaper cartoons, it’s a thing. I think
there are t-shirts out there that say, ‘Logan’s got a flat tire and no spare.’”

  “That’s crude and distasteful,” I tell him.

  “It’s fine. The number of puns I’ve heard have really given me a new sense of appreciation for all the dickheads out there.”

  A horrible snorting sound wrenches through my throat as I fold over laughing. “Oh, stop.” I’m going to pee myself, for real.

  “Want to share a car with me tomorrow morning? They told me to book one, but I saw you already have one coming to pick you up. Plus, snow is coming, and I can help you out.”

  I know what this all means. It means I still haven’t gotten a wax job, it’s snowing, and Logan’s ready to have his flat tire blown, which means …, “Uh, yeah, that would be great. We can order out or something. Can your stomach handle pizza yet?”

  “I think I’ll be okay with that,” he says.

  “Um, can you start printing out the event-labeled files I have in the shared folder? I have a quick errand I need to run for tomorrow. If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be back within the hour.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  He needs to stop saying that. It sends my mind in completely the wrong direction.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  On the count of three, hold your breath …

  “WHERE ARE YOU GOING? Is it for tomorrow? Do you need help? I’ll come, and we can take my car, okay?” Brielle says while grabbing her coat.

  “Uh, I—I don’t need any help with this errand. You should probably see if Logan needs any help with collating the papers he’s printing off.”

  Her arm drops to her side, coat and all. “You’re asking me to go help our temp? I knew it. I’m out. This is why you have a temp. You’re trying to replace me. Why wouldn’t you just tell me the truth, and why would you want to replace me with yet another penis around here?”

  I reach forward and grab her shoulder. “Will you relax? I’m not trying to replace you. On the contrary, I have recommended you for a promotion, which is why I’ve been weeding through temps.”