Dad Bod (Under Construction 1)

“Don’t argue with me; please, Madden. I’m only trying to look out for you.” Are those tears… She turns to look away from me and wipes at her face. I can’t explain why I do it, what’s come over me, or the urge to console her, but I grip her arm and pull her into my chest. I’m probably overstepping my bounds, but to hell with whatever consequences I may face for my actions. Jordan’s breath catches in her throat, but I rest her head against my chest and kiss the top of her head.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She wipes at another tear then wraps her arms around my waist, and I swear she breathes me in.

And my heart, that ticker in my chest that is bound and determined to kill me, well that little fucker might have just skipped.

This is a tricky situation.

I’ve been attracted to Jo since I first laid eyes on her, but I put my guard up and fought it because I’m miles behind her fuckin’ league. Jordan is smart, sweet, funny and tough as hell. I’m just an overweight single dad trying to get my shit together. I like her, that much is fuckin’ obvious to the world, and putting my feelings out there on display is probably the dumbest move I can make, but we’ll just chalk it up to the lack of oxygen I just experienced from the anxiety attack.

“Go watch the game. I’ll text you when I get home since you’re so concerned about my well-being, and I’ll call my doctor first thing Monday morning.” Her arms fall to her side as she steps back. Then, pulling her trembling lip between her teeth, she crosses her arms over her chest, almost hugging herself because she misses my warmth.

Hey, fucker, get that shit out of your mind. You know she’s better than you’ll ever have. My conscience is an honest dick.

“But, Jo,” I grip her chin and tilt her head up, forcing her to look at me. The hurt swirling in the depths of her eyes nearly guts me, and this feeling in my chest pisses me the fuck off. Why can’t I have her? Why am I not good enough for her? She’s easy to talk to. She’s fun. Yeah, I’m fuckin’ pissed because I’m feeling things for Jordan I don’t want to feel, and I don’t know how to overcome it. “First, you’re too pretty to cry; especially over a fat fuck like me.” Flames alight her eyes, and they narrow into thin slits as she glares at me. “Which is why I’ll still be at my training session Monday. Even if we just do light cardio”—I put her hand over my heart, the beats out of sync and scattered—“because I can’t quit training. You’re making me a healthy man, a better man, and I refuse to give up because of a small attack.”

I release her chin and wrist, my hands going back to the confinement of my pockets. If I don’t hold myself back, I can’t be accountable for my actions.

“I’m not arguing with you, Madden. If you want to train Monday, I’ll be there. But please”—she shakes her head and puffs out her cheeks—“see your doctor.”

“Promise.”

“Are you safe to drive home? Should I call Carter?”

Fuck no, that asshole doesn’t need to have any part of this shit show. I shake my head, sucking up the courage to go crawling back to my seat. “Nah, I think I should be a gentleman and at least offer Jasmine a ride home … if she’s still here. I’ll see you Monday.”

Jordan gives a curt wave and heads to the opposite end of the stadium. I return to my seat to find a roided-up bald dude with his chest painted sitting there with Jasmine rattling on and on, baseball glove in her lap.

“You need something, dude?” the bald dude asks.

Jasmine turns to me, and she smiles maniacally. “Oh, there you are. Did you get the popcorn?” How did I not see the crazy glint in her eye when we first met?

“No, it wasn’t ready yet. I’m not really feeling well, so I can take you home”—she glances at the guy beside her, in my seat—“or I can pay for your Uber.” The asshole in me shrugs because I don’t have any fucks to give at this point.

“Miller, can you give us a minute, please?” Roid-rage gives her a chin lift then shoulder checks me on his way out of the aisle. If she was worth the fight, I’d speak up, but this shit ain’t worth it. “Sit, Madden. We need to talk.”

Sighing, I return to my seat and wait for her to deliver the inevitable blow. And I ain’t even mad that it’s coming. I’m actually relieved. Jasmine blows out a puff of air, and even that annoys me. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore. It’s not you; well, actually it is. I mean, you’re kinda deceitful, Madden. I told you I love sports, and I was all excited to come out with you tonight. But you didn’t tell me we were coming to a baseball game. I’m not happy with that. This environment is just”—she looks around the stadium then back at me—“barbaric. I mean, who expects people to sit in the sweltering heat and watch paint dry? What are they even doing? And the concession stand doesn’t even have hot chocolate! I thought you understood the importance of that memory with my daddy, but no. No hot chocolate, Madden.” Jasmine rattles on and on, telling me all the ways our newfound relationship—that I thought was just a first fuckin’ date—won’t work. “And then, a week after we start talking, I find out you have a child? You should have been man enough to tell me that from the get-go. I’m not ready to be a mom, Madden. I mean, diapers, and could you imagine how my breasts will sag after I breastfeed the little brat?”

I hold my hand up, cutting her off. “And let me stop you right there, Jasmine. There’s no need for you to further humiliate yourself. There’s also no need for you to belittle my child. This was a first date—not a marriage proposal. I’m sorry that your delusional mind twisted things up for you. I hope you enjoy the game.”

I grab my glove and stand to leave, Jasmine shouting behind me, “MAAAADDDEEENN!! How am I supposed to catch the black disc thingy now!!!”

Dating—2

Madden—0

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

JORDAN

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Bryn’s voice startles me from staring down at my phone, waiting to hear from Madden. He promised he’d call his doctor first thing this morning after having an anxiety attack Friday night. But so far, nothing. I look up as Laney stomps into the gym in a slouchy dolman top, capri sweats, and Adidas kicks.

She points her styrofoam Cook Out huge tea at me and sasses, “I’m only here because my best friend is a bitch who made me feel guilty for not working out.” She pulls the straw between her lips and slurps the remnants of saccharine sweet Diabetes in a cup. “Damn it,” she grumbles, staring at the cup in obvious disgust as she marches behind the desk and tosses it in the trash.

With demanding careers and hectic schedules, Laney and I don’t get to spend time together as often as we’d like.

“Alright, Healthy Lady, what’s first?”

Nice. My favorite sassafras preschooler has been gossiping with her teacher, who just so happens to be my bestest frenemy. Yes, Laney is my frenemy today.