5. Captain Filthy Mind
CAPTAIN FILTHY MIND
Mark
Some parents are chill when their kids play sports. I am not one of those people. Especially when my little cupcake hits a double in T-ball.
“Go! Go! Go!” I shout as Rosie runs her butt off to second, while pigtailed Alba rounds third base, determination on her little face as she races home.
When she reaches it, my daughter’s best friend jumps up on the rubber and her teammates join her, shouting with glee.
Rosie cheers from second base, a bundle of energy.
“Yes! Go Firecrackers!” I thrust both arms in the air, shouting the loudest.
“A little excited, Mark?” The question comes from Alba’s mom, Valencia, standing next to me at the edge of the field in Chelsea Park.
“I can’t ever sit during softball games,” I say.
Her long, brown hair swishes against her olive skin. Valencia pats my arm affectionately. “And I love that about you. Though, you were just a touch louder last week when Rosie hit a homer.”
She has me there. I shrug sheepishly. “What can I say? I’ve got a fanboy in me and I’m not afraid to show it. I’m going to let you in on a little secret, V,” I tell her. “I had zero game as a kid. Team sports were not my friend.”
Valencia feigns shock, her big brown eyes going wide. “You? Nooo. You don’t say.”
“Is it that obvious?” I ask the woman who’s become a good friend over the last few years. She and her wife live in our building over on Sixteenth Street, and since our kids are friends, we became buds. A few months ago, we signed the girls up for the Firecrackers together.
“Yes, Mark. I can still recall your shudder when I suggested you join our co-ed frisbee league.”
I shudder involuntarily. Again.
She laughs. She often does at my expense, which is fine by me.
I kinda feel like I can relax with her and her wife—they know how shitty the last year has been for me, and it’s nice to let down my guard a little with someone.
All day at work, I have to keep my game face on.
I don’t bring my personal life into the office—not at the water cooler of Wall Street.
“Fine, fine. I’m man enough to admit I’m a better spectator than participant.” I raise a finger in my own defense. “But I’m excellent at the treadmill, the StairMaster, and running solo in the park.”
“And I’m woman enough to know I will never invite you onto my frisbee team, since I want to win,” Valencia says.
A few minutes later, the game ends on a Firecrackers win, and Rosie runs over to me, a tiny brunette ball of energy. She lands in front of me, dirt kicking up as her pink cleats hit the edge of the softball field. “Did you see my double, Daddy?”
“Did you hear my shout, Rosie?”
With a serious stare, she says, “Everyone heard it, but I like to make sure.”
“That’s my girl. Checking and double checking. Yes I saw it, and all I have to say is watch out, New York Comets. You’re going to be the new slugger for the city’s best Major League Baseball team,” I say.
She high fives me. “Yes! But I’d actually rather play on a girls’ team than a boys’ baseball team,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Or maybe I’ll play hockey someday too. We’re going to see the Bombshells next fall. Mommy is taking me.”
“Ooh, I love them,” Valencia chimes in.
“You and your wife have a crush on the goalie,” I say to her as the kiddos return to the field to pick up their bats and gloves.
“We have good taste in our crushes.” Valencia gathers her purse as I snag Rosie’s backpack from the bleachers behind me. “Gimme. I’ll take that for you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I can bring it along with me.”
She shakes her head, emphatic as she grabs Rosie’s bag. “You’re not taking a Peppa Pig backpack into Angel Sanjay’s showroom. I will not allow it.”
I let her have it. “Thanks again for taking Rosie to dinner with you so I can go to a . . . best man fitting ,” I say, my tone a little heavy.
“On a scale of one to tax audit, that sounds like you’re looking forward to it?” Valencia asks with the lift of a well-groomed eyebrow.
“If you think trying on clothes is fun,” I say, groaning in over-the-top misery. “I don't. Especially because . . .”
Because of Asher St. James. It’s impossible to explain in a rational way how difficult it is for me to keep my cool around him.
Tomorrow begins five days with him, including the travel day. The dread is strong in me now.
She shoots me a concerned look. “Are you okay, Mark? You look like you swallowed a grapefruit. Do you hate trying on clothes that much?”
The tension in my chest cranks tighter. “The other best man and I are polar opposites. But even that’s generous. It’s more like we’re poles of poles of polar opposites. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next week.”
Or the pent-up lust that rears its head when I’m around the former soccer star. But I keep that tidbit all to myself.
She hums, like she’s deep in thought. “Is he hot?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately. “But also smug.”
She laughs. “Then when you return from Miami, maybe you’ll need to do something fun.
A little self-care in the form of dating again.
You should finally let me set you up with my friend Gwen from my Zumba class.
And if you’re not into her, then the creative director at my agency is smoking hot, too.
Josh has got the whole cute nerd vibe working,” she says, waving a hand in front of my face, gesturing to my glasses.
