Page 126 of Lost in Love

Callan shrugs. “I guess so.”

Four

The “other” dads

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 assessing 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.

“Who are you talking about?” I ask, stepping forward to include myself in their conversation whether they want me to or not.

The taller of the two speaks first but doesn’t look at me when he says, “Callan’s mom. She’s got great fucking tits and ass.” And then he examines me when I’m in his eyesight, his hand coming up to shield the sun. He eyes me up and down. “Who are you? We haven’t seen you around before.”

I’m always up for a little game of fuck you. My lips pull into a grin, my arms crossing over my chest in what can only be displayed as intimidation. “Callan’s dad.”

You know those looks you get from people when they’re so shocked they can’t form words for a few seconds, but their mouth continues to move? The whole fish out of water effect? I’m getting that right now. And then he asks, “Really?” And he laughs like he’s amused. I’m clearly not. “Well, shit. We assumed Callan’s dad was some kind of deadbeat.”

Well you know what they say about those who assume, it makes an ass out of them and makes me want to break his jaw. I wonder how this guy feels about a broken jaw?

I snort, and in case you couldn’t tell from my reaction just now, I’ll just come out and say it for you: I have no respect for this douche digger or his booger eating kid who just kicked my son’s magazine out of his hand and then turns to wave like we should applaud or something. Didn’t think I noticed that, did you? Yeah, well, I notice everything. Not if you ask Madison, but I do. I want to grab that little fucker by his neck and make him pick the magazine up. It’ll have to wait though because first I have to deal with this asshole in front of me.

I stare blankly at the man.

When I don’t say anything—because forgive me, I’m trying to decide what to say—his buddy asks, “How long have you and Madison been divorced?”

Divorced? They’re really trying to piss me off, aren’t they?

A whistle’s blown in the background but neither of us look, we’re locked in a stare. And as I look at these guys, I realize theyreallywant to know. It’s like they’re trying to gather enough information so that they can offer her a strong shoulder to cry on while staring at her tits.

“We’renotdivorced.” Not yet anyway. And as far as I’m concerned, weneverwill be. I don’t care what those papers now stuffed under the seat of my truck say. And I’m certainly not telling shit for brains she filed for divorce.

“Do you work out of town or something?”

Raising my hand to my jaw, I scratch the side of my face. Not that it itches. I just do it. “What did you say your name was?”

The man gives me a “what the fuck” look. “I didn’t, but it’s Kent. And you are?”

I smile. I can’t help it. “I’m Ridley. And no, I’m notusuallyout of town.”

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