The True Love Experiment

Whether or not I ever have children of my own remains to be seen, but what can be stated without ambiguity is that I am the most embarrassing adult to ever attend a child’s soccer game.

Even Jess and River don’t want to be seen with me. They march ahead onto the field, lugging chairs, a cooler, and a sunshade to a point that seems like the farthest distance from where we parked. I know the marching can’t be because they’re grouchy that I’ve declared myself to be JUNO’S BIGGEST FAN with bold black letters on a fluorescent pink shirt, because it’s objectively true: only Juno’s biggest fan would wear this in public. But my sweet little dancer has decided to try something new, and even if she’s too mentally sturdy to tremble in fear, rumor has it she hasn’t been sleeping well in the nights leading up to her first soccer match. So if I can be a bigger idiot than anyone else out here, then maybe Juno won’t worry so much about whether she’ll mess up. I have pom-poms in my tote bag, but they’re a “break in case of emergency” kind of thing. Hopefully it won’t come to that.

But once we’re set up at the sideline, I think I might have overcompensated. This entire operation doesn’t seem that intense. Of course there is the one kid in high-tech gear with shiny new cleats and ribbons in her hair that match the uniform. Her parents are easy to spot, too; they’re the ones taking a million pictures of warm-ups and shouting encouragement/instructions across the field. But this is, after all, a group of ten-year-olds, so there’s also the kid who’s obviously in her older sibling’s shorts, which are cinched tightly at the waist and balloon out past her knees, as well as the kid whose parents must be as sporty as I am because they’ve sent their daughter to a soccer game in jeans.

I spot Juno in a small group of girls gathered around a sequoia of a man who’s bent and drawing something on a clipboard. He’s too far away for me to ogle properly but has dark hair and upper arms that seem to test the physics of his T-shirt sleeves.

“Hello, sir.” I make binoculars out of my hands and pretend to zoom in. “Ahhwoooogah.”

I have been a mess since dinner with Connor. An absolute horndog. I haven’t mentioned it to Jess because I think she’s so unsettled by my admitted loss of sex drive and inspiration that she’ll be the worst enabler. It’s been hard enough not texting Connor a daily How about now? The last thing I need is Jess’s brand of ride-or-die yelling “You deserve good sex!” in my ear every day.

“That’s the coach,” Jess says, pushing up one of the arms of the shade tent and clicking it into place.

“Let me tell you, my kid would never miss a game.”

She laughs. “He’s one of the parents, actually. Stevie’s dad.”

Stevie is one of Juno’s newer friends, and although I’ve only met her a few times, the two of them are hysterical when together. Too smart and cute for their own good and more fun than many of the adults I know. Who knew they were making kids so great these days?

I adjust my imaginary binoculars. “Well, Stevie’s dad is a hot piece.”

“He is, indeed.”

River ducks inside the sunshade with the three folding chairs in one big hand. “Who’s a hot piece?”

“You.” Jess stretches to kiss him. “And Connor.”

I think River gives this fair consideration. I think he says, “Stevie’s dad? I could see that.” But I’m not entirely sure because all motion in my brain has halted.

“Did you just say Connor?” I ask, stomach falling.

Jess is distracted by a folding chair that won’t open. “Yeah, Connor Prince? He’s the coach you’re checking out.”

“No.”

Jess slowly looks up at me, sensing danger. “Yes?”

“Absolutely not.” I immediately shove my imaginary binoculars away.

“What’s wrong with you?” River asks me, laughing.

“That’s—that’s Stevie’s dad out there?” I point in the distance at the giant whose shadow now, I admit, looks strikingly similar to the man I wanted to bend me over the kitchen counter the other night. “Adorable Stevie who told me the sad story about global warming and sea turtles, so I threw a bunch of money at the Oceanic Society?” Oh shit, that actually tracks.

I groan and sit in the chair Jess has just coaxed open.

“Have a seat,” she tells me wryly, opening another and sitting down beside me.

“This is a plot twist I should have expected,” I grumble. “Am I a writer or a block of wood?”

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” River asks.

Jess holds up her hands. “Don’t look at me.”

“Do you know what Connor does for a living?” I ask them.

Wincing, Jess admits, “I think Juno said something about conservation?”

I look over at River. “What about you?”

He presses a surprised hand over his chest. “Me?”

“Yes. You out of any of us.”

“Why ‘of any of us’?”

“Because Connor Prince III is the creator and executive producer on my upcoming dating show, the one that uses your life’s work as its central hook.”

Jess presses her fingertips to her lips, speaking from behind them, “Oh my God, you’ve been fucking with Connor this whole time?”

“I’ve been nicer lately. I invited him inside after the signing.”

Jess’s wince tells me she’s read this right, but she gives me an out. “Please tell me you mean inside for a cup of coffee.”

“No, inside my vagine.”

River coughs out a sip of water.

“Sadly for him, he turned me down.”

River’s low, mournful whistle says Awkward.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Honestly, it’s probably good one of us had our heads on straight. I was just feeling sexy for the first time in forever, and he was conveniently there.”

Nice one, Pinocchio.

My best friend nods dubiously. “Right, he was just there, just a hulking, muscled Adonis that you were attracted to purely because your dry spell has gone on so long.”

“I’m glad you get it,” I tell her with exaggerated gratitude.

“Sorry, wait, it’s just sinking in.” Jess presses her fingers to her forehead. “You propositioned the guy who’s running the show where you try to match with a soulmate?”

“It was just a mood,” I insist. “One and done.”

“I’ve interacted with Natalia more because she’s got Stevie during the week,” Jess says. “But Connor seems like a really sweet man. He doesn’t strike me as one and done.”

“Are you suggesting sweet men can’t also have moods?” I swing my smirking eyes to River. “They can, right, Hot Genius?”

He busies himself with opening the cooler, saying a distracted, “Sorry, just a sec.”

“I just mean,” Jess continues, “you thought this guy was an asshole. You called him Hot Millionaire then Hot Brit—” She cuts off, narrowing her eyes at me. “You did the typecasting thing with him, didn’t you?”

“In my defense he is very hard to pin down. He had a different vibe at first—he was absolutely a Hot Millionaire Executive the first time we met.”

“Connor? Not even a little,” she protests.

“I mean, obviously I’m not going to win this argument today when he’s showing muscular thigh in shorts and wearing a T-shirt that’s, like, four sizes too small, but you just have to take my word that first-impression Connor was a mix between Kendall Roy and a Lego figure, including the hair.”

As usual, my mouth is moving too fast. These last words come out just as I register the long shadow in front of our chairs isn’t from the sunshade.

“Well,” Connor says, “at least tell me I’m Lego Batman or the Hot Lifeguard.”