Pucking the Single Daddy: An Enemies to Lovers Boss Romance

1. Astrid

I’m no athlete. Usually, it takes me five songs to make it to this part of the neighborhood on my runs. Okay, five to six. But today, I’ve made it in four. At this pace, I’m even on track to break my best one-mile time ever. It’s that excitement and the beat that makes me more confident and helps me forget the reason I feel the need to run.

I’m getting close to my favorite part of this route. A beautiful neighborhood tucked away between quiet little woods filled with houses I could never afford on a high school history teacher’s salary. Here the manicured front lawns become more spacious. The houses a little further apart. The cars parked in the driveways a little nicer with every passing mailbox.

The muscles in my thighs start to burn. I think I’ve exercised more this week than the past year combined. Salary negotiations make me nervous every time. But this was the year I graduated with my master’s. I was supposed to get a raise.

I was supposed to get a big raise.

I cross another street.

The rhythm in my headphones matches the determination in my steps. Reaching the edge of another sidewalk, I sprint across the road. I want to beat my time. My watch says there is less than a tenth of a mile left. If I give it my all, I can set a new record, and then I’ll take a little walking break.

That’s the singular thought that drives me forward. It carries my feet to the opposite side of the road, where I take to running on the smooth street instead of the sidewalk to make it a little easier on myself.

I think it’s a combination of several things. The volume of the song blaring through my headphones, the way it fights against the sound of my own thoughts, desperately trying to drown them out, and my eagerness to break my one-mile time. All of those factors cause me to become hyper focused on the road in front of me.

And only that.

Somewhere, somehow, a car comes speeding behind me. I don’t realize it until it’s too late. I don’t think the driver realizes it all, and I have to jump onto the grass-covered curb to try and get to safety, rolling my ankle as I do so.

Pain flares up at the point of impact, and I wince against the pressure. It hurts. That’s what I process immediately. It hurts so badly.

Oh no.

I cradle my injured leg as if I’ll be able to see the injury and soothe it to make the pounding, pulsing pain stop. It doesn’t work. Shit. I’m about a mile from home, and I don’t know how I’ll get back there. Carefully, I try to stand, gently testing my injury by putting weight on that side, only to fall to the ground in pain once more.

No. No. No. I don’t know how I’m going to get home.

I consider trying again, as if the problem is lack of effort and not the swelling that seems to be taking place around my ankle sock. I’m about to test the theory when I see the man approach.

Not from the car that nearly killed me. No, that car doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around to make sure I’m all right. They would’ve left me for dead.

Obviously.

It’s a passing car in the other direction that does though. A black shiny car that belongs in this kind of place, unlike me.

The driver rushes to my side. I have to shield my eyes from the sun to see him fully. He’s tall, the shadow cast across his face making it hard to see anything else.

I take off my headphones as he approaches.

The closer he gets the better I can see. He looks worried. I process this at the same time as I process how handsome his worried face is.

Wow.

His sharp jawline clenches beneath his hallowed cheeks. Maybe he’s a model. It’s a silly thought, but one I become more convinced of as he kneels next to me.

I close my mouth, realizing that I’m staring in open shock.

“Are you alright?” he asks. His brow is furrowed.

Definitely a model. I look at his lips. His dark eyes. He’s certainly tall enough. I try to think of another profession. Mafia prince, maybe? That seems right. Something crazy and fictional that would match such a handsome face…

“Did you hit your head?” he asks. His voice is deep and rough.

It’s also a little judgmental…

“Hello? Can you hear me? Or did your loud music damage your hearing as well as your ankle?”

That snaps me out of my appreciation.

“Yeah, I can hear you,” I say, my eyes narrowing as I look at him. With that attitude, maybe he’s not so handsome after all.

“You know, you should really be more careful.”

“Thanks so much for your concern.” I tentatively stand once more. I suppose any hope of finding comfort in this stranger is gone. Gingerly, I test my weight, and immediately start to lose my balance, forcing me to choose between falling to the ground and taking his outstretched hand.

My poor decision making leads me to cling onto him.

“You really should get that checked out,” he says. His voice is still full of judgment and disapproval.

I roll my eyes. “Are you a doctor now too?” I hobble away from him, relieved to find I can put pressure on it. With my luck, he probably is a doctor and I’ll just hobble away from him only to get stuck with him at the Urgent Care.