“It’s a smorgasbord out there for you, Mark. ”
“Possibly,” I mutter. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
But will I ever be? This past year, I’ve been concentrating on Rosie.
She took the divorce hard. I’ve just wanted to be there for her, not running around dating strangers.
I don’t have the time. Bridget and I had agreed to parent fifty-fifty.
But she has a job with her new wine merchant beau that requires travel.
So guess who does at least two thirds of the parenting? This guy.
That makes dating tough. But even if it didn’t, the prospect of dinner and drinks with someone new sounds equal parts exciting and horrifying. The last time I dated, I lived in a dorm.
Although I’m definitely eager to get back in the sex saddle.
It’s been a while.
A long, long while of just me and my hand.
If dirty thoughts were an origin story for a superhero, I’d be Captain Filthy Mind. But there’s a big difference between entertaining my long list of sex wishes alone at night and going out and getting them.
What would Asher do if he knew I had a spreadsheet buried on my laptop, with nearly a hundred lines dedicated to various fantasies?
He’d laugh his ass off, that’s what.
Good thing that sucker is password protected.
“When you’re ready, I’ll be your matchmaker,” Valencia says as Rosie rushes over, Alba by her side, the bats, balls and gloves all neatly sorted.
“We cleaned up, and now I’m ready for a burrito with my bestie,” Rosie announces.
“And fro-yo. Can we go to that new shop?” Alba asks.
“Yes! We have to try the pineapple-mango-coconut cake flavor.”
“With Gummi Bears and Sno-Caps on top,” Alba adds, intensely serious, and I have a feeling they’ve been planning their dessert all day. Goals.
Then, before I can remind her, Rosie remembers her manners and turns to Alba’s mom. “Thank you for taking me with you to dinner.”
“And thank you for taking care of Blackbeard while I’m gone, too,” I tell Valencia.
Rosie lifts a finger, all six-year-old bossy, as she sometimes is. “He gets two-thirds of a cup of cat food a day. That’s sixty-six percent of a cup. Well, almost sixty-seven.”
With an eyebrow arch, Valencia stares daggers at me. “This is your fault, Mark. All this mathing.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I happily take the blame.”
I say goodbye to my friend, then my kid and hers, and hoof it several blocks south to the designer’s showroom.
Fashion is not my thing. Shopping for my own suits is a bit like changing cat litter. A necessary chore.
Just like this outing with Asher.
That’s what this outing is?just another task. This mental trick works just fine until I reach Thirteenth Street, where my gaze lands on a tall, toned, ridiculously good-looking guy jogging down the block.
Effortlessly.
Looking really fucking good, and yeah, it’s a good thing Rosie isn’t here since I'm thinking about item 2B on my spreadsheet.
Focus, Mark .
Asher stops in front of me, looks at his wrist. “Damn, I impress myself. Forty minutes. Made it exactly on time,” he says, sounding insanely pleased.
I lift a brow. “You’re congratulating yourself for making it on time? Do you pat yourself on the back when you remember to brush your teeth, too?”
He shoots me a mega-watt smile, all gleaming teeth, and perfect lips. “Maybe I do, Banks. Maybe I do.”
“To each his own,” I say, as Asher eyes me up and down.
“I had no idea you owned anything other than your Wall Street uniforms,” he remarks, his gaze traveling over my navy-blue polo shirt and jeans.
“Well, it’s laundry day. Dieter, my valet, is brushing and steaming my wardrobe this afternoon. Straightening the pinstripes. You know.”
A wrinkle appears in the center of Asher’s forehead. “You’re kidding, right? Nobody is really named Dieter.”
“The second you think that, you run into someone named Dieter.” I take a beat. “That’s a mathematical probability.”
Asher looks doubtful. “Sounds more like coincidence. Admit it. They’re one and the same,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. I try not to follow the path of his fingers, but dammit, my gaze strays for a fraction of a second.
Probability of me making it through the next hour without thinking about 2C on my fantasy spreadsheet? Captain Filthy Mind says five percent.
So I return to his first question, answering it finally. “And yes, I own seven polos, five T-shirts, and three pairs of jeans. I don’t wear suits to my daughter’s softball games.”
That brings a smile back to his face. “I didn’t know your kid liked sports.”
“Of course you didn’t. You don’t know me.” And that came out snappish.
Asher rolls his eyes, like can you believe this guy . “I’m well aware of that.”
Why am I such a dick around him? Just because I can’t handle this inconvenient attraction? Man up, Banks.
I redirect my attitude. “Rosie loves softball. And she wants to try hockey too,” I say, aiming to inject more goodwill in my tone, and also to talk about anything besides clothes, so I don’t mention how good he looks in that tight not-a-T-shirt, not-a-polo, I-have-no-idea-what-it’s-called, but it’s short sleeve and just the right amount of snug to show off his pecs, and his biceps . . .
And that’s not helping.
We head inside, and I hope this fitting ends mercifully fast.