Dane

“Over?” Christy sounds puzzled, her eyes glaze over. “What do you mean over?”

I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.

My attention returns to the rib eye steak I’m methodically cutting into. On the edge of my vision, Christy’s smooth brow starts to wrinkle, her blonde eyebrows drawing together. I know the moment her brain finally catches up with the information. The subtle twitch of her full lips is a dead giveaway that a shit storm is headed my way.

Rule number one: always deliver bad news in public. Less chance for violence.

“I’m gonna be real busy once I sign with ESPN.” Holding her unblinking stare, I pop a piece of steak in my mouth, small enough that I can chew and talk at the same time. History has shown that this could go sideways faster than a mutton bustin’ competition and I need to be ready to act quickly. “Travelin’ a lot.” I keep my attitude casual. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. You should be free to see other people.”

Rule number two: never date a woman for longer than three months. You’re just asking for trouble after that.

“You mean you should be free to see other people,” she responds, shooting daggers out of her big blue eyes.

Rule number three: one woman at a time, and never ever more than one. Learned that one the hard way. Almost lost my right eye messin’ around with rule number three when I was young and stupid. Got a small scar over my right eyebrow to remind me of it every day. Since then, there is no breaking rule number three no matter what the circumstances. Threesomes are prohibited under this rule.

Christy’s face turns an interesting shade of red. Yep, definitely steaming now. I glance around the busy restaurant and find a generous amount of attention trained on us.

She pushes her chair back and stands, the sound loud and grating, echoing over the ruckus of the lunch crowd.

“So that’s it? You decide it’s over and I’m just…just supposed to…accept it? Go away quietly?” she says wide-eyed in disbelief, the volume of her voice skyrocketing on the last few words.

The ruckus goes quiet. Winding up on TMZ is definitely not what I need right now, done plenty of that already. Though as the new face of Ralph Lauren, Christy wants negative press less than I do. I tell myself she isn’t the type to make a scene. Too young and sweet. That’s what appealed to me in the first place. That and her perfect rack…and her long legs, and…well, you get the general idea.

“Darlin’, we agreed,” I respond in a placating voice which, by the looks of it, is not placating her in the least.

She stabs a long manicured finger at me. “Fuck you, Dane.”

Okay, not so sweet.

“We agreed––” I remind her. “We agreed we would see each other exclusively for fun and games, nothing serious, until one of us got busy.”

My eyes bounce between the meat I keep slicing into as if I haven’t a care in the world, and the furious glare bearing down on me from her full height of five-eleven––six-something if you add the heels she’s wearing.

“I didn’t take you seriously!” she shouts, her perfect tits bouncin’ with each furious intake of air––pardon, breasts.

“Well, you see…” I chew and chew some more. “That there’s your mistake. You should have.”

She flinches. Then her chin gets stubborn, bitter acceptance replacing surprise.

“You’re right,” she says. “It was my mistake. I actually believed you weren’t like every other decrepit old douchebag in this city that wants to sleep with a model for the bragging rights.”

Decrepit old douchebag? Bragging rights? I’m about to chuckle when I find tears in her eyes. A funny pang hits me in the region of my cold dead heart. It feels uncomfortable, strangely similar to remorse. Though I can’t be certain, I haven’t had much experience with it.

Serves me right. Datin’ a twenty-two-year-old…what the hell was I thinking?

It feels like I’ve been on this hamster wheel forever. Time to change things up. The idea has been circulating in my head for a while. This scene only cements it into place.

“Look, sweetheart,” I start in a softer voice, gettin’ ready to do what must be done. “You can do so much better––”

The deep flush covering her face tells me she’s not having it at all. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she walks around the table. She’s about to storm out, saving me the trouble of a long, drawn-out it’s me not you speech, a sigh of relief workin’ up from my lungs. Except she pauses next to my chair.

“Don’t sweetheart me, you asshole!”

The next thing I know a radiating pain explodes in my eye.

“Take that seriously, sweetheart,” she screams over her shoulder as she stomps away.

Sonovabitch. She punched me. She punched me in the goddamn eye. The right one.

I’m definitely gettin’ too old for this shit.

* * *

“Well, if it isn’t the Great Dane Wylder.”

