“See? I told you it would sound like a douchey line, but I’m being real.” He fingers his knife and stares down at it in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. “It’s depressing as hell that someone who knows nothing about me would want to, you know, hook up with me. Or whatever. It’s impossible to trust anyone. I hate being such a cynical jerk like that.” He raises his sad eyes, and I regret doubting his sincerity.
Before I can say anything sympathetic, though, he says, almost defiantly, “I want to get married someday, you know? And have kids. But most of the women I meet are more focused on ‘having fun.’” He says the last two words like they’re the most despicable phrase in the world. “The ones who might be interested in something serious come off as gold-digging, desperate psychos. At the end of the day, I come home to an empty house—unless you count Torz. Trust me, Torzi and I aren’t that close.”
I beam across the table at him. “That’s good to know.”
“What, that I’m not a man-whore?”
“That, too. But, no, I was talking about your strictly platonic relationship with your dog.”
He smiles briefly, then nods. “Really, though. I’m sorry for being so serious on a first date, but I don’t want you thinking I call random numbers in my cell phone all the time. I don’t have random numbers in my cell phone. I knew your number was important if it was in there.”
His green eyes beseech me to believe him. I don’t want to look away, but it’s impossible not to blink at their intensity.
Trying to break the tension, I ignore everything else he’s said. He’s right; it is too serious for a first date. Instead, I focus on the last thing. “Fine, but you didn’t know why my number was important.”
Silverware in hand again, he points to his head with his knife and says with a half-smile, “Cut me some slack. I take a lot of hits out there. A helmet can only do so much.”
Likely story.
“Realistically speaking, I probably don’t have many more years in the NFL. I’ve always planned to retire before I’m too banged up. Of course, by then, I hope to be married, too.”
Of course. Ha!
“And when my playing career is over, I’d like to start a family.”
Well, duh. Double-ha!
“But not before then, I don’t think. Because I’d hate to be on the road so much, away from my family.”
What a swell guy.
“Then again, I’d love to get into broadcasting. I majored in broadcast journalism at USC. So, I’d still do a bunch of traveling with that, too, unless I got a studio gig, and those are hard to come by.”
Please, tell me more. This is fascinating.
“But if I end my career on a high note, landing a studio job will be easier, so that’s one more motivation for winning one of those rings.”
Mon Dieu!
He has everything planned out. Everything.
I understand driven people know exactly where they’re going and how they’re going to get there, but whenever I encounter someone like that, I respond one of two ways: if I’m familiar with them, like Greg or Deirdre, I become antagonistic and sarcastic (see Christmas Eve dinner); if I don’t know them well, I retreat into my shell.
Nodding and smiling is about all I can muster right now. At least I think I’m smiling. Probably more like grimacing.
Fortunately, before he can outline his life all the way through death (he probably thinks he has that all planned out, too), he ducks his head and says, “Oh, shit.”
I half-expect Rae to be behind me when I turn to see what’s interrupted his recitation.
“Don’t look, don’t look!” he implores, too late.
An average-looking blond guy in a black shirt, black pants, and skinny hot pink tie looks right at me and nods his head once. Then he makes a beeline for our table, shouting, “Yo! Knox!” When he arrives next to me, he peers straight down my top and says, “Hot date,” like a statement, more than a question.
I’d be flattered, if he weren’t an obvious creep and half the occupants of the restaurant weren’t staring at us, thanks to him.
Jet smiles tightly. “Hey, Schoengert. How’s it goin’?”
That’s invitation enough, so our visitor pulls an empty chair from a neighboring table and plunks it next to me, sitting down. “Good, good. Just chattin’ up the chicks, if you catch my drift. And who’s this lovely lady?” he asks, somehow finding a way to lean closer to me.
“This is… my friend,” Jet answers evasively. To me, he directs, “And this is Todd Schoengert, the team kicker.”
But I’ve already recognized him. The guy’s clutch. Hasn’t missed a field goal all season. Shattered every record on the books. Unfortunately, I like the kicker much better on my television.
I slant away from him and cover my cleavage with my flattened hand. “Nice to mee—”
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” he interrupts me, intensely holding my eye contact.
“No!” I don’t think I do, but I definitely don’t in relation to anything having to do with this guy.
He waves his hand dismissively. “Me neither. It’s a myth perpetuated by Hollywood to sell movie tickets, and it contributes to massive discontent in the ever-aging singles community.”
“Well said,” I say, trying to ignore the nerve his statement pings.
“Don’t encourage him,” Jet mumbles.
Todd turns his attention to his teammate. “Knox, you ever pee in the sink if you can’t make it to the can?”
“Uh, no,” my date replies, surprisingly unfazed by this seemingly random question and quick change of subject. “Can’t say I ever have.”
“What about the shower? You ever pee in the shower?”
“No, Schoengert. If you do”—he points to him—“I’m gonna start keeping track of where you are after practices and games. I don’t want to be stepping in your piss.”
I study my fork and try not to laugh.
Then Jet says, “Well, it was nice of
