“Yes, Mark. I can still recall your shudder when I suggested you join our co-ed frisbee league.”

I shudder involuntarily. Again.

She laughs. She often does at my expense, which is fine by me. I kinda feel like I can relax with her and her wife—they know how shitty the last year has been for me, and it’s nice to let down my guard a little with someone. All day at work, I have to keep my game face on. I don’t bring my personal life into the office—not at the water cooler of Wall Street.

“Fine, fine. I’m man enough to admit I’m a better spectator than participant.” I raise a finger in my own defense. “But I’m excellent at the treadmill, the StairMaster, and running solo in the park.”

“And I’m woman enough to know I will never invite you onto my frisbee team, since I want to win,” Valencia says.

A few minutes later, the game ends on a Firecrackers win, and Rosie runs over to me, a tiny brunette ball of energy. She lands in front of me, dirt kicking up as her pink cleats hit the edge of the softball field. “Did you see my double, Daddy?”

“Did you hear my shout, Rosie?”

With a serious stare, she says, “Everyone heard it, but I like to make sure.”

“That’s my girl. Checking and double checking. Yes I saw it, and all I have to say is watch out, New York Comets. You’re going to be the new slugger for the city’s best Major League Baseball team,” I say.

She high fives me. “Yes! But I’d actually rather play on a girls’ team than a boys’ baseball team,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Or maybe I’ll play hockey someday too. We’re going to see the Bombshells next fall. Mommy is taking me.”

“Ooh, I love them,” Valencia chimes in.

“You and your wife have a crush on the goalie,” I say to her as the kiddos return to the field to pick up their bats and gloves.

“We have good taste in our crushes.” Valencia gathers her purse as I snag Rosie’s backpack from the bleachers behind me. “Gimme. I’ll take that for you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can bring it along with me.”

She shakes her head, emphatic as she grabs Rosie’s bag. “You’re not taking a Peppa Pig backpack into Angel Sanjay’s showroom. I will not allow it.”

I let her have it. “Thanks again for taking Rosie to dinner with you so I can go to a . . . best man fitting,” I say, my tone a little heavy.

“On a scale of one to tax audit, that sounds like you’re looking forward to it?” Valencia asks with the lift of a well-groomed eyebrow.

“If you think trying on clothes is fun,” I say, groaning in over-the-top misery. “I don't. Especially because . . .”

Because of Asher St. James. It’s impossible to explain in a rational way how difficult it is for me to keep my cool around him.