Single State of Mind by Andi Dorfman

Author:Andi Dorfman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books

the yankee

The day after I return from San Francisco, I’m greeted with a text from the baseball player Jess is trying to set me up with. A quick Google search of him reveals that not only is he a baseball player, but he plays for the most famous baseball team in America, the Yankees. Go big or go home, I guess.

He asks me what my schedule looks like this week. I tell him the only night I’m free is Thursday, which turns out to be the only night he’s free as well.

“So dinner Thursday? ” he asks.

“Let’s do drinks,” I respond.

“Okay. Drinks and maybe dinner Thursday? ”

“Perfect. Maybe.”

He’s intrigued, and I know it. To be honest, I wasn’t suggesting we do only drinks as a smooth move. I really wasn’t trying to play games. I just didn’t want to commit to a full dinner with someone I knew nothing about. “Drinks” could mean just drinks. You could have one, maybe two, and then call it a night because you only agreed to drinks and nothing more. Or “drinks” could mean drinks followed by dinner, followed by more drinks, followed by who knows what else. Anything can happen with “drinks.”

I call Jess to whine about being set up on a date. I go on and on about how I am dreading having to go on a first date with a stranger because I hate first dates because they’re awkward and they never lead anywhere—and she cuts me off. “Shut the fuck up and go on the date with the Yankee.” She’s right. I’m bitching about “having” to go on a date with a professional athlete, a Yankee no less.

Thursday afternoon rolls around, and he texts me.

The Yankee: “Still good for drinks? ”

Me: “Yeah! Are you bringing any friends or is it just you? ”

The Yankee: “Just me. U killing me.”

Me: “Sorry ha ha, why? Was that bad for me to ask? ”

The Yankee: “I’m trying to ask you on a date. U already downgraded me from dinner to drinks ha ha.”

Me: “Shit. I did, didn’t I? Okay so drinks, just us. Good? ”

The Yankee: “Yes. Anywhere you’ve been dying to go? ”

I tell him not really. The conversation continues with him asking what neighborhood I live in and what my address is. He tells me he’ll pick me up at eight and we can walk somewhere in my neighborhood. I agree.

Five minutes before eight fifteen, I get a text from the Yankee telling me he’s downstairs. I quickly grab my clutch and throw on a coat before locking my apartment door behind me. I can see him standing at the bottom of my stoop as I push the door open. And just like in the movies, when I emerge, he turns around with a smile on his face. Damn, he’s hot! Everything about him is hot. His athletic build, his salty-blond hair, the perfect amount of scruff on his chin and cheeks that says I care about hygiene, but I’m still a man. Even his peacoat is hot. It’s not a feminine-looking peacoat, it’s a sophisticated, simple but expensive-looking one.

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