She tries to sneer, but instead she breaks into tears again. “Fucking men.” She grimaces. “Please don’t tell Deb I said fuck in the office.”
I fight a smile. “Fuck is a popular word around here. Don’t worry about it.”
She sighs heavily. “Just say what you want to say. You don’t like me filming the players and you don’t want me at practices.”
I ignore her attempt at redirecting the conversation. “Just one man, or all of us?”
“Pfft. The only men I like are gay. The rest of you are assholes.”
She looks away and my gaze slides from her face down her body. I shouldn’t be thinking about how amazing her round, full breasts look in her formfitting shirt. Or the flare of her hips. She has a spectacular body.
I clear my throat and look away, pretending to find the break room refrigerator riveting. “If it makes you feel better, you can yell at me over it.”
There’s a pause, and then she lets loose. “He’s not even that attractive! Thirty-one years old and not a hair on his head. Fuck him. And fuck fucking jazz, too. It’s boring and everyone hates it, but some people say they love it just so they sound cultured.”
“Fuck jazz,” I agree, and she meets my eyes. How can I look at a refrigerator when she’s in the same room?
I don’t know whether she’s about to laugh or hit me with a right hook. And I like it. I have a strong, sudden urge to take two big steps forward and kiss her. Make her forget all about whoever this guy is.
Rubbing a hand down my face, I push away my thoughts of getting my hands on her hips. I’m old enough to be her father, for Christ’s sake.
“Forget about this jackass,” I say. “You’re better off without him.”
“I spent two weeks messaging that bald bastard. And I was open to a date, even though I guarantee he’s never made a woman’s panties wet. He dries out panties. Like, you’re getting a little damp and then you look at him and it turns into the Saharain there. Fuck you, Mark. And fuck your bearded dragon, too. I hate reptiles.”
I furrow my brow, hiding my amusement. “Wait, are you saying you’ve never even met this guy?”
She sniffles. “We’ve been talking for a couple weeks, and we just exchanged pictures today. I would have met him, but when I sent him my picture, he messaged back saying, ‘I don’t date big girls, sorry. Not all guys are assholes like me.’”
Yeah, fuck Mark. He’s a clueless idiot.
“You’re beautiful. More than that—you’re a ten. It’s his loss. Don’t waste your time on Tinder bullshit.”
Her expression softens and her gaze meets mine. “I wish I didn’t care. It’s not that I need a man. But I do want ... someone, you know? I’ve been single for years, and sometimes I just want someone to hug me, or tell me we’re going on a date, or ...” She cringes, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear all this.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Her eyes are blue, and they remind me of a day at the beach when there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s unsettling how much I want to hug her and tell her I’m taking her on a date. Have I turned into a perv who wants a younger woman to make himself feel younger?
She squares her shoulders. “It was nice of you to listen. I’ll have a pity party with my sister tonight.”
“What does a pity party involve?”
“Pajamas, wine, chips and guac from our favorite Mexican place, and ice cream. We usually watch a rom-com.”
“Give yourself tonight to feel like shit and then forget about it. Move forward.”
A smile plays on her full, pink lips. “Is that what you tell your team after a loss?”
“Might be,” I admit.
She sighs softly. “I should have introduced myself to you before I started asking the players to film stuff for me. I was just ... intimidated, I guess.”
I pinch my brows together. “Intimidated? By me?”
Her smile threatens to grow wider. “I heard you’re ... unapproachable.”
I furrow my brow. “Unapproachable?”
