Page 2 of Forecasting the Forward

I was meant to be a Coloradan. I find joy in every season, and I never miss an opportunity to gape at the mountains. Great food, shopping, and outdoor activities. The dating market, however, was drier than a La Niña summer in Colorado. Any man I do meet shows his true colors within two dates: he’s either married, a compulsive liar, talks about having an open relationship on the first date, or, like I explained to Danica, lives at home with his mom.

“He’s as windy as a sack full of farts,” Grammy used to say. My grandmother, God rest her sassy soul, was from southern Kentucky, near the Tennessee border. She grew up dirt poor. I thought that was just a phrase, until she explained that the house where she spent her first five years literally didn’t haveflooring. It was just a dirt floor. One of nine siblings, Grammy fondly remembered her momma reading to them every night by candlelight, and all the fun she and her sisters could have with only the outside as a toy. “We played a lot of pretend. On the rare chance we got a new toy, oh my, we’d be happier than a dead pig in the sunshine.”

Translation: they had fun.

Grammy taught me to find joy in the little things. Don’t focus on trivial matters. Look at the big picture before writing something — or someone — off.

Which is why I’ll let Danica set me up one last time. Her heart is in the right place, but I think I need a dating moratorium. A man sabbatical. A no-sex semester.

Besides, it’s not like men can really help me out sexually. When was the last time I had a male-led orgasm? Goodness. It’s been years. Why is finding the clit so hard for men? Are they really that dense, or do they actually not care about a woman’s pleasure? At this point, I’m beginning to think it’s the latter.

Sighing, I grab my bag from under the table and stand up to push in my chair. As I look down to see a new text message, I hit something solid. Gasping, I let go of my phone, throwing my arms out to balance myself. I already envision slamming into the pavement, and hope I avoid scraping my face. No matter what I tell viewers, they’ll assume the worst. Or, they’ll think I’m doing it for attention. I can never win, and usually get at least one hateful email per week about something. My skirt was too tight. Too pink. Too loose. Too bland. Someone didn’t like my hair. Thought it looked like a hooker’s hair. Asked if I owned a hairbrush. Have I gained weight? How far along am I in the pregnancy? Do I ever eat? I need to see a physician to treat my undiagnosed bulimia. Oh, and I mispronounced the name of a town in southern France while showing a video of a flash flood there. How dare I.

Before gravity takes over, a warm arm clamps around my waist, yanking me into the solid surface I’d bounced off. Another arm lashes out, grabbing my phone with alarmingly quick reflexes.

“Are you okay?” Wow. That deep voice, a baritone that I feel in my bones, seems smooth, yet gritty, at the same time. I have an immediate thought of that voice talking me through an orgasm, and I instinctively shudder. For fuck’s sake. It’s been way too long since I’ve had sex, and my lady bits are taking notice. My nipples are diamond peaks smushed into his thick chest, and it’s the most action I’ve gotten in forever.

Men may not know where the clit is, but I still enjoy the process.

As I gather my wits about me, my eyes take in the body from the neck down. Athletic shorts snugly cover incredibly thick thighs, while black and white slides sit on his sturdy feet. How can I be thinking of feet as sturdy? I don’t know, but this guy has them.

A loose University of Michigan T-shirt adorns a thick chest. It’s a well-loved shirt, the large M faded in the middle, but the fabric feels soft under my fingertips. That’s right, I’m now fingering his shirt.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking,” I stammer, pushing against his chest to step away. It’s only then that I get a view of his face. And holy hell, what a face. I should know, as he’s featured on the news almost daily.

Jacob Mitchell.

Star forward for the NHL Denver Wolves.

Jacob is known more by his nickname of Jax, but I’ve never thought the name suited him. Jax sounds like a pompous name of someone my father would bring around the house for me to date. A man who wears a sweater over his shoulders and boatshoes all year. Jacob, however, explains the testosterone and man still holding me.

It explains the athletic slides, as well as the tree-trunk sized thighs that could probably crack a coconut if he tried hard enough. A backwards hat covers dark blond curls that always look perfectly out of control, and I hate knowing I’ve thought about what it might feel like to run my fingers through them. I just know his hair is soft.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asks again, his stupid southern twang hitting all the right places in my body. When his grin widens, I realize he knows he’s affecting me, and that really pisses me off.

I hate athletes. Loathe. Detest.

That’s not entirely true, as almost every long-term boyfriend I’ve had in my life has been an athlete in one way or another.

Professional athletes? Not enough words to express my disdain for them.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he says, and I laugh sarcastically.

“That’s the best you can come up with?”

His brow furrows as he studies me. “That wasn’t a line. You look really familiar.”

“I get that a lot.” I’m not going to explain myself. He probably only watches the sports report on my channel, undoubtedly ignoring anything else newsworthy.

“Me too.”

I roll my eyes as I push away from him. Yeah, he’s still holding onto my waist, and I’m clueless as to why I’ve stood stationary this entire time. Jeez, Becs. Get it together. “Okay. Great. Thanks for — well. You know. Saving me and all. Gotta go.”

I step back, and the warmth of his arm drops from me. Beautiful baby blue eyes peer down at me in confusion, I’m sure due to me not falling at his feet like women undoubtedly do. Hereaches up to twist his ball cap around, giving me a glimpse at his tousled curls pointing in every direction, before he slides the cap down onto his forehead. It’s like his hat, when backwards, allows an open dialogue with Jacob. Once he turns it around, however, I can see the invisible wall slamming down as he schools his expression.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

“Yup. Totally fine,” I respond, slapping my hands together for an unknown reason. Am I okay? Hard to tell. Physically, yes. Emotionally, I’m a complete mess. This man has rattled me, which is something that rarely happens to me. “Thanks again.”

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