Page 11 of Bad Husband

Callan, he’s the teacher right now and the look I’m getting, if he had a ruler in his hand, he’d probably slap it to my forehead.

“Practice starts at four.”

I glance at my phone. “We better go.”

Mostly because I have no idea where the community center is, and it’s going to take me a while to find it.

Okay, let’s just stop for a moment because I can see the judgmental look on your face. You think I’m a bad father, don’t you?

I’m not, I swear. I love Callan. I just don’t have a lot of time and going to soccer practice I didn’t know he even had wasn’t one of the many things I had to get done on any given day.

Just as we’re by the door to the garage, Madison comes downstairs like nothing happened and hands Callan his cleats with Noah on her hip as she’s struggling to get the jogging stroller out of the garage. “Bye, baby. Have fun tonight.”

“I will, Mommy.” They hug and then Callan glances at me. I kiss Madison good-bye every time I leave, and you know, this timewon’tbe any different.

Stepping toward her with a smile, I can tell she wants to back up. Her eyes say “fuck you” while her body language remains relaxed in front of the kids.

Drawing her into a hug, I kiss her flat on the lips with intention. Christ, she fucking hates me. Do you see the way her body turns rigid like a corpse? When I pull back, I whisper in her ear, “We’re talking about this tonight,” because she needs to know I’m not letting this go.

Noah pushes me away about a foot still clinging to Madison. “No, Daddy.”

Madison’s lips press together in a tight line, and her expression turns serious. Her muscles tense, but she says nothing and smiles down at Noah and Callan who are watching us curiously. It’s not often Callan acts his age, but he is right now, innocent looking and probably sensing more than we want him to.

“See my boys tonight,” Madison says, untangling herself from me. She wants to punch me in the face. I can see it.

But Callan doesn’t move, his stare fixated on his mom. “What are you going to do, Mommy?”

She getsMommy,and I get called by my first name?

Madison kneels to his level, straightening out his tank top. With the garage door open, the afternoon sun shines down on her dark hair making the hint of caramel highlights shimmer. She touches the side of his face when she says, “I’m gonna take Noah for a run while Daddy takes you. Is that okay?”

Callan shrugs. “I guess so.”

Soccer? Really? I don’t understand soccer. I mean, yes, I understand the premise is to kick the ball into the opposing teams net, but honestly, as a sport, it makes absolutely no sense to me.

As I stand here watching a bunch of six and seven-year-olds chase each other around the field, I can’t help but ask myself why my son CAN’T play a normal sport that has a purpose? You know, something like football. Now there’s a sport. You’ve got designated plays with the intention of scoring a touchdown. That’s the problem with soccer; there are no designated plays. Just a bunch of kids running after a ball with the hopes of one of them making it in the net. Where’s the strategy in that?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure when some people look out to the field they see a game of skill and athleticism. I’m just not one of those people.

What kind of person am I? You see that guy standing on the sidelines near the bleachers? The one with the baseball cap on backward, hands buried in his pockets with stiff shoulders? The one with the puzzled look on his face who keeps looking down at his watch hoping time will suddenly speed up? That’s the kind of person I am.

That’s a dad who clearly doesn’t understand a damn thing this coach ten feet away from him is explaining to his team. He’s got a clipboard, and he’s handing out something called “pennies” while throwing down miniature cones yelling something about sharks and minnows. What the hell? Can someone please just kick the damn ball so we can get on with it?

There are eight kids surrounding the coach as he splits them into two teams. Each one runs enthusiastically in the direction that the coach points them to and then there’s Callan.

You see that kid sitting inside the goalie net? The one who bears a striking resemblance to the man with the stiff shoulders? The onestillreading theNational Geographic?

That’s my kid. Bright side, at least he’s not the kid eating dirt and picking his nose.

“I don’t know why Coach Bennett lets that kid play,” a man two feet from me grumbles, shaking his head voicing his disgust that a boy would be reading during practice. “He just sits there.”

I remain quiet but shift my position so that I’m facing them. Immediately they have my attention because they’re talking about my kid. I’m holding my tongue because it’s probably for the best I don’t say anything. You may find this hard to believe but, I think most people are fucking idiots, and I have to keep my mouth shut, or 90 percent of what I’m thinking could land my ass in jail. Or punched in the face. Both have happened. Not pretty.

The guy next to him laughs, like this guy’s observation is funny to him. Probably is. It’s not his kid they’re talking about. “You know damn well why he lets him, Jeff. It’s because Madison’s his mom, and Bennett just wants to stare at her tits and ass every Tuesday and Saturday.”

I eye them assessing their build and whether they can kick my ass. Over the years, I’ve become pretty good at judging whether I can win a fight. These guys are strong maybe. It’s hard to tell for sure. They’re big but they look like the only weight they’ve been lifting is their own fat asses in and out of a fast food restaurant booth. They kind of remind me of those football jocks in college. You know the ones I’m talking about…? They have muscles but you know most of it comes from playing offensive lineman, and they couldn’t throw a punch if they had to.

Me, on the other hand, I can throw and land a punch. I work out at least four days a week, despite my long hours and run twice a week. I’m in shape. Always have been. Fitness is important to both Madison and me, and I don’t think these two have seen the inside of a gym in years.

---