Page 51 of The Fed Sex Man

I snatched the tuna from the tip of my fork and attempted to hide my hand in my lap. The process failed miserably, with the tuna slipping from my grasp at the last minute. A quick scan of the floor revealed the chunk of raw fish had landed at my feet.

Feet that rested on top of a rather elegant Oriental rug my mother purchased while in Barcelona, Spain. With some hesitation, I pressed the toe of my shoe against the wad of fish and smashed it against the irreplaceable rug.

“Stop it, Jarod,” my mother said in an assertive tone. She looked at me and smiled. “Tell us about him.”

“We met at the store,” I said. “He asked me on a date. He drives the FedEx truck. He’s really cute, and he’s super nice. We went to Lockhart’s and ate on Friday night, and then we went out again on Saturday night and had Mexican food.”

Jarod chuckled. “FedEx driver? FedEx drivers are old retired child molesters and serial killers. How old is this guy?”

“He’s your age. And, he’s not a weirdo. He’s nice.”

“My age? Where’d he go to school?”

“Plano Senior High.”

“Does he wear Coke bottle glasses?”

I reached for my glasses. “No, he doesn’t wear glasses at all.”

“Rules him out as being a pervert,” he said with a laugh. “What’s his name?’

“Why?”

“Might know him from football, unless he played baseball or some other stupid sport. Plano hasn’t won a championship since 1994. Lost most of their good players in 1999. If he’s my age, he would have been a senior before they lost everyone. Did he play football?”

I shrugged. “I pretty sure he didn’t play football.”

“Is he a pot smoker?” Jarod asked.

“Josephine, I don’t want you seeing a pot-head,” my mother said.

“He’s not a pot-head,” I insisted. “He’s normal.”

“If he’s normal, he would have played football,” Jarod said under his breath. “What’s his name?”

I sighed. “Tyson.”

Jarod’s brows went together. “Not Tyson Neese?”

My heart nearly leaped from my chest. Jarod knowing Tyson couldn’t be a good thing. A softball sized lump crept into my throat, nearly cutting off my ability to breathe. I swallowed against it and gave Jarod a bug-eyed look.

“I uhhm. You…you know him?” I stammered.

“It’s Tyson Neese?” he screeched. “That’s who you’re seeing?”

“TJ Neese?” my father asked.

“She’s seeing T. J. Neese,” Jarod blurted. “The kid that threw for six thousand yards his junior year.”

“Nineteen ninety and eight,” my father said as if reading the facts from mid-air. “Kid nearly set a world record in passing yards. Six thousand and thirteen yards. Beat all my old records to hell. Damned shame about him breaking his ankle. One of the best football players this state has ever seen”

I spent a lifetime detesting football. Oftentimes, it seemed it was all my father and brother cared about. Nonetheless, I swelled with so much pride my posture straightened. “A local celebrity, huh?”

“National,” Jarod said. “The summer between his junior and senior year he broke his ankle, or he’d be playing pro right now.”

“Sounds familiar,” my father said beneath his breath.

According to my mother, my father was a fabulous football player. One would never know it from speaking to him. He would talk about the sport until he was blue in the face but never spoke of his accomplishments.