Nash: No dude, maybe like 50 and she’s hot.
Beau: Dude, cringe. My mom is 50.
Nash: Is she hot? Can I get her number?
Beau: FU
Drew: Lars is going out with an actual supermodel?
Wes: Yep, Sheridan Lee.
Ross: Holy shit! She paid 10K to go out with Lars??
Lars: What is a supermodel?
Nash: It’s a generous person who spends an evening with a total dipshit to benefit charity.
Lars: I just googled her. She’s more famous than me.
Ross: Dude, she’s way way way more famous than you. More famous than any of us. She has a clothing line or something and she’s on the Forbes list of wealthiest women in the world.
Lars: She could have paid more than $10,000 then.
Nash: You’re lucky she paid anything at all for you. Put some duct tape over your mouth and the date will go great.
Lars: You’re just jealous.
Nash: Nah, cuz I know you’ll blow it. You’ll make some stupid comment and then wonder why she doesn’t like you.
Wes: Check in here after the dates, both of you. Let’s see who ends up with a second date.
Lars: Okay.
Nash: Deal.
* * *
Nash was right. I didn’t have the best track record with relationships. But I didn’t care, because I wasn’t looking for one.
Eat. Sleep. Hockey. Occasionally get laid. That was all I needed.
I’d dated a woman who occasionally spent the night after we slept together when I was in the minors, and she always complained when my alarm went off at five thirty in the morning. She’d wanted to stay in my apartment while I worked out, but there was no way I was agreeing to that. She’d bitched the entire way out the door the last time we’d been together, and I’d decided then and there—no more women staying the night. My morning workouts were nonnegotiable.
It wasn’t just that, though. I’d seen what my friends and teammates had to go through with their wives and girlfriends. If they asked where their significant other wanted to go for dinner, it was always, “Oh, I don’t know.” But if one of my teammates suggested a restaurant, it was, “No, I hate that place.”
My teammate Drew got stuck watching stupid shit like Big Brother and The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, because that was what his wife Nina wanted to watch. He spent forever at the grocery store trying to find the exact brands of ingredients she put on the grocery list, and he took her to fashion week in New York City and to Broadway shows just to make her happy.
Fuck that. If I went to New York City, I’d be watching baseball and hockey games. My teammates in relationships just didn’t seem to get it—you could have all the sex you wanted without the bullshit.
When I walked to my locker after a post-practice shower, Nash was at his locker nearby, getting dressed.
“When’s your date with the supermodel?” he asked.
“Saturday night.”
“Mine’s not until next weekend. I have to figure out what we’re going to do. What are you guys doing?”
I shrugged. “Whatever she wants, I guess.”
Nash glared at me. “Don’t be an asshole. You’re supposed to plan the date.”
“How? I do not know what she likes.”
“Ask her. It’s not that hard. She paid a lot of money for this; at least act like you give a shit.”
“I do give a shit,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “She’s beautiful. I am wanting to go out with her. I will have her decide what we do so she likes it.”
“No. You’re supposed to make dinner reservations somewhere nice and then plan at least one other thing.”
I scoffed. “Bullshit.”
“He’s right, dude.” Our team captain, Wes, clapped me on the shoulder. “Hadley would have my ass if I asked her on a date and didn’t plan anything.”
“You’re married. You do not go on dates anymore,” I pointed out.
“Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you don’t go on dates anymore.”
I exhaled, frustrated. “What I should do then?” I sighed, remembering my last session with my English tutor and immediately corrected myself. “I mean, what should I do?”
“You’ve got her number, right?” Nash said. “Text her. And don’t be an asshole about it.”
A flare of aggravation rose in my chest. “I am not an asshole.”
“No, but people have to get to know you before they realize that. You’re about as charming as that It clown.”
“Who is that?”
“He’s an asshole, trust me.”
“You are saying I am clown?”
Nash slipped on his sneakers and grinned at me. “Sometimes, dude. Plan the date. It’s not every day you get a shot with a supermodel.”
I finished getting dressed and walked out to my Suburban, trying to think of an idea for a date. Dinner was a given, but where? I’d have to google the best St. Louis restaurants and check their ratings. And whatever we did after that, it couldn’t take too long, because I had to be in bed by eleven. Ideally, our date would be dinner and sex. I’d have to wait and see if Sheridan liked me enough for that.