Fumbled (Playbook, The)

by Alexa Martin

  “Phil was pissed. Like more pissed than I’ve ever seen him. And you told Rochelle to cover for you?” Her voice goes up ten decimals. She hates Rochelle almost as much as Rochelle hates me. “You know that miserable bitch is the worst. She tried to steal my tips!”

  “I’m sorry. She was the only person I saw and I wasn’t thinking straight.” I attempt to placate her, more worried about the Phil part of what she’s saying. “But Phil. How pissed would you say he was? Like he’s going to put me in the shitty parts of the club for a few weeks or I shouldn’t go back in because I’m fired?”

  “He was going to fire your ass. He said it about a hundred times to the football players. ‘Sorry about her. I promise, she’s gone after the scene she caused.’” She mimicked his hoarse smoker’s voice so well I might’ve laughed if I wasn’t about to throw up.

  “What do you mean, he was going to fire me?” I try to get her to focus on the important part.

  “The guys didn’t care. Honestly, they were laughing after it happened. The only thing bothering them was Phil. He might as well have dropped to his knees. It was pathetic, truly.”

  “You are vivid to a fault.”

  “Whatevs,” she says. “Well then, the big dude with the hair came back. Which, by the way, has piqued my interest in the sport of football. If they are out there looking like him, my cute little ass is gonna be parked in front of a TV every Sunday.”

  “Sadie! For the love of God, tell me if I’m fired or not!” And stop reminding me about TK’s ass.

  “Sorry. Geez.” She sighs into the phone and starts talking before I hang up and call Phil my damn self. “So the big guy comes back. Moore or something. And Phil apologizes straight to him this time. Telling him you’re fired, and I’m not shitting you, this Moore guy had just sat down, and as soon as Phil said it, he stood back up, looking like a fucking angry giant and just towers over him, saying, ‘She is not.’ Just like that. With this deep-as-shit voice, he tells Phil if he fired you, he’d make sure nobody came back to the club. Phil looked like he was about to shit himself!”

  Sadie breaks into a fit of giggles. I, on the other hand, have to find a bench to sit on. TK went head to head with my boss so I could keep a job he made clear he thought was crap.

  “Isn’t that great?” Sadie says through her laughter.

  “Yeah. Great.” I don’t know what to do with this new information, I just know I can’t process it with her on the phone. “Listen, thanks for filling me in, but Ace’s soccer practice is about to end, so I have to go.”

  “Sounds good!” she says, oblivious to the crisis I’m having. “Tell him Aunt Sadie says hi!”

  “Will do.” I force cheerfulness into my voice. A skill I am way too practiced at. “Bye, babe.”

  I slide my finger across my screen, ending the call before she has the chance to say anything else.

  Owing TK is not something I need on my conscience.

  I’d rather get fired.

  Dramatic? Yes. But also accurate. I had a feeling last night wasn’t the last time I was going to see him and now I know it.

  What I don’t know is what the hell I’m going to do about it.

  I don’t think about it for long. Anger chases the confusion clear out of my system. The audacity of this guy. To come into my life and demand answers? Maybe my last week in DC didn’t stick with him, but it altered my entire life. He went on to live his dreams and I ran from everyone I knew to create a life for the person he didn’t even want. TK can screw himself if he thinks talking to my boss and doing the absolute bare minimum is going to earn him brownie points. We’ve spent too much time apart, with too many lies and too much hurt filling the voids, for this to end in anything other than disaster.

  “Mom!” My green-eyed ball of sunshine runs toward me, a soccer ball at his feet and a backpack that’s too big bouncing on his back, and chases away every dark thought clouding my mind. “Did you see my goals? Coach said I’m starting on Saturday!”

  “You know I saw them!” I give him a high five, just as excited and proud of him as he is of himself. “And I saw that new fancy footwork you had out there.”

  “Oh, you saw that, did you? Just a little somethin’ somethin’ I picked up watching videos on YouTube.”

  God. This kid. Too cool for his own good.

  “A little somethin’ somethin’? I can’t with you.” I’m fast losing my battle to stay serious.

