Twenty-One
With its fake turf, fluorescent lights, and screaming kids, indoor soccer practice was the fifth circle of hell. The sole
bright spot was an unfettered chance to ogle Agent Nate Duran from afar. I wasn’t the only one admiring him—when he bent down
to scoop up an errant ball, the moms sitting in the bleachers stared like a gaggle of hungry pigeons watching a loosely attended
basket of fries.
“Is it just me or is the new assistant coach hotter than a two-dollar pistol?” one mom said. She was naturally beautiful in
a way that made me want to go home and exfoliate.
Instead of plunking down near the other moms, I’d settled in a little ways away. I didn’t have the energy to make friends.
But I always had energy for eavesdropping.
“I heard that two-dollar pistol works for the ATF,” another mom said. She rocked a messy mom bun and eyelash extensions that
gave her the look of a minor Kardashian. “I’d like him to take me on a stakeout. It’s been a minute since I’ve gotten busy
in a car, but I’ve been going to yoga. I think I’m ready.”
The other moms busted up. Clearly these ladies were more fun than I’d expected.
To occupy myself, I texted Layna a photo of Matt Damon from The Martian.
Tilly: Do you think it’s possible this guy is texting me from Mars? I just matched with him on Tinder.
Layna: HAHA I hate you.
As I slipped my phone back into my purse, my fingers brushed the BuckSnort bottlecap again. If that bit of detritus was a
clue to where I’d been Sunday night, I still couldn’t decipher it.
When Agent Nate Duran spotted me, his bright smile made me feel like a stick of butter floating on the surface of a warm pan.
The other moms shot me assessing glances.
I get it, ladies, I wanted to say. He seems too good to be true. But we all know that means he probably is.
When the head coach blew his whistle for a break, the minor Kardashian mom took a tray of sliced oranges out to share with
the team. Alice was busy chasing around a towering girl with waist-length black hair I recognized from the twins’ class and
who I’d secretly dubbed the Beautiful Giant. Phoebe grabbed an orange slice, forcing the rind under her lips to create an
orange smile.
As Agent Duran jogged toward the stands, the moms’ chatter faded and they held a hopeful collective breath. He stopped right
in front of me, flashing such a high-wattage smile that it shielded me from the rays of jealousy coming from the other women.
I hadn’t had sex since before my mom died. It was obviously getting to me, because relatively close-range eye contact with
Agent Duran was making me feel that in a past life we’d made love at the base of a waterfall while the spray misting our skin
sparkled like diamonds in the sun.
“Ms. Turner, the mashed-potato-wrestling comedian with a day job,” he said.
“Agent Nate Duran, the federal agent who runs an Uber service exclusively for women covered in carbs,” I said, feeling the
other moms staring like I was a Bridgerton who’d captured a duke’s fancy.
“The twins have been telling everyone they have a brand-new little sister?” He raised an eyebrow.
“We got a dog,” I said. “At least temporarily. They named her Little Sister. I think so I’ll feel like a monster if I try
to find her a new forever home. Well, him. It’s definitely a boy dog.”
He laughed. “Sounds like they know how to get what they want.” He glanced back at the twins. Phoebe was chewing a second orange
slice, while Alice hung on to the Beautiful Giant’s shirttail. “My niece needs to watch out.”
“The Beautiful Giant is your niece?” I said. I was hot for him. His sister was a blast. My kids adored his niece. But I couldn’t
allow myself to hope.
“That’s what you call Maricela? I think she’d be honored. But honestly, it looks like Alice might take her down.”
“You can tell my kids apart?” I said, flabbergasted. It had taken Mrs. Glidewell a month.
“On the soccer field, anyone could tell them apart,” he said. “Phoebe knows where the ball is at every second. Meanwhile Alice
is busy playing with her Baby Yoda Band-Aid.”
It was nice to talk to someone who saw my kids as separate entities. I like you, I wanted to say. I’m not just here because I’ve stumbled onto a terrorist plot and need an ATF agent to bail me out.
“How’s work?” I asked. “I’m so curious about your job. So many questions.”
“ATF questions? Fire away,” he said.
“You sure do have those dad jokes locked and loaded.” The joke I’d just made was criminally bad. “Oh my god! Your horrible
gun puns are contagious. This is unforgivable.”
He did a funny little victory dance, as if he’d scored an NFL touchdown, not just teed me up for a terrible wisecrack.
My plan A, to ask him about ATF raids and immunity, suddenly seemed both tonally off and way too forward for soccer practice.
A whistle blew. Nate glanced back at the field. The Beautiful Giant was crawling on hands and knees, the twins draped over her back like wiener dog puppies on an Irish wolfhound.
“Would you want to—” he started at the exact same time I said, “I guess you’d better—”
“What were you gonna say?” I asked.
