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No Scrubs – TLC

Addie

“I would have gone pro if I hadn’t busted my knee.”

The skin beneath my eye twitches.

This is my fault.

I opened this can of worms when Dave, my date, asked what I do for work. I responded honestly—poor choice on my part—and told him I work for the Seattle Mavericks, a professional football team, as a nutritionist. You would think I learned my lesson after my last date asked me to help him with his fantasy football team, but here I am, making the same mistake and having to deal with the consequences in the form of listening to Dave relive his glory days.

I hum noncommittally before sipping on my water.

We sat down at the table ten minutes ago, and the date has gone downhill at a rapid pace. As soon as I can escape this hell, I am deleting the dating app from my phone. I’d rather be celibate than suffer through another date with a different version of Dave.

The planning required to schedule a date—making sure Nora’s babysitter is free and spending time getting ready—is not worth my suffering. Maybe I’ll find love in the next lifetime. Perhaps there will be better fish in the proverbial sea.

I glance around the exposed brick walls and Edison lights of the upscale restaurant. On any other occasion, I might enjoy the upscale, industrial restaurant with its menu full of unique burgers, but the vibe has been murdered.

“What do you do for work?”

Do I want to know anything about him? No. Do I want to give him additional time to talk about himself? Not particularly, but it’s either ask him questions to keep him talking or sit in uncomfortable silence until it’s socially appropriate to end the date.

“I’m an investment banker. Have you heard of stocks?”

Where’s the ‘date from hell’ bingo card? Because I’m only a few boxes away from leaping out of my seat and yelling ‘Bingo!’

The waitress stops at our table with a basket of steaming bread before I can answer Dave’s question about stocks, and my jaw nearly hits the floor when his eyes roam along her skin, hungrily checking her out when I’m sitting right across from him.

Is it possible to convey ‘please save me’ through a blink? Because I’m willing to give it a shot, especially if the waitress can make something up. Maybe there’s a kitchen fire or a celebrity that demands to sit at our table and we have to leave the restaurant immediately.

Instead, she asks for our order and misses my plea for help.

“I’ll take the steak. Medium rare. Baked potato.” Dave orders and I take his pause as my cue, gearing up to order the largest cheeseburger on the menu, but instead, he continues, “She’ll have the Caesar salad, hold the cheese and croutons, and put the dressing on the side.”

My tongue bleeds from the brute force required to say nothing. He ordered me lettuce. I only want lettuce when it’s on top of a juicy burger with all the fixings.

When the waitress leaves, Dave’s gaze drops to my chest, like he has X-ray vision and can see what’s beneath my jumpsuit if he stares long enough.

What a douche.

“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”

With as much composure as I can manage—which is very little considering he ordered me a plate of lettuce—I disappear into the ornate bathroom, complete with a sitting room and complimentary mints. If only it also had a time machine, and I could go back in time and warn past Addie to say no when Dave asked her out on a date.

He didn’t seem too bad when we chatted on the app, though I should have seen his common spelling errors for what they were: a massive red flag.

This is only the second date I’ve been on since I moved to Seattle and it’s no better than the first. It took me four months before the guilt of moving Nora across the country settled enough for me to allow myself time alone, and it consisted of grocery trips while Marlene, the elderly woman down the hall, watched movies with Nora.

It took another month to find a babysitter I trusted enough to take care of Nora alone and then another to convince myself to download a dating app. Marlene is great, and I appreciate her help immensely, but I’m uncomfortable asking her to watch Nora while I go out at night to date. I can’t help but feel she would judge me for it, so I had to find someone young, but trustworthy, which was damn near impossible since I moved to this city with Nora and everything I could fit into my car.

Outside of my coworkers, I don’t know many people in Seattle. Well, I guess that’s not true. I know Dave, but I would rather not, so I’m at an impasse.

The marble countertop is cool beneath my palm and I lean up to the mirror, swiping at the concealer beneath my eyes. I’ll never get back the time I spent putting makeup on, and I don’t know why, but it makes me hate Dave for taking the time from me.

“Survive another hour,” I whisper to myself in the mirror, straightening my spine and fixing my hair. “Politely eat the lettuce and then you can get food on the way home.”

