Page 1 of Forever Offsides

1

QUINN

Dating in Boston is the equivalent of driving blindfolded through a minefield. Any date could blow up in your face at any second, and you wouldn’t see it coming until it’s too late. Like this one.

“So I told my junior partner, ‘Doll, just get me the fucking contract the way I asked for it.’”

He laughs. I don’t.

This is why I said I was done dating. Not just with dating apps, but the entire game. Unfortunately, that manifesto is rarely heeded by people when you’re in your late twenties, have a very limited social life, and are single. My intern was all, ‘Swipe right, he’s cute. Come on, one date won’t hurt.’ Ugh. I should have known better than to listen to her. The number of things I could be doing right now, other than suffering through this pointlessness, makes me wince with regret.

“Fascinating. Did she find the fact that you called her Doll misogynistic?”

“Huh?” It’s as if he’s never heard that word before, and I believe it. That or he doesn’t get my deadpan sarcasm. He wouldn’t be the first.

Lawyers. I mentally roll my eyes. I can’t even say men because I have male friends, brothers, uncles, and a father, all of whom are the best men in the world. It’s not them. It’s likely this guy, but it’s not them.

It could be me too.

I pick up my glass and down the rest of my martini before I literally grab onto a waitress as she passes by and hold up my glass. “I need another. I don’t care what it is as long as it’s strong.”

She throws a fisheye to Mr. I’m-A-Senior-Partner, who is engrossed in his phone as he types away, and nods in understanding. I’ve already forgotten his name. James, Jimmy, Jake? Yeah. I don’t remember.

“You got it.”

Bless her. What a waste of a night off. I get like five of these a month, and I hate that I’m spending one with him. I wonder if my best friends, Braelyn or Skylar, are around. Maybe we could catch a movie or something. I flip my wrist and see it’s still early. My brothers, Crew and Mason, are out with their teammates, so that’s a big fat no. I don’t date or fuck around with athletes anymore and certainly not ones on my brothers’ or father’s team, since our dad is the coach.

I reach for my phone in my purse to text my girls when he sets his phone down and smacks his hands together, eliciting an annoyingly loud clap that startles me along with half the people at the surrounding tables.

“Should we order?” He rubs his hands together like he’s attempting to start a campfire. “The night’s burning away, and I plan to have you naked in my bed within the hour.” He winks with a sleazeball grin on his face.

I lean forward and place my hands on the edge of the table. “It’s shocking to me that you’re still single, Jerry.”

“It’s James.”

“Oops.”

He’s unsure what to do with my topic changer, but he rolls with it. “I work a lot and prioritize my job over everything else. Women don’t understand that.”

“You mean like female surgeons who work eighty-hour weeks to save lives?” I don’t even get into the fact that I was an Olympic athlete and all that goes into training for that.

He scoffs dismissively. “Come on. I have girls your age as subordinates. None of you work that hard.”

Just like that, his time on the clock is up. “James, can I be honest with you?”

He shrugs and adjusts his place setting as my second martini is delivered. Awesome timing. I hold up a finger to him, indicating that I need a minute. I pick up my glass and down my drink in three large gulps. This one goes down like butter off a lobster. I think there’s tequila in there. Yum! I set my empty down, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and level him with the same expression I give a patient who isn’t compliant with their postsurgical physical therapy.

“I don’t think you’re single because you work too many hours or make your job your main priority.”

He’s hesitant to ask. I can tell. But the lawyer in him won’t be denied truths. Or answers at the very least. “No? Then why am I single?”

By third grade, most people learned how to hold their tongue and keep their inner monologues to themselves. I never did. It’s why I’m not so affectionately nicknamed Yang at work. As in Christina Yang from Grey’s Anatomy.

I clear my throat. “Because you’re a sexist piece of shit asshole who pathetically believes women are inferior. Not only that, you feel emasculated by a strong, smart, successful woman. That sort of self-imposed, intellectually unfounded superiority speaks to several different personality disorders in adult men, including narcissism. Much of that likely stems from something in your childhood that’s grown into bitterness and the misogyny you now display. Regardless of the root cause, women don’t stick around long because they quickly see through your thin veneer of good looks and money to the reality beneath. I’d also be willing to double down that you’re a two-pump chump who wouldn’t know how to find a clitoris with a map and a flashlight, let alone deliver an actual orgasm to a partner, probably because you’re too lazy and selfish to be bothered trying. But that’s just my guess after thirty minutes with you and one psych rotation in med school, so I could be wrong. If you’ll excuse me, I have to use the restroom.”

I grab my purse and stand.

“Wait. We haven’t ordered yet.”