“What the hellis wrong with you?”
I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question. If not, well. We could be here a while. But considering I just met this woman, I doubt she wants a list of my more unique qualities.
What set her off? It was probably when I said something about how the heel of her foot scratched my leg, and I gave her the name of my podiatrist. While we were in bed. She’d made it clear she was a sure thing, and I’d gone against my better judgment by agreeing to accompany her back to her place. I’d made the comment before anything really happened, so at least I can be thankful for small miracles there.
Was I eloquent? No. Considerate? Well, I thought it was.
Apparently, Monica … Maven? Moira? Crap. Whatever her name is, she kicked me out of her apartment before I even had my shirt on.
This is why I rarely date. Or have sex. Ever.
Because they think they’re getting Jameson Wahlberg, NFL superstar quarterback, two-time Super Bowl MVP, but in reality, they’re getting the guy who hyper-focuses on sensations way toomuch, and has the ability to read signals from women about as well as a rock. I can read signals on the football field just fine. But if the other team were amassed of all women, asking something of me? I’d run the other way, screaming, with my tail tucked between my legs.
“Dude, you’re —” a guy says as he rounds the corner by the stairs, but I interrupt him.
“No, I’m not.”
He laughs awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure you are. Were you at Misha’s apartment? Better get checked for everything, man. That girl gets around.”
Well, isn’t that just great. I can’t get an STD if my pants were still on, can I?
I nod as I shuffle past the guy, yanking my shirt over my head. The minute the fabric hits my skin, I shudder. It’s on inside out, and I can feel every letter of the emblem rubbing against me. It’s like I’m being slowly electrocuted under each letter, and I can’t focus on anything else until I remove the shirt, flip it around, and put it on in its proper position. I pop on my Coyotes hat, pulling it low over my brow, hoping no one else notices me.
As I exit the high-rise apartment building south of downtown Denver, I pull out my phone and open the Notes app. I’m totally adding this building to my ‘Don’t Ever Come Here Again’ list. It’s a list of places that have bothered me in one way or another. While not necessarily a list of places to avoid because of specific people, it has definitely served its purpose in that way. I have the entire Denver metro area memorized, and I know where to avoid. Maybe it’s because lots of athletes live in a certain area, or a place I got food poisoning. Honestly, once you’ve thrown up for forty-eight hours due to undercooked chicken at a Chinese restaurant, you pay closer attention to the department of health and what they rate restaurants.
Had I known that specific Chinese place scored a C, I’d probably have steered clear of it. Oh well. Live, barf up a lung, and learn.
Walking the two blocks to the closest RTD station, I grab the E train to head home. At this time of night, I’m alone in the train car. Looking at my watch, I let out an exhale of relief. I’m on the last train heading toward my neighborhood. While I know I could easily get a rideshare, I’d rather not put myself in a position where someone has control over where we’re going,andfinds out where I live in the process.
It took me quite some time to figure out where I wanted to live when I moved to Denver. Many of my teammates and friends like living downtown, not only for the proximity to the stadium and arena where we all play, but also for the restaurants and nightlife. I’m the exact opposite: I wanted to be as far away from the crowds and chaos as possible. I must have looked at over one hundred properties before I finally chose one. My previous coach suggested Cherry Hills Village, but checking out one house there made me veto the entire area. Way too snobby. Old money. Median home prices over three million. I hated it the minute I got out of the car, and that feeling only continued when my realtor and I stopped for lunch at a popular — but by invitation only — spot in town. I felt like I was cattle, being led out in front of a line of farmers, ready for one to bid on me. But instead of farmers, it was married women with nothing better to do than spend their husbands’ money and have quiet affairs.
What goes on in someone’s marriage is their business, until it involves me. Since I was raised in a home where infidelity ran rampant, and watched my mom slowly drink herself into a stupor every night because she actually loved my dipshit father, I will never participate in breaking up a marriage. Don’t even get me started on my own volatile relationship with each of my parents. It’s no wonder I’ve been in therapy for the last decade.
So, I settled on a neighborhood that borders Highlands Ranch and Greenwood Village, suburban areas south of Denver, known for good schools, outdoor activities, and family-friendly areas. Could I have picked an even more upscale part of the Denver metro? Of course. But I like the fact that I can blend in here. My home is my safe haven. The place where I can be me, with no judgment from anyone.
I mean, my two cats enjoy judging me, but they’d do that no matter where I lived. Maverick and Goose were a bonded pair of tuxedo cats I happened upon one day while dropping off some donations to one of the humane societies here. I don’t know why I decided to go into the cat room that day. But as soon as I saw them, I knew they had to be mine. Who wouldn’t want a pair of cats named after the dynamic duo fromTop Gun?
Maverick is the more affectionate of the pair, while Goose is the more vocal one. After every road trip, Maverick happily makes biscuits on my chest, whereas Goose bitches at me from at least ten feet away. I’d never known the sound of a yowl before I brought him into my home. It’s much louder than I ever thought possible. Thankfully, I have a pet service that checks on them every day whenever I’m out of town, and I have cameras set up all over my house so I can check in as well. I even have this fancy device that will toss out treats when I want it to.
Whenever I’ve had a bad day, it’s calming to see them lounging on the massive cat tree located in my loft. Even though they know the camera is there, every time I speak into it, my voice scares the hell out of them. Can’t help but laugh at that.
I haven’t been back inside any adoption centers since I brought my two cats home, which I’m sure suits them just fine. I make donations around the city once a week when I can, and I have a spreadsheet to track where I’ve donated, what I’ve donated, and which locations are in dire need of specific items. Animal well-being is a passion project of mine, and I even have afoundation linked to a nondescript LLC where I’m able to make large donations to organizations across the country.
As I step off the train, I begin a steady jog west toward my neighborhood. Serves me right for listening to Jax Mitchell and leaving my car at home. Jax is one of my closest friends in Denver. We’re quite opposite, with him being the extroverted hockey player to my quiet quarterback, but we balance each other out. He convinced me to head out tonight, determined to get me to break out of my shell.
“You’re grumpier than normal, QB,” he’d commented.
“Really?” I’d asked. I wasn’t acting any differently than usual.
“Yeah. You’ve got this surly expression. Like you’re already pissed about how tonight will go.”
I shrugged. “Just tired, I guess.”
“It’s March. You don’t have football for four more months.”
“So? I can be tired in the off-season too, you know.”
“What’s really going on, Jamie? I know you. This ain’t normal,” he’d said.