  “Yeah, you know I got those skills, Mom.” He wiggles his eyebrows my way and I lose any semblance of a strict mom.

  “I know.” I nudge him with my shoulder once I stop laughing. “You get ’em from your mama.”

  “Suuuurrreee.”

  “What?” I stop cold in my tracks. “Ace, don’t make me take your soccer ball and whoop you in front of all your little friends.”

  “Mom, you’re not faster than me and . . .” He pauses and scrunches his cute little nose. “No offense, but you’re old.”

  “I’m twenty-seven, for goodness’ sakes! That hardly qualifies me for an AARP card.”

  “A what?”

  Dammit.

  Now I feel old.

  “Never mind.” I reach over to him, slip off his backpack, and throw it over my shoulders for our walk home. “I’m not old, though.”

  “I was just kidding; I know you aren’t. All the boys on my soccer team and my class have crushes on you. I told them it’s gross, but they don’t listen to me.”

  Oh great. I have a bevy of nine-year-old admirers and none of age. I don’t know if I should be flattered or scaling back my volunteer hours.

  “Tell them I have cooties.” I elbow him lightly on his shoulder.

  “Already did.” He smiles up at me, his lone dimple on his left cheek appearing. “Sooooo, Mom.”

  Knew it. He doesn’t flash the dimple unless he wants something.

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, I was thinking, I really like soccer and I think flag football is super fun.” He draws out the words. “But I’m gonna be in fourth grade. Don’t you think maybe it’s time for me to play tackle football now?”

  Crap. I should’ve known where this was going. Tackle football is the one thing he begs for all the time and the one thing I won’t budge on.

  “Ace. You know how I feel about tackle football. I’m not sure if I’m ever going to want you to play, dude.”

  “But, Mom! I’m the only one who still plays flag. All the kids are going to laugh at me!”

  “Well, when you’re twenty-five without brain damage, you can thank me then.”

  “I won’t hurt my brain, Mom. I’ll tackle the right way and my helmet will fit. I promise, I’ll listen to the coach and be safe.”

  “Ace.” I put my hand on his shoulder and guide him to a shady spot in the grass to sit. “I know if you played, you’d listen to your coach and try your hardest to tackle safely. The problem is, there’s no safe tackle. No matter how you tackle somebody, your brain still rattles in your head, and, buddy? Your brain is too perfect to let anything hurt it.”

  “I just love football.” His green eyes gloss over, like they always do during this conversation.

  I’ve tried to shield him from football for more than the TK reason. I remember going to TK’s games. I remember how vicious the hits were in high school and how the coaches and trainers would put the players on the field way too soon after an injury. And when the discussion about CTE—chronic traumatic encephalopathy—began, my fears grew tenfold.

  Ace is the only person I have and I’ll do anything I can to protect him . . . even if it makes me the mean mom. His friends’ parents think I’m a judgmental asshole because of my “no tackle football” policy. They “joke” and call me overprotective and a helicopter mom, but I couldn’t care less.

  Ace is the reason my heart beats, America’s favorite pasti
me be damned.

  “I’m sorry, buddy.” I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes when he nestles his head into my chest. I know it’s not too much longer until he’s too cool for mom hugs. “How about we walk home, change out of these stinky soccer clothes, and then head to Fresh for muffins and smoothies?”

  He perks up as soon as he hears Fresh. “A large smoothie?” he asks, his green eyes peeking up at me from beneath his long lashes.

  “Okay, but only because I think you are the best and I’m trying to bribe you.”

  A smile spreads across his face, all sadness over football magically forgotten. “I like it when you bribe me. How do I get a new bike?”

  Smart-ass.

  “Chores,” I say, and he groans. “However, I might be swayed by straight A’s when school starts.”

  “Fine.” He leans away from me and extends his hand. “Deal.”

  “You drive a tough bargain, kid.” I accept his hand and shake it. “Now let’s go . . . because you really do stink.”