I look up from my cell phone and turn to face the woman sliding onto the stool next to mine. I’m not in the mood for this. The bar at the Four Seasons on 57th is one of my favorites. It’s also where I’m most likely to run into my exes. Which is why I should’ve argued when my buddy Ethan suggested we meet here for a drink.

Lindsey pushes her auburn hair over her shoulder and assesses me with a soft knowing smile on her face. “Run into a fist?”

She’s no dummy. Far from it. In fact she’s one of the top psychoanalysts in the city. Probably not a good idea to date a shrink, but when the shrink in question looks like a Playboy screensaver a man makes exceptions. Besides, she knew the rules when we hooked up.

I make it a point to be very clear up front. Fun and games is all I’m willing to give a woman, and in thirty-four years I’ve yet to consider bending that rule once. As long as you’re honest, I find women are cool with it. Christy being the exception. Besides, it’s not like I’m the one doing the chasing. Liberated women are the best thing to ever happen to mankind.

“A small misunderstanding,” I find myself muttering.

“You know what your problem is, Dane?”

I raise the glass of Macallan to my lips and take a fortifying sip. “No. But I’m afraid you’re about to tell me.”

“You hate women.”

There’s no malice in her voice. Lindsey’s an adult, and much too smart to have developed any real feelings for me. It’s her ego talking ’cause God knows every woman thinks she can change a man.

“Now I’ve gotta stop you there, Doc,” I say with a smug grin that’s bound to grate on her usually steady nerves. “You know better than anyone how much I love women. They come a very close second to football.”

“Cute,” she deadpans. “Really cute. But you’re not fooling me. You’ve got Oedipus complex written all over you.”

“Oediwhatsahoosy?” I learned a long time ago that playing possum gets me out of a sticky situation faster than arguing. Dumbest thing you could ever do is argue with a woman. It’s up there with ice-skatin’ drunk. You won’t get anywhere and you’ll likely end up out in the cold with your nut sac shriveled.

“Your mother must’ve done a real number on you. And as a friend, I suggest you seek professional help.”

The mention of my mother sets my teeth on edge, the shred of amusement I was feeling a second ago draining out of me. “Play nice, Linds.”

“I’m telling you this as a courtesy because I know you don’t have a mean bone in your body. Deal with your issues before you meet her.”

“Her? Who we talkin’ about now?” I’m already bored with this conversation and my eye hurts like a motherfucker. I scan the front entrance, hoping to see my friend, and find nothin’ of interest.

“The woman that’s going to bring you to your knees. Don’t kid yourself, Dane, it may be tomorrow or ten years from now, but it’ll happen. And when it does, it will be tremendously painful for you if you don’t get your shit worked out.”

“Thanks for the advice, Doc. I’ll take it under consideration.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Suddenly standing at the bar, Ethan’s gaze bounces between Lindsey and me. He smiles curiously and motions to the bartender for a drink. Lindsey takes a long, suggestive look at my buddy. Yeah, doesn’t look like she’ll be losing any sleep over me.

“’Bout time you showed up, brotha.” I half stand, giving him a quick hand grab and back slap.

“See ya, Dane,” Lindsey drawls, an invitation in her voice. One I have absolutely no desire to accept. I’m putting myself on injured reserve. It’s officially time for a break.

“Did I interrupt something?” Ethan asks, sliding onto the bar stool next to mine.

Both of us watch her walk out, the perfect swell of her ass swaying left and right. Being an ass man myself I can say in my expert opinion hers is a nine and a half.

“Nah, man. That was over a long time ago. Three month rule.”

Smirking, Ethan shakes his head. “Seriously? You’re still pulling that?”

“What are you talking about pullin’? That’s the second commandment in the book of Dane. Thou shall not date any woman for more than ninety consecutive days. They get an itchy finger after that.”

I take a sip of my favorite poison, hoping to ease the throb of my eye and the vague sense of loneliness I’ve been feeling lately.

Retirement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, that’s for sure. Most of the time I feel aimless, filling up my days with bullshit chores to justify that I don’t have to work for a living.

Truth be told, I’m bored with myself. I’m bored with the celebrity golf tournaments. I’m bored with the fucking interviews and the chicks sending me nude pictures of themselves, or asking for dick pics. I’m bored with requests to do Dancing with the Stars. I’m not doing it and that’s final.

