The Exception

by Mickey Miller

I informed her that there were more important things in life. Is that so? She wanted to know. Yes, I explained to her. Football. That’s how our unlikely friendship started. We were almost exactly the stereotypical version of ‘the nerd girl and the jock’.

Her lips are soft like pillows, and when I meet her for the kiss, she lets out a breathy moan that’s ever so slight. “Dallas,” she breathes, pushing back on my chest with her palm. I glance at the dash clock, and five minutes have passed. I have no idea where time goes when I’m kissing Reagan McKinley. I think a gnome steals it.

“As a man,” he says, “you’re the protector of the woman you’re with. Call me old-fashioned, but it’s the man’s job to look out for the woman he’s with. He doesn’t just try to score. Are you a good man, Mr. Connelly?”

But I think we both know the love is there. We’re both just waiting for one of us to say it. Little do I know, that hug would be the last hug I’d get from Reagan McKinley for almost twelve years. And in that space of time, the love we once had would turn into something else entirely. I never thought love could turn into hate, but life has a way of giving you what you least expect.

When I watch him I’m reminded of what my grandmother told me on her deathbed—Reagan, marry a man who is a couple of notches lower than you on the looks scale. That way, you’ll be in the driver’s seat of the relationship. You’ll be secure. And secure is good. My first reaction was, Grandma, are you trying to tell me Grandpa wasn’t a looker? But translated into my current job, I take that advice as Don’t sleep with a player.

Incidentally, that’s also the golden rule of being a woman who works in a front office position in professional football. Me, personally? I never date athletes. Never have, never will. Okay, that never have part may not be totally true.

Maybe it’s the statistician in me. I’m too used to running risk-reward analyses, and with an athlete, the juice just isn’t worth the squeeze nine times out of ten. It’s just probability.

My speed is George, my boyfriend of almost two years. Stable and dependable. Works a slightly-boring-to-most-people but decent-paying tech job. George is perfect for me. He’s not an ex. Or an athlete. Doesn’t have a big ego. These are all big red flags that will, statistically speaking, put the longevity of your relationship at risk. And no, I didn’t nerdily run those number one day when I was bored at work. Okay, yes. Yes I have.

Burn in hell, Dallas Connelly. Although it’s not even Dallas’s fault that I hate him like I do. I should have told him my secret twelve years ago when I had the chance. But it’s a little late for that now.

“Hawaii, you say? I think I could get on board with that.” It will be nice to get some mental space away from the mainland. And yes, away from Dallas Connelly. Somehow, being on an island sounds like a very healing time. I touch the necklace I got in France, right after we broke up. Yes, sunshine and a break from everything is exactly what I need. Little do I know, that’s definitely not what I’m about to get.

I wish I could let go of Reagan. I’ve wished it for twelve years. God knows, my life would be easier if I just let the idea of Reagan and me die. But I can’t.

“Sure haven’t. I’ve always been of the mind that it’s better to whole-ass one thing than to half-ass two things. C’mon. Get in.”