  He bites his bottom lip, but the crinkle in his eyes can’t hide the laughter he’s trying to hold in. I’m guessing this is because, even though he is a nine-year-old boy, he still has a sense of smell and knows I’m not lying.

  * * *

  • • •

  I LOVE OUR walks home. I love listening to Ace chat my ear off about who said what at practice and point out the funny things we see all the way home. But today I can’t focus.

  Stupid TK.

  He had to crash into my life. No matter how hard I try to forget about seeing him—kissing him—my mind won’t stop drifting back to him. And every time I laugh at something Ace says, my heart clenches and I almost fall over with guilt.

  I know I did the best I could with what I thought I had, but even that’s not helping. The guilt I feel knowing TK has missed out on this amazing kid for all nine years of his life is enough to make me weep. TK was scared? Well, so was I. But when I didn’t go through with it, I should’ve told him. I was just too afraid to be rejected again.

  Breaking me out of my thoughts, Ace starts to sprint and shouts, “Race you!” the second we turn onto our street.

  “Cheater!” I squeal, trying to catch him but knowing it’s no use.

  He might be a smart-ass like me, but when it comes to athletics, he’s all TK.

  “Ha! Losing your touch, Mom.” He laughs in my face as I reach the gate I’ve been meaning to paint for the last year in front of our house a good ten seconds after him.

  “What—” I put my hands on top of my head to try to slow my breathing. “Ever. You cheated and I’m in flip-flops.” I try to save face.

  “Yeah . . . sure.” The little creep purses his lips and nods.

  He deserves no response.

  I pull open the gate, cringing a bit at how loud the squeak is getting and add WD-40 to the running grocery list in my head.

  Just like every time I make my way up the walkway to our front door, happiness flows through me. There may be a lot of projects I’d like to get done to the house, but even so, I love it.

  Our little bungalow in Denver’s historic Five Points neighborhood is my most treasured possession, after Ace, obviously. With its violet shutters, turquoise flower boxes, and mint door, I’m sure any HOA-regulated neighborhood would have a coronary. It’s everything I dreamt of when I was a Barbie-toting little girl, but so much more because it was Maya’s.

  When I was sixteen, pregnant, and terrified—and years ahead of what could’ve been a lucrative MTV opportunity—Aunt Maya was the only person in my life who didn’t give up on me. Not only did she not give up on me, she took me in when my parents put me out, severing the final threads of an already strained relationship with her sister (aka Tiana Patterson, aka my mother). She was like my fairy godmother. I admired the life she lived. Always giving, never judging—the picture of grace and kindness. She brightened my life every day.

  Then, when she passed suddenly two years ago, she left her house and her old but safe and reliable Volvo S40 to me and made it very clear she felt the same way about me and Ace as we felt about her.

  Over the years, we became a package, the three of us.

  And I miss her every single day.

  “Ace!” Jayden, Ace’s friend from school who fortunately—or unfortunately—lives at the end of our block, yells out before I can unlock the front door. “Can you come over to my house? My dad got me the new NBA game for my PlayStation; you can be Curry! And he said you can spend the night!”

  Freaking Jayden.

  Everyone knows nothing can beat out Curry and sleepovers . . . not even muffins and smoothies.

  “No way!” Ace shouts back before turning pleading green eyes my way. “Can I, Mom, please?”

  “Fine,” I concede, even though I really want to force him to stay with me and enjoy some freaking mother-son bonding.

  “She said yes!” He punches the air above him and takes off toward Jayden, who’s waiting on the sidewalk in front of our gate.

  “Wait!” I stop him before he gets too far. “You still have to change and shower before you go. Mr. Lewis is nice, but even he doesn’t want to catch a whiff of your soccer pits.”

  “A fast shower?”

  “As long as you wash everything thoroughly with soap, I don’t care how long you’re in there.” If I’ve learned anything from being Ace’s mom, it’s that kids are disgusting. They’d rather be the parade leader to hundreds of flies than take a decent shower.

  “I’ll be there in four minutes,” Ace tells Jayden before shooting through our open door, throwing off his clothes behind him as he runs.