“Getting a dog. Even temporarily. It’s a big deal! Any chance I could take you and the girls to The STIL after practice to
celebrate?”
The STIL was the one local place that could beat out any ice cream from an Abbot Kinney creamery. My mom used to take me and
the twins there on a splurge, but it was definitely out of my price range. Especially while I was furloughed.
“The thing is—” I started.
“I’m buying,” he said. “They have a patio. With heaters. And it’s dog-friendly. I want to meet Little Sister.”
Maybe this was a sign from the Universe that I needed to hand some of this burden over to Agent Nate Duran. I wouldn’t tell
him everything. Just enough to get the ATF to Burgdorf. Talking to him with the twins around wasn’t ideal, but at least I
wouldn’t have to worry about things turning romantic. If he was interested in me now, he wouldn’t be after he had ice cream
with me and all my adorable baggage. He seemed to interact with the twins nicely here at soccer, but he’d never seen them
all hopped up on sugar and lurching around with their shoulders pressed together, trying to convince strangers they were conjoined.
“We’d love to,” I said. “But we’ll have to swing by my place for the dog. And we can’t stay too long. I’ve got a class tonight.”
Pole dancing class. But it sounded too flirty to say it out loud.
“I can meet you over there. Wanna swap numbers, just in case?” He handed me his phone. I put my number in his contacts and
gave it back. “I’ll call you so you have mine.”
My phone dinged as he turned and jogged back to the team. Was I mistaken or did he have an extra pep in his step?
Some of the other soccer moms were giving me looks of baffled admiration, probably wondering how a woman like me could get the number of a guy like him. Frankly, I didn’t know either, but I planned to enjoy it while I could.
When the twins and I arrived at The STIL, the patio lights imparted a feeling of good cheer to the cold and dark. Nate stood
waiting in fitted jeans and a gray puffy coat. He dropped to one knee and rubbed Little Sister’s ears while the twins looked
on approvingly.
“Do you think you could teach her to play soccer?” Alice asked. Her eyes were bright again.
Nate laughed. “I could definitely teach her to play poker.”
“Dogs don’t play cards!” Phoebe cried.
True to his word, Nate bought us all ice cream and a cup of whipped cream for Little Sister. Phoebe thanked him by showing
off her double-jointed elbows. Alice followed suit.
“Girls! Stop it!” I said. “He’s eating.”
Nate grinned and overextended his own elbows.
“You can do it too!” Alice said. “Mom can’t.”
“Billie Eilish and Taylor Swift. Also double-jointed!” he said.
“Seriously?” Alice asked, clearly in awe.
Not to be outdone, Phoebe made her tongue into that weird cloverleaf shape. Nate copied her. “Only the Irish can turn their
tongues into the leaf of a clover,” he said, with a fake brogue.
“You’re not Irish,” Alice said.
“Say something else like that!” Phoebe insisted.
“My grandpappy on my mother’s side was born in Belfast,” Nate said, not dropping the accent. He let out his signature unhinged
laugh, which got me to giggling.
Phoebe wasn’t as easy to impress as Alice, but even she seemed swayed by Nate’s odd abilities. “Mom can’t do that thing with
her tongue either!”
“What can I say?” Nate met my eye, suddenly serious. “I’m a man of many talents.”
A tingle spread through me, and I reminded myself I was not there for romance.
As the twins stomped around the patio eating their ice cream, Nate and I huddled on a bench. I pulled up the hood on my L.L.Bean
coat, hoping it would make me look like Gisele in a Moncler puffer. As if understanding my need for a mammalian foot warmer,
Little Sister lay down on top of my shoes.
I needed to bring up the difficult subject of an illegal backcountry arms deal. But I wanted to know more about this handsome
fed who was taking me and my kids out for ice cream.
“How’d you end up in Boise?” I asked.
“Long version or short?” he said.
“I like a man who has a long version.”
He raised an eyebrow at me and grinned. “I grew up in Seattle and did my freshman year at Boise State. But I felt like I’d
been relegated to Bumpkinville, so I fled to Portland State.” He held his ice cream in my direction. “Want to try?”
“What’d you get again?” I asked, digging in my spoon.
“Coffee with Baileys. And no offense about this being Bumpkinville?” he said, looking worried.
“None taken,” I said. The bite of his ice cream made me moan—it was that good. “You can only stare at sagebrush for so long
before you think there’s got to be more to life.” Now would be the perfect time to segue the conversation to what I’d “overheard”
at Huckleberry’s. But instead I found myself saying, “So you went to Portland State. Then what?”
“I’ll hit the high notes because I want to hear about you,” he said.
“A man who asks questions! A rare breed,” I replied. “But go on. You first.”