Dad Bod (Under Construction 1)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MADDEN

“These seats are awesome! I’ve never been this close to the field before!” Jasmine turns to me and grips my hand, her excitement palpable.

“It’s pretty cool, right. You like coming to baseball games much?” I ask her. Jasmine and I have chatted all week long. She’s even sent cute little good morning and good night texts complete with smiling emojis and hearts—which was a little forward, but I was still nervous to meet her in person. When I picked her up this evening, she acted as if she’s known me forever, and I think that has helped with some of my nervous tension.

After the date with hot-mess express Ellie, I wasn’t sure if I should be dating. I thought long and hard about deleting my profile from the Bumble app—what could a woman offer me at this point in my life right now? I’m already busy as hell with Davenport Construction, being a single dad—which is hard as hell, and this lifestyle change hasn’t been the easiest. But I’m not getting any younger, and being a third wheel with Carter and Laney has lost its luster. So here we are, on my second date in nearly six years, and the night seems to be going okay.

“I love it! My dad used to take me to games when I was a kid. We’d have hot dogs and hot chocolate and we’d scream so loud we’d go home barely able to talk.” She laughs, but she lost me at hot chocolate. At a baseball game? In the hottest months of the year? I shake the thought and listen to the never-ending conversation that is flowing between us. Well, more so from Jasmine, because she’s rattled on and on, which isn’t a bad thing. It’s hard to keep up with the topics, and replying is near impossible. Hard not to find it impressive the way she went from talking about hot chocolate to the importance of the soothing serum, whatever the hell that is, she uses when she attends outside events.

As I open my mouth to ask if she’d like for me to get her something from concession, she spurts out, “Oh! I remember this one time, we were at an indoor game and we had front row seats, and you could see everything so clearly! I screamed so loud when one of the players smashed another player against the glass, and they started fighting! Blood was everywhere.” Okay. I know what you’re thinking, and I know I’m missing more and more of her descriptive story-telling, but someone please tell me. Did I hear her right? She did say glass, right? What baseball field has glass barriers around the stadium? Does she mean hockey? Maybe arena football? Jasmine continues talking while I’m working out parts of her story in my mind.

“It was a scary experience, but one of the players brought me a signed black disc thingy after the game, you know that little thing they scoot back and forth on the ice? My dad says it’s probably worth a lot of money nowadays. I don’t really wanna sell it, though, you know. Every time I look at it I’m reminded of that game with my daddy. I’m a huge daddy’s girl, and as lucky as I am to have him in my life, what with him being older than dirt and all, I know one day all I’ll have is memories, so I try to hold on to those keepsakes, ya know. Plus, it makes for a perfect mixing surface when I need to combine foundations for the perfect full coverage shade.”

I’ve dissected her story and determined she does, in fact, mean hockey. That she more than likely is using a rare expensive piece of sports memorabilia to play with makeup. But how the hell she confused hockey with baseball is beyond my recognition, so I’m not about to broach that discussion with her. Instead, I see the opportunity to change the topic, so I do. But don’t worry—the pieces of her story are still flittering around in my mind, along with the other twenty chapters of her life she’s shared with me so far.

“I get it. My daughter loves coming to games with me. We came to spring training this summer, and we got to meet the team, but the mascot is her favorite.”

Jasmine tilts her head to the side and her brows furrow, and she appears to be breaking down each word I’ve said.

“You okay?” Her face is scrunched up in confusion, but she rights herself and leans back into the seat. Alrighty then. “Uh, would you like something from the concession stand? Maybe a beer or some popcorn?”

“Did you not hear anything I just said to you, Madden?” Her tone is clipped, almost like she’s angry.

“Yeah…” I drag out.

“Hot chocolate and hot dog please?”

I nod, still fuckin’ confused. “I’ll be right back. The team is warming up, so if you watch, you might catch a fly ball.” I pull my glove from under the seat and reach it to her as I stand and exit the aisle.

“Hey, what am I supposed to do with this?” Jasmine shrieks in panic, and I turn back to find her holding up the glove and glaring at it.

“Catch the ball?”

She throws the glove on the ground and goes into a complete fit, hands shaking wildly as she shouts, “The what? They play with a ball? Where’s the black disc, Madden!” People all around are staring at her like she’s some crazed lunatic, and judging by the story she told me and her reaction to the baseball glove, I’m right there with them.

I hurry into the aisle and take her by the hand, pulling her up beside me. “Why don’t you come to the concession stand with me? I might need help carrying everything.”

Jasmine’s teeth are pearly white and perfectly straight and on jovial display as she slides her hand in mine. She swallows back a sputtering breath, as if she was on the verge of tears, and says, “Okay! I’d like that!” Even her words are fuckin’ bubbly like a toddler.

And there she goes again sputtering off conversation, ninety miles a minute, but the raucous of the stadium is so loud that I can hardly make out anything she’s saying. Thank fuck for that. We get to the concession stand and I order a Bud Light and a box of popcorn before asking her what she’d like.

“A hot dog and hot chocolate. Just like my daddy always got me when we’d go to games, remember?”

Y’all, it’s summer in Savannah. The South. It’s not cold, unless the mild ninety-six degrees gives you a chill when the wind blows on the beach. I don’t even think the damn stadium serves hot chocolate.

I open my mouth to reply but decide it’s best if I just let the worker relay the bad news to her. “And we’ll have a hot dog—”

“Ketchup only!” she interjects.

“—and a hot chocolate.” She’s seriously grating on my fucking nerves.

“I’m sorry. We only have Coke and Budweiser products.” Of course they do. It’s a baseball stadium.

“What? No hot chocolate?” Jasmine stomps—yes, like a damn preschooler—crossing her arms over her very ample chest. And the more time I spend with this woman, the more I realize her hot body is the only attribute I’m attracted to, and even that isn’t all that appealing when I consider her actions.

“Honey, it’s blistering out here. You can order a nice refreshing Coke, or take your cute little order for hot chocolate to Starbucks on the corner.”