  “Probably closer to twenty,” I amend to Jayden.

  “Sounds good, Miz P.” Jayden turns on a heel to walk back to his house but spins in my direction again before I can go inside . . . not like I ever go inside without watching him make it to his house. “Oh! And my dad told me to tell you to come over too.”

  I bet he did.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but since they are already twitching, I’m not sure my efforts are successful.

  Lesson for all those interested: Don’t sleep with your kid’s friend’s dad . . . especially when said dad lives five houses down.

  Life mistake number 8,749.

  Don’t get me wrong, Cole wasn’t bad, but so not worth the constant texts and awkward touching when our kids weren’t looking. The latter becoming increasingly annoying and pervy.

  “I have to work tonight, but tell your dad I said thanks for the invitation.” My voice has risen about thirty decimals on the peppy-o-meter, but luckily for me, nine-year-old boys are oblivious to fakeness.

  “Okay, Miz P. Thanks for letting Ace come over.”

  “You’re welcome.” I smile at the sweet kid who’s at my house almost as much as I am. “You both better listen to your dad, ’kay?”

  “We always do!”

  “Suuuurrrreee.” I shake my head and wave, knowing that’s a damn lie. I like Jayden, but listening to anybody, especially his dad, isn’t his strong point.

  I stand on my porch and watch Jayden until he pulls open his front door and disappears into his house. I go inside, tossing my shoes onto the rug guarding the original hardwoods, and head to the kitchen to use the old rotary phone mounted on the wall. I have a cell phone, but there’s something super satisfying about the twirling and clicking of an old house phone. Mrs. Duncan answers after the second ring and tells me she’ll be heading to Black Hawk to gamble tonight now that she’s off babysitting duties.

  “Live your best life, Mrs. Duncan.”

  “Child, I’ve been living my best life since you were only a twinkle in your parents’ eyes.”

  I know she can’t see me, but that doesn’t stop me from snapping my fingers as I tell her, “I know that’s right.”

  I place the
phone back on the cradle and walk to Ace’s room just in time to see him shoveling football cards and mismatched clothes into his backpack.

  “Got everything?” I ask.

  “Yup!” He zips up the bag and tosses it over his shoulders. “See ya!”

  He starts to run, but I step in front of his door, preventing his clean break.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something? Maybe an ‘I love you, best mom in the entire world’?”

  He shakes his head and rolls his eyes but plays along with me anyways.

  “Love you, Mom.” He wraps his arms around me, giving me a quick squeeze.

  “Love you too.” I pull him in even tighter, talking to the top of his curly-haired head. “Don’t forget your manners. Please and thank you and go to bed when Mr. Lewis says so. ’Kay?”

  “I always do.” He tells me what I already know.

  “I know.” I let him go and clear his path to video game glory. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See ya!” He bursts into the hallway, out the front door, and is halfway to Jayden’s by the time I reach the porch.

  I wave to Cole when he lets Ace in and then hustle back inside and to my bathroom. Tonight might not be going as planned, but at least I’ll have ample time to focus on my hair and makeup. Maybe if I look my best, Phil will have mercy and not stick me at the shitty tables.

  Worth a try.

  Four

  As it turns out, Phil finds desertion to be the worst offense a person can commit. I guess he was in ROTC in high school or something. And even though he decided to defend our country by providing a high-quality night out instead of joining the military, he still stands strong behind these convictions.

  I just hope he gets over this quickly because I’ve been here for three hours and I’ve made half of what I normally make in one. And without the perk of good tips, I’m about 1.26 seconds away from throwing my stilettos at him and quitting.

  I’m also stuck with the most obnoxious bachelor party in the history of bachelor parties. Who has a flipping bachelor party on a Tuesday?

  Bachelor parties on any given day mean drunk, dumb assholes. Tonight you can add loud and too handsy—which I do not handle well—to the list. But considering I almost lost my job yesterday, it’s in my best interest not to cause a scene tonight, something Jacob, who I have not-so-lovingly dubbed Best Man Douchebag, is making very difficult.