Bachelor Behavior - Pt. 01

Bachelor Behavior

by Simon Underfoot

Copyright 2022, All Rights Reserved

Author's Note:

I have been told that my stories tend toward wish fulfillment, which is certainly fair, so I decided to write one with this specifically in mind. Consequently, the premise of this story is decidedly, intentionally ludicrous; I hope you find it as enjoyable to read as I did to write.

Cheers,

Simon

Prologue

The press room under the stadium was buzzing as two men climbed onto the elevated platform. A wave of anticipation raced around the room, causing a momentary surge in noise, which just as quickly dissipated as reporters found their seats. The pair on-stage were grinning broadly, wearing their just donned championship t-shirts and ball caps, little pieces of confetti sticking here and there.

In the center seat of three was Jayce Dawkins, quarterback, team captain, and now Super Bowl Most Valuable Player. His large frame was practically radiating energy and he was smiling broadly, showing off straight white teeth in an olive toned face that tended more toward Greek heritage than the English surname implied. Always confident to the point of arrogance, Dawkins looked ready to burst as he waited to speak.

To his left sat Tigger Jeffery, nicknamed for his ability to make jump cuts at full speed, a moniker he had carried since peewee football. Where Dawkins was prototypical for a professional football player -- meaning both tall and broad -- Jeffery would look small on a high school team, barely reaching five-nine, and only then in the morning while wearing shoes. The smaller man appeared on the verge of being overwhelmed, his brown eyes glistening in the bright lights.

With a signal from the production manager, Dawkins started into his monologue, thanking the team's fans and supporters, the ownership, and even congratulating their opponents, talking about how exciting the game had been. He spoke for six and a half minutes without actually saying anything, then sat back with a satisfied grin, arms folded across his barrel chest.

Tigger -- Reggie, really -- was next at the mic. As if compensating for his stature, Reggie was known for being brazen in his interviews, quick of wit and sharp of tongue. This time, however, he took a few moments to thank his mother, Janine, for her love and support during his childhood. He spoke briefly of his difficult adolescence and absent father, topics he had avoided during the lead up to the Big Game. He ended by thanking God for the opportunity to pursue his dream. As he finished, Reggie wiped away a tear, smiled self-consciously, and sat back in his seat.

There was a pause as reporters finished jotting down notes, glad to see honest emotion for a change. It didn't last a minute, though, as the crowd looked to the open chair on Dawkins' right, stage whispering questions to one another about its intended occupant. After about five minutes, when the noise had once again risen to that of a middle school classroom during the last week of school, the production manager stepped forward and had a brief whispered conversation with the quarterback, then motioned with his hands for his press colleagues to settle back down.

"I guess we'll start with the Q&A," Dawkins said when the din had once again reached a reasonable level. "Who's first?"

The initial question was a softball about his pending contract negotiations, which was quickly non-answered in the typical, well-prepared fashion of politicians and professional athletes.

The second question, from a cute blonde who happened to know quite a lot of personal information about Jayce Dawkins, caught him off guard. "Why do you think Kai wasn't named MVP?" she asked sweetly. "One and a half sacks, two more tackles for loss, and the winning touchdown off a fumble recovery -- seems like that's a pretty strong case, wouldn't you say?"

Dawkins' eyes blinked once, then blinked again as he regained composure. "He had a great game, Ms. Perkins. I --"

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as the door next to the stage opened and the subject in question walked quickly onto the stage, still wearing his pads and jersey. "Sorry, guys," he said to his teammates, then waved a hand apologetically to the assembled throng.

Tigger smiled good naturedly while Dawkins almost-but-not-quite managed to hide his annoyance. The production manager rushed up and quickly had the newest arrival pull off his gear, then handed him the obligatory championship swag that had been supplied by an assistant. Rather than putting it on, Kai Haven set it on the table in front of the open chair and sat down, an entire head taller than Dawkins while seated. He wasn't even fully settled when questions started raining down, the eager reporters sensing something interesting had occurred.

