Fresh Meet: A Single Dad Sports Romance - Jasmin Miller



Women are crazy.

I will probably deny ever having had this thought, but they are absolute nut jobs.

Especially the one standing in front of me.

Or maybe it's just my shitty talent of picking them.

With one hand poised on her hip, and her other one clutched tightly around the now empty wineglass, Sandra has a bigger resemblance to a snake-loving Medusa than the beautiful and exotic bikini model I enjoyed spending some of my downtime with.

Used to enjoy spending downtime with.

As of three minutes ago, right after I told her we should stop seeing each other—and she unceremoniously dumped her red wine on me. I'd say the breakup was successful.

Which is exactly what I wanted.

But I could have gone without the drama.

If her pursed lips are anything to go by, we're not done for tonight.

"Jace Atwood, I can't believe you're treating me like this. I thought we had something special. You're . . . you're . . . such an egomaniac asshole." Her voice is so high and screechy, I'm afraid every glass in this restaurant is going to burst any moment.

I'm not sure anyone would notice since everyone's attention is on this very public display of my newest failure of "How to dump a fuck-buddy-slash-casual-date in public."

I don’t often indulge in women because spoiler alert, I’m still clueless on how to pick a woman who actually means it when she says she wants casual.

My bad judgment is apparent by the drenched light blue dress shirt that’s clinging to my upper body like a second skin.

My bad.

I should have known better.

At least I was smart enough to ask for the corner table in the back of the restaurant.

With the help of the host, we get a very upset Sandra into a cab in less than ten minutes.

It’s a quiet evening otherwise, and George, the host and long-time fan of my career, waits with me for the valet to get my car. “How’s training going?”

Pushing my hands in the pockets of my black slacks, I kick a pebble onto the wet streets and chuckle. “It’s going. I definitely feel my age.”

The grin on his face comes fast, bringing out every last laugh line. I’m sure he’s earned every single one in his life fair and square.

His hand comes down on my shoulder. Hard. “You’re twenty-eight, Atwood. I’m almost three times your age. That’s when you’re allowed to complain about your aches and pains. Gosh, when I was your age . . . I would have given everything to be a professional swimmer, but you know that.”

I do. I come here regularly, either by myself or with company. Partially because of George, not that I’d admit that to him. I’d never hear the end of it.

The valet stops at the curb with my SUV, and I wave at my friend as I make my way to the driver’s side. “I’ll make sure to remember that. Tell that lovely wife of yours I said hi.”

He salutes and sees me off as I leave downtown Berkeley.

I’m not surprised to see a black Mercedes in my driveway when I get home, my best friend Hunter leaning against the sleek passenger side.

After stepping out of my car, I walk past him, knowing he’s going to fall in step with me. “I swear, George is the biggest gossip I know. And fast.”

Hunter chuckles. “You know he’s sharp as a nail. He just enjoys pretending otherwise sometimes.” He elbows me, pointing at my shirt. “But I was going to come over anyway. I had to see the damage for myself.”

“Great.” My teeth clench as I unlock the front door.

As if he