Fair point.
“I’m a professional, Coach. I know how to handle myself around families.”
“Do you? Because your track record with women suggests you know how to handle yourself around Instagram models and club promoters. Suburban moms are a different species entirely.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?” Barrett leans forward. “Because these aren’t women looking for a good time and a story to tell their friends. These are mothers trying to give their kids normal childhoods. They don’t need some hockey player treating them like conquests.”
The lecture is starting to piss me off. Like I don’t know the difference between a club bunny and a hockey mom. Like I can’t turn on the charm without crossing lines.
“Message received,” I say, standing. “Anything else?”
“Just remember—those kids look up to you. Their parents trust you. Don’t give me a reason to regret extending your community service.”
I head for the door, already irritated by the implication that I can’t handle a simple coaching gig without causing drama. So what if I’m interested in one of the moms? I’m not some predator stalking suburban soccer fields. I’m a professional athlete with options, and if Golda Adler happens to be one of those options, that’s between me and her.
Besides, she’s obviously interested. Women don’t get that flustered around men they’re not attracted to. The nervous energy, the stammering, the way she couldn’t quite meet my eyes—classic signs of attraction mixed with intimidation.
The intimidation part is what makes it fun. She knows who I am, knows my reputation, probably read all about my dating history online. She’s scared of what wanting me might mean, scared of becoming another tabloid headline.
But she wants me anyway. I could see it in how she looked at me, hear it in how her voice changed when she said my name.
And now I know something that might tip the scales in my favor. She’s not just some overwhelmed single mom doing her best to get by. She’s got a career, talent, a whole professional identity that has nothing to do with being someone’s mother.
That changes things. Makes the challenge more interesting.
My phone buzzes as I’m walking to my car. Text from an unknown number with a Seattle area code.
Hi, this is Jenny from Friday night! Got your number from your teammate Rodriguez. Want to grab drinks tonight? I promise I’m even more fun than I look
I stare at the message, trying to remember which one Jenny was. The blonde with the modified jersey? The brunette with the tits? They all blur together after a while, faces and numbers and promises that sound exactly the same.
I delete the message without responding.
For the first time in months, I’m not interested in what’s being offered on a silver platter. I’m more interested in what’s going to require some actual effort to get.
Golda Adler, with her nervous laugh and her sultry voice and her two kids who think I walk on water.
Challenge accepted.
My phone rings with a call from my sister as I’m unlocking my car.“What’s up, sis?”
“Saw the game highlights,” she says without preamble. “Nice goals. Also saw your post-game interview. ‘Currently accepting applications’? Really, Dex?”
“Media loves that stuff. Keeps me relevant.”
“It keeps you looking like a jackass.” There’s noise in the background—kids arguing, Tim saying something about homework. “When’s the last time you had a conversation with a woman that didn’t involve her trying to get something from you?”
The question hits too close to home, especially after this morning’s revelation about Golda. “I talk to women all the time.”
“Instagram models and puck bunnies don’t count.”
“Why does everyone assume I only date models?”
“Because you literally posted a selfie with one last month captioned ‘dinner and dessert.’”
Fair point. “That was taken out of context.”
