The Best Men (The Best Men 1)

Since then, my bookings are up. Screwups are down. But I’m still lonely. Garrett’s Instagram is full of pics of him paddle boarding in the Hamptons with his lawyer.

I know I shouldn’t look. That’s just dumb.

“Asher!”

My head snaps up, and Lucy is standing next to me. “Google says it’s a forty-three-minute trip via the F-train. Or forty-eight minutes if you take the ferry. I suppose you could chance it in a cab.”

“No cabs,” I bark. “Why am I always running late? Wait. Don’t answer that!”

I shove my keys and my wallet into my pockets. But where is my phone? “When will I see you? We still have to go over the Commando upload. That’s happening next week.”

“Go already.” She gestures toward the door. “Call me from Miami. I’ll upload the Commandos while we’re on the line together. Until then, go get sunburned and enjoy the wedding. Take some Instagram photos. Find a pool boy to hook up with.”

“While that sounds fun, this isn’t really a vacation.”

“You’ll find a way to make it fun,” she insists. “Oh! And don’t forget that An Arranged Marriage premiers on Webflix tomorrow night. It’s on the calendar that you never check. So don’t come crying to me if you forget to tune in.”

“There’s got to be a TV in that mansion that can stream from my laptop,” I say, ransacking my desk for my phone.

“Asher, your phone is in your shirt pocket,” Lucy says. “I can see it from here.”

“Oh, fuck. Thank you. Bye!” I give her a wave as I trot past her desk.

“Call me about the Commandos!” is the last thing she says before I run to the stairwell. Even if the trains are on time, it’ll take at least fifty minutes to make it to Manhattan and to the designer’s showroom on West Thirteenth.

I’ve got forty.

Shit.

5

CAPTAIN FILTHY MIND

MARK

Some parents are chill when their kids play sports. I am not one of those people. Especially when my little cupcake hits a double in T-ball.

“Go! Go! Go!” I shout as Rosie runs her butt off to second, while pigtailed Alba rounds third base, determination on her little face as she races home. When she reaches it, my daughter’s best friend jumps up on the rubber and her teammates join her, shouting with glee. Rosie cheers from second base, a bundle of energy.

“Yes! Go Firecrackers!” I thrust both arms in the air, shouting the loudest.

“A little excited, Mark?” The question comes from Alba’s mom, Valencia, standing next to me at the edge of the field in Chelsea Park.

“I can’t ever sit during softball games,” I say.

Her long, brown hair swishes against her olive skin. Valencia pats my arm affectionately. “And I love that about you. Though, you were just a touch louder last week when Rosie hit a homer.”

She has me there. I shrug sheepishly. “What can I say? I’ve got a fanboy in me and I’m not afraid to show it. I’m going to let you in on a little secret, V,” I tell her. “I had zero game as a kid. Team sports were not my friend.”

Valencia feigns shock, her big brown eyes going wide. “You? Nooo. You don’t say.”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask the woman who’s become a good friend over the last few years. She and her wife live in our building over on Sixteenth Street, and since our kids are friends, we became buds. A few months ago, we signed the girls up for the Firecrackers together.

“Yes, Mark. I can still recall your shudder when I suggested you join our co-ed frisbee league.”

I shudder involuntarily. Again.

She laughs. She often does at my expense, which is fine by me. I kinda feel like I can relax with her and her wife—they know how shitty the last year has been for me, and it’s nice to let down my guard a little with someone. All day at work, I have to keep my game face on. I don’t bring my personal life into the office—not at the water cooler of Wall Street.

“Fine, fine. I’m man enough to admit I’m a better spectator than participant.” I raise a finger in my own defense. “But I’m excellent at the treadmill, the StairMaster, and running solo in the park.”

“And I’m woman enough to know I will never invite you onto my frisbee team, since I want to win,” Valencia says.

A few minutes later, the game ends on a Firecrackers win, and Rosie runs over to me, a tiny brunette ball of energy. She lands in front of me, dirt kicking up as her pink cleats hit the edge of the softball field. “Did you see my double, Daddy?”

“Did you hear my shout, Rosie?”

With a serious stare, she says, “Everyone heard it, but I like to make sure.”

“That’s my girl. Checking and double checking. Yes I saw it, and all I have to say is watch out, New York Comets. You’re going to be the new slugger for the city’s best Major League Baseball team,” I say.