Ever since my time in the army, I’ve needed regular exercise. Man-to-man, hand-to-hand, or hitting the sheets are the only things that work the nagging tension out of me. The shit I saw out in the deserts of Afghanistan taught me to stay up on my toes, hit a full run in a second flat, watch my six at all times, and learn how to pack a mighty punch. Those skills have not left me in the three years I’ve been home.
My time in the service was exactly what I needed just out of high school. I was a loose cannon, not knowing what to do with myself or my life. My grades were average—Cs, straight across the board in school. Nothing to warrant anything but a hard seat at a local junior college. Of course, my father wanted me to go into the winemaking business, and I could have. I know enough about making wine, what with all the shit my father drilled into my head over the years. Except something inside me just couldn’t do it. I needed to find my own way, be my own man, and the service was a stellar option.
I’ve always been a patriot. Proud American through and through. And when our country lost so many innocents on 9/11, that knife cut deep into our collective soul, the blood of the victims turning our soil red. I knew that I too had to throw my hat in the ring. Put up or shut up. Once I finished school, I went straight into an eight-year commitment with the US Army.
Those eight years were some of the best and hardest I’ve ever had. Each day I served taught me more about mankind and its ability to bounce back after repeated horrors and setbacks. It also taught me more about myself, the kind of man I want to be. I’ve killed terrorists and lost brothers on the battlefield. Every single last one of those wounds sits under the surface of my skin at all times. Unlike some of my brothers in arms, I’ve found a way to keep the nightmares at bay. Opening up a boxing gym, being able to let out my aggression, has been a natural way for me to heal some of the past hurts.
Yoga is how I deal with the mental side. Finding strength physically and mentally has been my way to cope, deal with the stress received in the desert. Still, I don’t regret going. I know in my heart, I fought for my country and did the best I could to help make the world a better place for me, my family, and my future family. I’m proud of the sacrifice I made and hold that time close to my chest.
One would think after serving two consecutive enlistments, having stared down the enemy and risked my life repeatedly, I wouldn’t be nervous as shit to text a willowy blonde about a date she’s already agreed to. And yet, here I am, running my hand through my hair, gritting my teeth.
Maybe I should wait until after the smackdown with Trent?
Immediately I toss that idea out the door. I want to let her know I’m thinking about her. Get her thinking about me and our date. I jab at the buttons on my phone and pull her up. Seeing the name I programmed for her makes me grin. Dove.
Looking forward to our date. Are you?
I read and reread the text several times, like a lovesick buffoon, before I decide “fuck it” and just send the damn thing. Why the hell I’m so worried about what this woman is thinking is beyond me. I haven’t been hung up on a broad in…hell, ever. Usually women are either one of my sisters, my buddies’ women, or the yogis at work. I spend an evening with women outside of my everyday sphere and move on about my business, no harm no foul. Those gals I see for a night of fun know the score. They’re not in it to win it or have me put a ring on it. I certainly don’t take them on dates.
Sure enough, a blonde with gray eyes, one helluva rack, and a penchant for not making eye contact, and I’ve lost my mind.
My phone dings in my hand. A buzz of excitement surges through my arms and legs.
Yes, me too.
I scowl at the three words. That’s it? No “Can’t wait to see you, Nick” or “I’m imagining you naked, Nick.” Nothing. This woman is harder to crack than a hundred-year-old safe. I rub my fingers through my hair and rest my palms against my temples. What do I say to encourage more communication? I thought maybe she’d give me something to go on, maybe flirt a little. Not this woman. Then again, I shouldn’t have expected her to be like anyone else. I’ve seen her all of two times, and she’s got my balls in a vise and my mind on overdrive, imaging all the ways I want to touch her.
Grinding my teeth, I crack my neck and then type out my response.
What are you doing right now?
I read the message again. Yep. Okay, you have to use more than three words to reply to something like that. I click send and pick up the tape to wrap my fingers.
The phone goes off on the bench besides me.
House hunting.
When I read the two words on the screen, I about toss my phone against the cluster of metal lockers in front of me. Realizing my temperature is rising, I start my yoga breathing to calm down. It’s just a coincidence, not a big deal.
Nick, you already know she’s not a talker.
It’s going to be my job to bring her out of her shell, get her comfortable enough with me to say more than a handful of words. She’ll have to on Friday. I grin, thinking about where we’re going. I know it’s kind of cheesy to do Italian