The ring master quickly had the pool calmed once again and pointed to a senior reporter from one of the networks to restart the questioning. "Kai, would you mind telling us why you were late to the post-game press conference?"

"Well," said the enormous man hesitantly, "I was checking on Mike."

"Michael Hughes, the quarterback?" fired off a different reporter, not worrying about being acknowledged.

"Yeah," admitted Kai. "I don't like seeing people get hurt, and I like it even less when I'm the one that does it. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for him or his family."

"Have you known Mike for a long time?" asked another questioner.

"No. I met him once at a fundraiser, and then we shook hands before the game at the coin toss, but that was it. His family's really nice, though, and his wife told me I could stop by the hospital tomorrow before they fly him home."

"Do you feel bad about the hit?" came from the back.

Kai shook his head. "I think it was clean, and I didn't drive him into the ground or anything like that. He's just a lot smaller," he finished self-consciously, which drew chuckles from the crowd and a scowl from Dawkins.

"Do you feel like you should have been named MVP?" asked the same blonde woman from before, sneaking a glance at Dawkins as she did so and receiving the expected glare.

"Oh, I hadn't heard," he said, expressing some disappointment, "but Tigger was great. I wouldn't be surprised if nobody ever had two fifty yard runs in a Super Bowl before." Kai looked to the team's starting running back and gave him a thumbs up, but Tigger shook his head slightly and gestured subtly at Dawkins. Kai cocked his head in a gesture that said, 'Oh really?,' then shrugged. "Shows what I know." Then to the man next to him, "Good for you, Jayce -- I thought you had a nice game."

Dawkins was smiling, but everyone could see he was unhappy.

"Hey, Kai, now that you guys are the champs, are you afraid the team is going to franchise you?" a new reporter asked, referring to the team's ability to force a player to work on a single year contract.

The question was abrupt in its timing, but not unexpected since Kai had also refused to talk about his contract situation until after the game. He had planned on addressing the situation the following week, once things had calmed down. 'No time like the present,' he thought to himself.

"Actually, not so much, because effective immediately, I'm retiring from football."

Prelude

Birdie was my best friend in the whole world. Strange, right? I mean, I'm an inch shy of seven-foot, which puts her an even twenty-inches shorter than me. But so what? I'm taller than almost everybody.

And besides, for whatever reason, I've always found it easier to talk with girls -- women, now, I guess. Part of it is that I get tired of guys trying to prove how tough or strong they are, trying to break my hand when we shake, or talking about all the great stuff they did in school. Or how much money they have. I don't care about any of it.

That's easy to say, of course, when I won't ever have to worry about money again and have a bookcase full of awards from every sport I've played, but it's still the truth.

The other thing about Birdie is that I've always been not-so-secretly in love with her. The issue is that she doesn't feel the same way. We've talked about it, but always come to the same conclusion: she is better off with us as friends (I never include myself in that assessment).

She turned me down in eighth grade, so I asked again in ninth, then tenth. I skipped the next year and waited to Senior Prom, but she stood firm and I didn't go. She did.

So how did we stay friends for so long? She's the only one that ever seemed to get me. In addition to being a genetic freak from a size perspective, I'm also pretty quirky, although not many people know. For instance, I can't sit still. Not don't, mind you, but can't. I almost always have the jimmy leg working: shaking tables, rocking the car, tapping out a rhythm and generally annoying the hell out of anyone around me. When it gets really bad, she'd sometimes ask me what song was in my head -- a lot of times I didn't even know I was bopping along. That would usually make it better, for a while.

If it's not my legs, then it's my hands, which want to be working on something. If you were to see me during a lecture back in college, I'd probably have my pen in pieces and the spiral wire out of my notebook.

I once took my watch apart during a class on classic literature. Turns out I couldn't get the little plastic gears realigned with my fat fingers, but at least I got something out of the discussion.

See, that's the thing: if I'm moving, my brain can process information. If not, then it's all over the place. We -- meaning my Pop -- got me on some stimulant meds when I was a kid, and they worked really well for focusing my mind, but when they'd wear off I crashed and got really cranky, as in downright mean. After six-months, he decided I was better off without.

