What do you mean by “I’m the only guy in here?”
James Young
Unless you’re also with your partner and a baby, I’m literally the only man here.
Me
Did you automatically assume I’m male?
James Young
You aren’t?
Me
Last time I checked, no.
James Young
I’ve watched the door for the last thirty minutes, Dr. A. No one has come in.
Me
I’ve been here longer than that, Mr. Young. Perhaps you should turn around.
The person in the hoodie straightens, slowly turning until our eyes meet.
Shit.
Shit.
Dr. A is a woman? And an absolutely gorgeous one at that? I’m truly screwed.
I saw her when I stepped in. We didn’t make eye contact, but I definitely looked. Gorgeous dark brown locks, and a smattering of tattoos on her arms. Hair up in a thick bun, I wonder how long it is, and how it would feel wrapped around my fist. But most of all, I notice her curves. Good God, I want to drag my tongue along every breathtaking inch of her.
It’s pretty rare for me to have such a visceral reaction to someone the instant I see them. I’ve always been more attracted to personality than looks, so I’m perplexed at my reaction here.
There was a time when I allowed my agent to find me women who could accompany me to big events. Early on in my career, after really bad advice from an assistant coach from a previous team. I was drafted to play in Nashville, and signed a four-year deal there, but it wasn’t a good fit. The coaching staff disregarded my neurodiversity completely, instead choosing to tell me to “man up” whenever I had challenges. Needless to say,I was thrilled when a trade to Denver was offered, and I’ve been happily playing here since.
My agent quickly realized hiring out arm candy was an even worse idea than me attending an event solo, as it made me so uncomfortable and awkward that the women typically snuck out at one point or another. There was a five-year period where gossip rags were convinced I was in the closet, due to my lack of high-profile dates. Not gay. Just hopeless, somewhat off-the-wall, and most definitely one hell of an unorthodox NFL quarterback.
Now I have to approach a woman. One that I find profoundly attractive. A woman I’ll need to work somewhat closely with over the next few months and try not to frighten her away with my idiosyncrasies. Taking a deep breath, I slowly rise from my table, the chair legs squeaking loudly as they scratch along the tile flooring. I see multiple people in the restaurant glance at me out of my periphery, and I wince. I’m trained to handle attention on the gridiron, and even with reporters before and after the game. But this kind of situation makes me feel like I’m naked on stage at a middle school band performance, and my balls haven’t dropped yet.
Turning to walk behind me, I take a chance by looking through my lashes at Dr. A. Assuming I’ll find an expression of realization, or excitement at the prospect of working closely with a professional athlete, I’m surprised to find what I can only describe as complete terror on her face. Well, that’s new.
“Uh, hi. Sorry I made the presumption you were a man,” I say sheepishly. “Is it okay if I join y —”
“Your name isn’t James!” she shouts, the sound reverberating off the walls. “It isn’t even Jamie! What kind of game are you playing?”
Her voice has risen comically, her eyes so wide I imagine they might completely pop out of their sockets like in old cartoons.Instead of waiting for her to motion that I can join her, I slam down into the chair across from her, leaning over the table. “Look. I’ll explain if you agree to listen, but I’m going to need you to lower your voice a little. Alright?”
She shakes her head frantically. “I knew this was your charity. I knew it! What’s with all the damn secrecy? And a fake name and email account? Does the board know you’re doing this?”
“Of course they know … wait.” I stare at her incredulously. “How did you know it’s my charity?”
“You mentioned the charity in an interview once, and I’ve seen you at different events. I put two-and-two together,” she whispers, her eyes darting around like she’s giving out state secrets, and she’s worried who might be listening. Well, part of that is correct.
“Y — you know who I am?” I ask uncertainly, my voice cracking.