A juicy cheeseburger and a bucket of fries are the motivation I need to finish this date. It’s what I planned to order before Dave took away my opportunity.

I fix my emerald jumpsuit, pulling the neckline higher, and give myself two finger guns in the mirror for good luck. Nora started throwing finger guns a few weeks ago, and the action has stuck.

My daughter: a trendsetter.

Weaving through the restaurant as slowly as possible—I circle around the lobby twice before I get a few odd looks—I return to the table, and Dave’s lecherous gaze starts at my toes and travels to my eyes—snagging on my breasts, obviously—before his lips contort into a sneer.

“You’re taller than I expected.”

If this goes the way I think it’s about to go, then I might not make it the full hour I promised myself in the mirror.

My height is in my profile to avoid this exact scenario. I even rounded up one-eighth of an inch and put 6’2’’, so truly, I should be shorter than he expected.

Someone get me that bingo sheet, I have another box to stamp with a dabber.

“It was on my profile,” I mumble, taking a deep gulp of my water. I really wish this were wine.

He gives me another up-down, and I suppress a disgusted shiver.

I’ve outgrown the phase of my life where my height is a point of self-consciousness. I was all limbs in middle school, but once I started playing volleyball, I stopped thinking about my height. There were women taller than me, and women shorter. There are more important things to worry about now, like if I’m a horrible mother or if all of my choices are wrong, or if I’m going to give myself food poisoning for eating week-old leftovers.

“That can’t be right,” Dave starts. “I’m six-foot-four and you’re taller than I am.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Not this song and dance.

I’ve given Dave the benefit of the doubt all night. I should have thrown in the towel when he ordered me a meal for a rabbit. Or, I should have stuck up for myself and ordered the cheeseburger like I wanted instead of letting him speak for me.

I click my tongue. “My height is accurate.”

It comes out snippy, but I’m hungry, tired, and having a horrible time, so my patience is thin. The response leads to an uncomfortable silence that stretches until the waitress returns with our meals.

Save me! I plead, one last time, with the enlargement of my eyeballs, but she misses it.

The lettuce looks pathetic and sad on my plate, especially sitting across from a juicy steak, but I nibble on the leaves and Caesar dressing. I’m pushing the salad around the plate, contemplating my life choices, when I hear a distinctive voice, deep and honeyed.

“Addie?”

My head snaps up at the familiar voice.

Fuck. Just what I need.

This date wasn’t bad enough on its own, the universe needed to add running into one of my players to the bingo sheet.

Declan Monroe stands beside our table, captivating blue eyes, deep like lapis lazuli, bouncing between Dave and me. His hair—a brown so deep it’s nearly black—is long and in need of a trim, but he’s exactly like he was at the end of the season: run down and tired.

It wasn’t hard to see he was different, duller than he used to be, and his weight dropped so dramatically at the end of the season, I was worried he wasn’t eating at all. He would drink smoothies, so I would pack them full of high-calorie fruits and protein powders in hopes it would help, but he wouldn’t speak to Ben about what was going on, so we did what we could.

My stomach does an uncomfortable flip, like it does when Nora is sick and I don’t know how to help her.

“Hi.”

I offer him a small, uncomfortable wave, but Dave stares at him like a deer in headlights, “star-struck” written all over his face. Bleh . No one would be star-struck with these guys if they knew how badly their equipment smells before it’s washed.

Declan clears his throat and gestures at the empty seat beside Dave and me.

“Do you mind if I sit? My food is taking longer than I expected.”

“Yeah, man!” Dave responds, “I was at the game where you broke the record for yards caught. Absolutely insane.”

“Thanks,” Declan says. He slides into the chair, scooting it slightly closer to my side, before leaning back, eyes flickering between us. His eyebrows crinkle when he reaches my jumpsuit, and he blinks a few times when he sees my meal.

Unsure of what to say, I take another bite of salad as Dave asks Declan questions about the upcoming season. He’s completely forgotten about my presence, and I use the opportunity to check my phone. Seeing no messages from Meagan, Nora’s babysitter, I tune back into the conversation.

“So, Addie works for you?” Dave asks.

“Addie and I work together ,” Declan amends, and I roll my lips to hide my smile.

Take that, Dave.