So I move, and it helps. That's what got me into sports.

Basketball would have been the obvious choice, but Pop didn't know anything about it. He grew up playing baseball, so I did, too.

The issue with baseball is that there isn't always a lot to do, because you wait for your turn to hit or you wait for somebody to hit the ball to you. Lot's of waiting means it's not so good for Kai. So I was a pitcher, which kept me busy. When it was our turn to hit, if I wasn't swinging a bat or on base, I was the base coach. Worked pretty well and I got to be quite good. It helps when you tower above the coaches and players both, even in Junior High.

I read somewhere that for every inch closer to the plate the ball is released, it's equivalent to three miles per hours of speed because the batter has less time to react. I never worked it out, but it sounds good, and it seems to hold up to my experience, because in addition to being tall -- okay, really damn tall -- I have long arms: seven-foot-six from finger tip to finger tip. I was second runner-up for Mr. Baseball in Illinois my Senior year and had my choice of several scholarships. I didn't take them.

The issue was that I didn't want to play collegiate baseball, because I had my heart set on being a mechanical engineer. Working on things with my hands, remember? And it's damn tough to get through an engineering program while playing Division I ball, so I focused on academics. Pop wasn't happy I turned down a full ride, but it was my choice, so I lived at home and drove to the local university for class.

I graduated cum laude with a B.S., but never actually did much with the degree. About four months before I got the diploma, I received a call from a scout that had come across some of my high school game film and wanted me to come for a casual tryout when school let out for spring break. The truth is, I love baseball. Really, really love it, and I know I'm good at it. With school winding down and a solid GPA assured, why not?

So the team bought me a ticket to fly down to Florida where they do their spring training. I was a bit rusty that first day, but my fastball was still in the mid-nineties and the control wasn't too bad, courtesy of daily trips to the campus gym. By the end of the third day I was up to ninety-eight consistently and my curve was coming back around. We parted on good terms -- I enjoyed myself, after all -- and only found out they were interested in more when they drafted me in the second round during the June draft.

By that time, I'd found that being a working engineer was more of a drudgery than I expected and wasn't at all disappointed to give it up.

The club that picked me offered a signing bonus of four hundred thousand bucks, and even with minimal college debt (in-state tuition and a partial academic scholarship), that's a pretty good jumping off point for real life. So I went pro. I was in AA for a month, then AAA for two, before getting to the Big League. They began using me for short relief stints, meaning I pitched once or twice a week early on. By the end of that initial year, I was often out there for a full inning. Not bad for a rookie no one saw coming.

At the start of the second year, I was the closer, meaning I finished almost every game. The consistency was nice, and all I really needed to do was look mean and throw the ball really hard. I was pretty good at that and we were pretty good as a team. We lost in the ALDS, but that was more because of cold bats than anything else.

Year three was magic.

You can look up the details on your own, but I had a really good season, and we fell one run shy of making it to the World Series. It was that series that really brought me national attention for the first time, including endorsement contracts. I had already been making nice money on my first contract, but having ten million on top because I wear a certain brand of shoes and appear in their commercials was great.

They really liked my backstory -- big brain to go with the big arm -- and the pictures are always impressive when I'm half a foot taller than even other pros. The ride lasted another five months until I tore the UCL in my throwing arm. They did Tommy John surgery, but during the rehab I knew it wouldn't be the same. When they finally let me hold a ball again, it turned out I was right. With a fastball only hitting the low nineties, the curveball wasn't as effective, and I had never bothered to develop a third pitch. Out of the league at 23.

Not so bad, though, with a seven figure savings account to fall back on.

So what did I do after baseball? I worked out. I went from three-ten to three-oh-five over the course of the next year. Five pounds doesn't sound like a lot, but when you're talking about taking off fat and putting back on lean muscle, weight isn't so important.