“No, but I am an athlete.” There is something in the way he says that last word that makes the anger I have been trying to avoid return tenfold. “And I know an injury when I see one.” He sounds so smug.

“Yeah, well. Thanks so much for your expertise.” Stupid man. Stupid, stupid man and his stupid, unwanted opinions.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk on that. How far away is your house?” He hovers beside me, hand outstretched, just in case.

Oh. Oh no. House. I look up at him. He’s in sweats, but even I can tell from here that they’re nice. Not the kind I might buy to lounge around in. I look at his car. It’s not just shiny; it’s some super nice European model I could never afford. No way am I letting this guy take me back to my apartment. Not a chance. I’m pretty sure that I’ve enjoyed enough of this stranger’s disapproval for one lifetime.

“It’s not broken. I’ll be fine,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.

“You really shouldn’t.” He starts to move, like he’ll come after me to help. But he stops short when he looks at my face.

“I’ll be fine.” I’m not typically so aggressive. In fact, I’m kind of known for my happy-go-lucky disposition. But something about this man makes me rethink the benefits of being kind.

I don’t look back. I use my anger at him and the anger from work to limp home, my emotions carrying me past the point of pain.

Stupid man. Stupid job.

I look back to make sure he’s not following me, attempting some bullshit knight in shining armor attempt, but thankfully, he’s gone.

As irritating as this begrudgingly handsome stranger is, it’s not just him that has me frustrated. What I learned about work today is the catalyst for my fury. The school district just doesn’t have the budget. I’ll have another year without a pay raise, the absolute absurdity of it still echoes in my thoughts until I can’t stand to be in my own head. I’m thousands of dollars more in student debt thanks to my master’s degree, and I won’t even have the paycheck to show for it.

Fucking ridiculous.

The ankle is definitely not broken. I can put more weight on it. I’ll ice it and keep it elevated when I get home. Silver linings, I guess.

I put my headphones back in and turn my music up a little louder, trying to drown out the fear that bubbles just beneath the surface. Thinking won’t get me a solution. I crank up the volume, grateful at least for this warm late-summer afternoon.

The stress around work and money got me back into running. It’s become a little bit of a reprieve from the world. I wouldn’t call myself a runner by any means. Or an athlete. I’m not out here training for a marathon. But I am fighting for my sanity, and that counts for something.

Lately it seems to be the only thing that clears my thoughts.

I’ve taught for eight years. Right out of undergrad. Loyal. That’s a word I would call myself. Fucking loyal. I urge my legs to move a little faster. Dedicated. The concrete sidewalk beneath my tennis shoes slips by a little faster with each stride.

But another year without a raise...

I love my job. I love teaching. I really do. But I love paying my bills more. I round the corner of the street. And it seems this year I won’t be able to do so.

Angry tears prick hot in the corners of my eyes. It makes me limp faster.

The nail in my career coffin was finding a notice from the leasing office of my apartment complex. A four hundred dollar increase per month. Who the hell can afford that? And with little to no notice? Of course, I tried to fight it. I spent the better half of the afternoon in the office trying to understand how a one-bedroom apartment with no renovations and terrible water pressure could become sixty percent more expensive over the course of twelve months.

I expected empathy and understanding. Instead, their only answer was that maybe I should move to a place I could actually afford. Oh, and to let them know my decision by the end of the week.

Seven whole days. That’s all I get to figure this out before they rent my apartment to someone else. And I guess that was their plan all along, to give us long-term tenants the boot so they can bring in new tenants they can charge twice as much as they’re increasing.

I push myself. At least the physical pain becomes louder to drown out my inner turmoil. I turn my music up to match. I make it to the edge of the sidewalk, looking both ways before crossing the street.

I picked this apartment complex, not for its amenities, but for the safety and proximity to nice, quiet neighborhoods. That’s where I went wrong, thinking I deserved to feel safe in my own community.

To say I’m bitter is an understatement. Never in a million years did I think I would be worried about paying my bills with a master’s degree in education. The great millennial myth we were all fed growing up.

I suppose I could always move back in with my parents. The thought sours the moment it crosses my mind. I think I would start bartending on weekends again before I resorted to that.

In fact, I would do anything to avoid that.

Anything.