Some athletes see staff as below them, but the culture in Seattle is different. Support staff are treated like equals, because without us, Declan and the other players would have a very hard time doing their jobs. There would be no taped ankles or pre-game smoothies. The equipment would never get washed or make it to games. Coach Barrett and the general manager know this, and they make it a priority to make sure their players know it, too.

“She’s one of the best nutritionists in the league,” Declan continues, “And the world’s best smoothie maker according to Deon Adams.”

“Not too bad on the eyes either. Bet it’s nice to have some eye candy at work,” Dave jokes.

Bile rises in my throat, and I feel like an idiot for allowing his treatment all evening, but for him to talk about me like this to Declan—to someone I work with—is embarrassing on another level. How do I explain that this is a first date and there will never, ever be another?

My cheeks flame as I muster up the courage to meet Declan’s gaze, but he’s laser-focused on Dave.

“ Excuse me? ” Declan’s voice holds a dangerous edge, so different from the goofy flirt I’m used to hearing about at work.

Dave gulps, but is saved from having to respond when the waitress hands Declan a massive bag of food. The dinnerware on the table rattles as he rises, and I begin to sink into my chair, hoping the wood will absorb my body, when he reaches out his free hand toward me.

“Let's go,” Declan commands, wiggling his fingers, enticing me to put my hand in his. Instead, I stare at it like an idiot. God, his hands are large. He leans in, voice lowered so only I can hear him. “Do you want to be here?”

I shake my head, and it’s all Declan needs as he rips me out of my seat and against his chest. Heat radiates off of him as he faces Dave with thinly veiled disdain.

“You should learn how to speak to women with respect,” he pauses, focused on the top of Dave’s head. “And your toupee looks like shit.”

Dave’s hand flies to the crown of his head, but I’m ushered out the door before I can register his response. Declan’s hand is a comforting weight on my lower back as we exit the restaurant and into the warm June air.

The wind whips hair in front of my face, and I push the rogue strands away to get a good look at Declan. He’s so tall that I have to tip my chin just slightly to make eye contact.

“Were you on a date?” he asks.

Maybe it's the genuine concern in his question or the insane events of the last hour, but my composure splinters, and I begin to laugh. It grows uncontrollable until I’m bent over in tears. I’ve had a lot of embarrassing moments in my life, but being saved from a terrible date by a player I work with has to be in the top five.

“Please tell me you weren’t on a date with that douchebag?”

I can’t stop laughing, and my sides begin to cramp.

“Unfortunately,” I choke, pulling out my phone and immediately deleting the app I downloaded. “I am done with dating apps,” I declare, throwing a fist into the air.

Declan shifts on his feet, warily watching me. The street lamps illuminate the concern crossing his features.

I quickly sober up at his discomfort. He thinks I’m crazy, I can see it in his eyes; probably thinks I have terrible taste in men, too.

“Well…Thanks for the rescue.”

I offer him finger guns because apparently I haven’t embarrassed myself quite enough, and I slowly creep away from him, walking backwards.

He gives me an odd look, one that morphs into horror right as I slam into a light pole, body ricocheting forward from the hit. I shriek, preparing to land on my face, but Declan’s in front of me.

I slam into the slab of concrete he calls his chest instead.

“Are you okay?”

“Mhm,” I hum, escaping from his grip.

“People usually face the way they walk,” Declan teases.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I know I’ve turned into a ripe tomato. I’ve got to get out of here, stat.

“Got it.” I salute him. “See you later.”

I spin, facing the direction I plan to escape, and walk as quickly as possible, but not so fast that it looks like I’m running away. I’ve got to exude some level of class as I make my getaway. Because that’s what I’ve been doing all night—exuding class.

I’m halfway down the street when Declan calls out, “Addie, wait!”

Like a coward, I speed up, but he’s a professional athlete and I’m wearing a jumpsuit not meant for exercise, so he catches up to me.

“Eat with me.” He raises his bag of food, and the smell of grease fills the air. My stomach gurgles, and it pulls a stunning smile from Declan’s lips.

“I’m full,” I lie, patting my abdomen.

“From the plain lettuce you were eating?” he counters, raising an eyebrow when my body releases a roar. “I have pasta, bread, French fries, ribs, a cheeseburger—”

He just said the magic word.

“I’m in.”