Most of my NFL buddies are settled with families. When the cheering stops, and the fans unfollow them on Instagram, and they become just another name on a stat sheets, they have someone who’s there for them.

Don’t get me wrong, a wife is about as appealing to me as having my junk hot waxed. I’m talking about legacy. I’m talking about a son. The problem is to get a son, you need a woman…that’s the tricky part I have yet to work out.

“Itchy finger?”

“The kind that can only be cured by the feel of cold hard metal.” I take in my friend’s appearance. “You’re not lookin’ like yourself these days. Everything alright?”

Looking down at his stained and wrinkled white dress shirt, he answers, “I’m moving. I’ve been packing all day.”

“Moving? Where?”

“L.A. I’m getting married.”

I nearly fall off my bar stool while, smiling to himself, Ethan brings the glass of wine to his lips.

“Are you shittin’ me?”

He shrugs. “She’s it for me, man. The one.” An eager grin flies across his face.

“Do I know this lucky lady?”

“You met her at the Titans’ Wild Card game this year.”

Flipping through my memory bank, I hit on something. “Davis’ daughter? The hot doctor?”

“No, the skinny blonde.”

“The stinger?!” I nearly shout. Pretty blonde––a little too skinny for my taste, but pretty. And if my memory serves me right, a tongue like a butcher knife.

He nods, smiling like a fool once more. “What can I say––I’m in love.”

“You’re marryin’ the stinger?” I repeat in the hopes that I misheard, my voice holding all the disappointment I’m feeling.

“Yep.”

With that, I motion to the bartender for another. The whisky will go only halfway to soothing my mood.

“As soon as I ask her.”

My attention snaps back to him. One glance at the goofy look on his face and I have my answer. “Oh, you poor fucker.” Laughing at his circumstances seems like a shitty thing to do, but I just can’t help myself. “Do me a favor, if I ever have that look on my face take me out back and put a bullet between my eyes.”

“Gladly.”

Then it occurs to me. “What if she says no?”

“I’ll keep asking until she says yes.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? You’re what? Three years younger than me, right? And she ain’t even pregnant. Why the hell would you get married?”

“Because she’s been gone ten days and I haven’t slept a single night. The thought of not being married to her…” He shakes his head, his hand falling over his heart. “Makes me anxious.”

For a moment, in that worried look on his face, I see my father and dread pools in my gut. God save me from love.

Lindsey was wrong. I love women. I love their bodies. I love their brains. But as fun as they are, and they are fun, they are also devious, faithless creatures.

Who do you think tracked down Bin Laden? That’s right, a woman. You want loyalty? Get a dog. You want to be robbed of your money and your masculinity? Get married.

I had a front row seat at what it does to a man. Over the span of thirty years, I watched my father turn into a pale almost unrecognizable imitation of the great man he once was.

“Does that mean you’re not selling the agency?”

“Correct.” Ethan takes another slow sip of his wine. “You think you’ll ever get married?”

“Not for me.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my mind shoots to a long-ago memory––something that’s been happening a lot lately––my dad puttin’ his arm around me after a brutal loss in Pop Warner football.

I was crying because I dropped the game-winning touchdown. Never liked to lose, not even back then. Anyway, I was inconsolable. And my pops, he hugged me until I stopped, held me tight and told me over and over that it was okay until it was. Something about that gets me choked up every single time.

That memory is sacred to me. And it’s high time I made new ones. I have the time, I have the financial means. All I need is a woman to agree to my terms.

“But I would like to have a kid. A son. Hell, women can go to a sperm bank. Why can’t I get me a babymaker?”

Ethan shakes his head and chuckles.

“Not a joke, brotha. Not a joke. If I could find a way to do it without the headache of a woman wantin’ to make me hers, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“Don’t lead with that on your next date. Everything looked good with the ESPN contract, by the way. Are you signing?”

“Not sure yet.”

“You thinking about going back to Oklahoma?”

“Nah…my home’s here now.” That’s close enough to the truth. I raise my glass. “Time for a toast. Here’s to the lady sayin’ yes. And here’s to me not lookin’ for a new manager.”