“Oh, right, you’re traveling out of the country?”
“To see my parents.”
Mira’s butterscotch complexion and dark brown hair is an obvious clue to her Hispanic heritage, but I don’t know what country her people are from or rather, I don’t remember. I’d be such an American asshole if I asked her where her parents live, because I’m sure she’s told me at least a dozen times.
So I don’t ask.
“Ah, that’s right,” I say, as if I suddenly recollect all the details of her upcoming trip. “Enjoy your time away. The grocery list is in the right-hand drawer next to the fridge. Try to buy everything organic.”
“Yes, Mr. Dak, I’ll head out after I finish up in the master bathroom.”
“Thank you, Mira.”
Now that I’ve basically run Mira out of the house with my complaining, I call Dutch to talk his ear off for another fifteen minutes because I’m not finished bitchin’ yet.
There’s something about that woman.
“At least you sound like you’re part of the living,” he says after listening to my rant. “I rather you feel annoyed than nothing.”
“You feel good about me wasting six weeks of my life seeing an incompetent head shrink?”
“If it gets you back playing on my defense, then yeah. We’ve got the best team we’ve had in a while. I’m trying to win games this season.”
“So selfish.”
“Selfish is what got me here. That’s why I’m the best player in Hawks’ history.”
“I think there are a few players that would dispute that,” I scoff at my captain’s inflated ego.
“Who?”
“Uh, lemme see. There are legends Saint Stevenson, Cooper Wolf Barnes, and Mason Diesel Bridgewater. And let’s not forget about Jett, Rush, Freak and Brick. All Nighthawk legends.”
“Okay, sure, they’ve all had their moments in the Nighthawk spotlight, but they’re mostly offensive players. And as you well know, while offense puts butts in the seats, it’s defense wins games. I’m a Nighthawks defensive legend.”
“Sure, Cap, keep telling yourself that,” I jest.
“What she’d look like?” he suddenly asks, and I raise a brow at the question.
“What do you mean?”
“What did this horrible therapist whom you can’t stop talking about look like?”
“I mean…she was attractive.”
And by attractive I mean she has the face of an angel and a body built like a brick house.
“Describe her.”
“Why?” I ask, becoming uncomfortable with this line of questioning.
“I just want an accurate visual representation of the woman who will be driving my teammate crazy for the next six weeks. Go on. Description please.”
This is not a very difficult request because unfortunately I suffer from total recall of what my therapist looks like, what she said, how she sat, and how she smelled.
“Pretty face with minimal makeup and a perfectly shaped pair of lips. Slim waist. Thick thighs. Tits that sat high under her modest blouse and an ass large enough that I could still admire it underneath those high-waisted slacks of hers. You can’t be totally sure these days, but I’m sure hers was real. Her ass jiggled in a very natural way. Her skin tone is a tinge browner than yours and her eyes are a unique bronze color that sparkle when she turns her head a certain way.”
“Whoa, man, that’s a very vivid description.”
