Page 81 of Playing the Field
“You called me. And I have nowhere to be, so take your time.” Dario takes a swallow of his beer and waits. I see he’s not going to make this easy by slinging small talk.
Fine. I guess I don’t deserve easy.
“I guess I have some questions.” My eyes sweep over the toys and trains, and it hits me that he faces the same professional stresses I do, only he does so as a single dad with a kid in his full-time care. I feel exhausted from my own thoughts. I can’t imagine how he manages the actual exhaustion that comes with raising a human being.
I rest my forehead against my palm and close my eyes against the world.
“We don’t have to talk. We can drink a beer, enjoy a moment of peace. Lord knows I don’t get a lot of that with a five-year-old,” he says.
“Where’s your kid?”
“Asleep. Which means this is the time I have forthis.” He gestures between me and his beer before picking up his phone and tapping something on the screen.
I shouldn’t have come here. He’s got better things to do than give me a couch to wallow on, so I stand from the couch, planning on thanking him for the beer and heading home.
A chill Alabama Shakes song starts playing from the surround-sound speakers, and Dario adjusts the volume on his phone. He looks at me standing there and raises an eyebrow.
“If you’re planning on going anywhere, it’d better be to the fridge for the next round.”
I do as instructed and put the unopened bottles on a tray sitting on the glass table and return to my seat on the couch.
“Okay, spill,” he instructs, waving me forward. “What is eating you up? I can start guessing if it makes it easier. The team? Coach? A woman?” He watches me, and something must change in my expression because he nods. “Bingo. Who is she?”
Shaking my head, I again regret that I came here. I detest thethought of letting another person know about my screwups and getting wind of my weaknesses. I let out a long breath and consider whether I can make up a lie and pretend I’m here about something else.
“Jesus, man. Stop torturing yourself,” Dario says. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as the hell storm you’re making it out to be in your head.”
I close my eyes and ratchet up the courage I didn’t think I needed to talk to another dude. “I fucked up my relationship with an incredible woman I never deserved in the first place, and the worst part is that I can’t stop trying to figure out how to fix it, even though the best thing I can do for her is stay far away. She deserves so much better than me, but I’m having a hard time letting her go.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I keep going, giving him more details about all the ways I screwed things up for myself. It’s like I want to lay out all the evidence so he can tell me I’m right to feel as shitty as I do right now.
I guess I’m hoping for some tough love and proof that I did the right thing. Who better than a guy who’s a lone wolf? He sees how hot-tempered and stubborn I am every day, so I leave to him to explain that some people are meant to be alone.
The song changes to Springsteen, and I feel oddly comforted by the Boss singing about his desire for a woman.
When Dario finally speaks, it’s to tell me something I already know. “Sounds like you love her and don’t want to lose her.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Though irrelevant to the situation.”
“Why? Seems very relevant. Fix your mistake. Tell her how you really feel. Make things right.”
He says those things like they’re easy.
“Or I could be alone. Simpler, right?”
“If you’re a coward, maybe. But that’s not you. And look, I get what it’s like to have a dad who fills your head with shit, and then that becomes the narrative. ‘You’re not good enough.’ ‘You’re notsmart enough.’ ‘You’re never successful enough.’ ‘You don’t deserve to be happy.’ It’s bullshit, man. There’s no way out, unless you agree to stop listening.”
I sit dumbfounded because I can’t remember ever telling him about my dad.
“He used to come to games, I remember,” he explains, as though he knows my thoughts. “Tough nut to crack. Always looked a little angry, even when you played your ass off and I never knew how that could possibly be, except that my dad was the same way. Used to tear me up. I thought about quitting the sport just to spite him.”
“Would’ve been a waste.”
He looks off as though remembering. “You got that right. Only took me years of therapy to figure it out and stop doing it.”
“Do what?”
“Not letting his voice become my own. Not making his opinions more important than what I know about myself.” He shakes his head. “Shouldn’t be so damn hard, but there you go.”