The thing was, I was already plenty big. I didn't want to be massive, but I did want to be really damn strong. Think old guy strength, like a construction worker swinging a sledge hammer every day for twenty-five years.

I heard a story once from my Pop's youth about a farmer he knew who had worked the fields his entire life. One day, his son -- all six-foot-five of him -- was having trouble getting a tractor tire up into the bed of a pickup -- a rear one that they make sandboxes out of for little kids. He asked his Pop for help, thinking they could lift it together. Instead, the old man asks where it needs to go, then picks it up and tosses it in, easy as that, despite it weighing more than two-hundred pounds. That's the kind of strong I wanted to be.

So instead of high weight and low reps, I went for lots of reps, burning myself out over and over again, and I did it every single day. When I wasn't lifting, I was swimming or running. Ironically, I was in better shape than when I was being paid to be an athlete.

Being a former pro made affording an exclusive gym possible, and I thought the extra money was a good investment: the physicality satisfied my need to move and was helping to rebuild my self image after baseball was taken away. I met a guy there that played for the city's pro football team -- that's American football for my European friends. We got to chatting and swapping tales, and he invited me over to their practice facility. I thought it sounded like fun and Reggie was a good guy, so I accepted.

It turned out I was the tallest one there, and only a few of the guys outweighed me.

My buddy and I were goofing around after his practice when I noticed some fellas coming back onto the field. Reggie had been running go routes while I tossed the ball to him, seeing if I could out throw his considerable speed. Pretty soon the new guys joined in, and it wasn't long before one of the coaches, who I hadn't seen, asked where I'd played. I laughed and explained that I was a baseball player (retired). Seems the sixty yard throws had caught their attention.

The next few weeks were strange. My arm impressed them, but it was clear that playing quarterback was too complex to learn without years of study and practice; and besides, their guy was pretty good, even if I did toss a prettier ball.

The nice thing about playing Defensive End -- they call it Edge now -- is that the fundamentals are relatively straightforward, although not at all easy. When the ball is snapped, you try to hit the quarterback, or whoever he gives the ball to. They asked if I'd like to try. Why not?

Probably sounds familiar.

Turns out my version of old guy strength was pretty useful in football and they signed me as a practice squad player, meaning I didn't play in actual games. That first year I learned a lot, mostly by being knocked on my backside repeatedly, but they stuck with me. By the start of the second year I was competing for a place on the team and played in all of the preseason games, eventually catching one of the final two roster spots.

About a quarter of the way through the season, things clicked, and then I was doing the teaching. I finished with good numbers and my friends at the shoe company were thrilled, relaunching their ad campaign and coughing up an even larger sum for my contributions. Fine by me.

In my second full year playing football, I really made it hard on our opponents. We finished with a Super Bowl run that fell a little short and I earned a few more awards.

Like with my baseball career, year three was the pinnacle, with more of the same and a victory at the end. So why did I abruptly retire? It's not a simple answer.

Through all my ups and downs, Birdie and I stayed friends. We talked every week, even if it was just a quick chat or text conversation, and met up when I was nearby for a game. When it was clear my baseball career was over, I asked her out again, thinking that all those zeroes in the account balance would impress her -- not so much.

There at the end I took one last chance, this time with an offer of a suite at the Super Bowl. She hesitated and I thought I had finally broken down her resolve. Instead, she told me she had been seeing someone for months and it was looking serious.

Maybe I had been trying to impress her all that time. I don't know. Either way, I just didn't feel the need to do it anymore. I was excited about playing in the 'Big Game,' and felt like I owed the team and the organization for giving me a shot, so I did my best to pay them back for everything in a single game. It was my best and now we all have rings.

But it was clear to me that it was time for something new.

Sad, right? Poor little (really big, actually) millionaire with a broken heart.

I would have a hard time defining what it means to be a romantic, but I think I probably qualify. I had always thought that Birdie and I would get together, despite a staggering amount of evidence to the contrary, and I never wanted it to be my fault if that didn't happen. There are too many stories about ships passing in the night and I didn't want that to be us.