Page 34 of Well Played

For yearsI watched Bronx Parker play center for my favorite rugby league team. No one cheered louder when he retired early to take up a coaching role, and when he was promoted to head coach within three years, I watched each post-game media interview with renewed interest.

To say I’m a fan is an understatement. But there’s a difference between idolizing a man on TV and having a front-row seat to the impact of his marriage breakdown on his daughter. Charlotte Parker spends half her lunchtimes in my office crying because she misses her daddy, and the other half in the playground avoiding taunts about her family drama.

I could separateCharlotte’s fatherfromBronx Parkerin my head … until today. Now, I understand the phrase,panty-melting. Since Bronx Parker walked into my classroom, my disintegrated panties may never recover.

As one of the youngest primary school teachers, I’ve become immune to single fathers trying to use me to make their ex-wives jealous or snag me as a trophy date.

But I wasn’t immune to my body’s reaction when Bronx Parker rushed into the room and enveloped his daughter in a hug, so much hotter in person than I expected. When he held his own emotions at bay to listen and comfort her, I had to sit on the desk to stop my knees from giving way.

If hours of media interviews hadn’t been enough, the hour in my classroom told me everything I needed to know about the man. Bronx Parker puts his daughter first, second, and third. And I’m here alone, in the living room of my tiny apartment, to say there is nothing sexier than a man who loves his child … nothing.

I settle into my favorite chair and pull up online clips from Bronx Parker’s playing days. Unsurprisingly, there are still multiple fan sites dedicated to the sexy center. No one could anticipate Bronx Parker’s sidestep or his Hail Mary cut-out pass. No other center could tackle like a forward or run at the forward line without fear.

Most people thought he was crazy to walk away from his playing days to take on a coaching career. He still had a few good years playing at the elite level.

I scroll until finding the interview I think embodies his character.

“Won’t you miss the adrenaline and comradery of playing?” Graeme Masters asked on behalf ofRugby League World.

“My daughter is about to start school. I want to be there at drop off and pick up. I want to take her to dance or drama classes, to throw or kick a ball, and help with homework. I want to be an active father and I’ll be better able to do that as a coach. I love the game of rugby league and I think I have a few tricks to show the next generation of players.”

I’d forgotten the intensity of his emotion when he talked of his daughter.

I’d fangirled over the player long before I left high school, and fallen in love with the father who set aside his career for his daughter during my college years. Seeing him in person as Charlotte’s father, I don’t know how I’m going to keep a professional distance from either of them.

RUNNING FORWARD

Bronx

Thanks to my new lawyer,Charlotte spent her three days of school suspension with me. Three days and three nights for us to catch up on the last six months, with me downloading and reading her new favorite books, watching her new favorite TV shows, and learning a new eleven-year-old girl language.

Which means that this Sunday morning feels more lonely than last Sunday. When I dropped Charlotte off at Sloan’s and had to pry my little girl’s arms from around my neck, Sloan had to promise that I would pick her up from school on Wednesday. With no accusations of violence or safety concerns, my new lawyer has already facilitated a temporary schedule granting me forty percent custody, more than I hoped for.

I arrive at the Park Run starting point with half an hour to spare. I used to run with my then friendship group. Almost one dozen of us ran together, hiked together, and went away camping with our families, together. Then, my marriage imploded, and friends chose sides. Wives chose Sloan and my best friend. Husbands followed.

I didn’t blame them then, and I still don’t. Life is too short for blame or hate and I’m finally ready to join a new Park Run group and meet new friends.

As I start my stretching—because after thirty my muscles need more warming up than they did when I was twenty—I feel a sense of anticipation. I miss running. I miss the adrenaline of getting in the zone and competing with myself.

With a visitation schedule in place, I have a new lease on life and can look to the future.

I enjoy cooking and miss hosting dinner parties. After twelve months of separation, perhaps I should reach out to old friends and see who wants to taste my twenty-four-hour slow-cooked pork done in apple cider vinegar, star anise, and root vegetables.

And then there is running.

If I drop off Charlotte on Saturday mornings and come for a run, then I’ll avoid the silence of a broken home. Yes. New job, sharing new recipes with new friends, and a new running routine. See? I can do this single-father thing #winning.

“Well, Bronx Parker. Of all the Park Runs in all the world, you turn up at mine.”

I turn towards the female voice, surprised anyone recognized me in a baseball cap and generic running gear.

She is stunning, not in the way you see in magazines but what I call areal womanwith curves in all the right places, dressed for comfort and not fashion. She might know me, but with her light brown hair pulled into a high ponytail through the back of a visor and dark glasses hiding her eyes, I’m at a disadvantage. Her smirking smile seems genuine, and I feel the same stirrings as when I met Charlotte’s teacher.See, the old man isn’t dead, yet.

“Hi, I’m Bronx and I’m indeed gatecrashing your Park Run,” I say, standing straighter, tightening my abs, and offering her my hand.

“I know.” She dips her glasses down to flash the same beautiful turquoise eyes that I've dreamt of for three nights. “I'm Willow.”

The world doesn’t hate me.

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