Fumbled (Playbook, The)

by Alexa Martin

  “Where are you going?” TK asks.

  “No idea. Just getting out of here.” I twist the volume knob and turn up the radio while I drive. TK doesn’t object—I think we both need a minute to get our heads together.

  I end up pulling into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse I’m sure someone will turn into lofts soon. It’s more than a little bit creepy, but the feeling of a murderer looming in the shadows seems like a fitting atmosphere for the two of us.

  I turn off the radio, but neither of us says anything.

  TK breaks the silence. “I talked to my mom.”

  Well, crap.

  That’s not what I was expecting.

  “She denied knowing you were pregnant.”

  “Surprise, surprise.” I don’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Of course she denied it, TK.”

  “I don’t believe her.”

  My head jerks back and the smart-ass response I was preparing falls away.

  “I told her I needed space while you and I figure things out, because, Poppy?” He takes a deep breath, and I brace. “I want to get to know Ace.”

  Now this is no surprise.

  After I turned my back on his red eyes earlier, I knew this was the only outcome. But still. Hearing the words? Panic and elation collide in my gut while bile rises up the back of my throat.

  “I want that too.” Even against the silence of the night, the words are weak. Forced. Even though they’re the truth.

  “How do we do it?” he asks.

  We? This is your circus, buddy. That’s what I want to say, but this whole adult, choose-your-words-carefully thing has really gotten to me. So instead, I whisper, “I have no idea.”

  He’s in the same clothes he was wearing earlier, but his chino shorts are covered with wrinkles and his tank is misshapen along the hem. His hair, which was pulled up, is now framing his face, and I can’t miss how red his eyes are even from the gentle glow of my dashboard.

  I want to reach out to him, offer him the comfort I have no business giving him.

  “Training camp starts next week.” He pulls at the bottom of his shirt and I see why the hem is ruined. “Can we do it before then?”

  We.

  My entire time as Ace’s mom, it’s always been me. Just me.

  God. Even the pronouns are changing.

  “I think I should tell him alone,” I say. He starts to object, but I keep going before he can say anything. “All he knows about you is you don’t know about him. That’s all. You aren’t the only one who’ll be shocked by this. I have to work tomorrow, but I have Monday off. I’ll tell him in the morning and you can come over for lunch. But let him react to the news alone. I don’t want him to feel ambushed.”

  “No.” He takes a deep breath and releases his shirt. “I mean yeah. You’re right. That’s good.”

  I don’t know if I’d go all the way to good, but at least it’s a plan.

  “So he really doesn’t know about me?”

  “No. I told him the basic stuff. We met in high school. You left for college and we lost contact. Then I found out I was pregnant, but you never knew. He doesn’t think you abandoned him or anything.”

  “That’s good, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  I don’t know what to say or do. Can I leave now that we have a plan? Do I need to tell him more about Ace? Do I wait and let Ace tell him what he wants him to know?

  “Do you still have my address?” I ask him the first thing that comes to mind.

  He nods his head but still doesn’t speak and I don’t know what else to say. I move to put my car into Drive so we can get the hell away from each other, but TK finally finds his words.

  “I don’t know what to think, Poppy.”

  Well, crap.

  “I know.” I don’t even feel the tears build before they fall this time. I turn my head to the window, not wanting TK to see. “You’re not the only one.”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” he says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, not understanding his train of thought. “What’s there to believe?”

  “I never knew you were pregnant. I never got a text or told my mom I wanted you to have an abortion. I really don’t know what you’re talking about and my mom said it never happened.” He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I know she can be overprotective, but she’d never not want to know her own grandkid. Still, why would you make up this entire story if it weren’t true?”

  The world falls from beneath my feet. Every single stone I’ve laid, every inch of the walkway I’ve paved for me and Ace, vanishes. And what’s left . . . what’s real? Well, nothing is there.

  “Holy shit.” I breathe out the words, picturing Ace’s face when I tell him about TK. I thought I was protecting him from a dad who never wanted him. But seeing TK? Putting together the pieces of the puzzle I’ve been collecting since we met? The excitement at seeing me, the anger toward my leaving, his insane and confused reaction of my telling him about Ace, and the heartbroken man he was seeing Ace today.

  We were played.

  I know in my heart of hearts TK had no idea about Ace.

  Everything makes sense and it knocks the air out of me.

  What am I going to say to Ace? We’ve been a few miles away from his dad for the last six years, and I kept it from him. Will he ever trust me again? Will he ever run to me, carefree and happy? Or am I stealing his childhood, robbing him of his innocence? Will I break something I’ll never be able to repair?

  Tears clog my throat and my breathing becomes ragged.

  All I ever wanted was to protect him, and now I’m going to be the one to ruin him.

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead and a rush of heat consumes my body. My stomach flips and I just manage to unbuckle my seat belt and open my door before I empty the contents of my stomach all over the broken concrete outside.

  I don’t dare look at TK as I unfold myself from the driver’s-side door, avoiding the mess I’ve made—literally and figuratively. I slam the door shut and walk toward the empty street. Hoping a little distance from him is what I need.

  It doesn’t work. The harder I try to relax, the more frantic my breathing becomes. Rapid in and out. Shallow and useless. I put my hands on top of my head, trying to open my lungs, desperate for the oxygen that’s evading me. A car turns onto the street and its headlights dance in front of me as it passes.

  “Poppy.” TK’s voice echoes in the back of my mind. “Poppy!” he yells again . . . or doesn’t. I’m not really sure.

  The streetlights above me move farther away. My body sways, still fighting to take one deep breath.

  My head spins. My vision swims. Everything in the tunnel in front of me starts to fade. I reach out and try to grab on to something, anything, but nothing’s there . . . until TK’s arms wrap around my waist, holding me on my feet.

  “Are you okay?” He asks the question he has to know the answer to.

  I don’t speak right away as I clench my eyes shut and will the world to stop spinning. When my legs start to feel like they are filled with bones and some muscle again and I’m not worried my stomach is going to revolt all across the pavement . . . again, I push out of TK’s grasp. “I am the complete opposite of okay, but I don’t factor into this decision.” I walk back to my car, assuming he’s following, and sit in the driver’s seat. “The only person who matters in all of this is Ace.”

  A lesson TK will be learning all too soon.

  Eleven

  When your life is on the brink of exploding into smithereens, sometimes you just have to take comfort in what is familiar.

  Tomorrow, I have to put on my big-girl panties and tell my kid something that might cause him to need a lifetime supply of therapy. So tonight, even though I’d rather be home, drowning my fears in ice
cream and wine—or wine-infused ice cream, if that’s not a thing, somebody needs to get on it stat—I’m at work. Where, unless TK decides to ambush me again, I know what to expect. I plan on losing myself in the monotony of taking orders, climbing stairs, and serving drinks. I’ll let the rhythm of the music draw me in and I won’t think about tomorrow until I get home. Work, tonight, is a freaking godsend.

  “Who’s Ace with tonight?” Sadie asks, our eyes locking in the mirror in front of me.

  “Mrs. Duncan.” I shimmy my shoulders offbeat—even though there’s no music—trying to force peppiness into my voice. Fake it till you make it, is what I always say. “I’m telling you, you better be prepared for some big tips tonight. I’ve never been so excited to work. Plus, Cole’s out of town, we’re opening together, and you haven’t caused my hair to combust into a poof of smoke. This is shaping up to be a great night and I’m going to take advantage of it.”

  “You know there are two things I’m always prepared for.” She unplugs her flat iron from the outlet next to her and holds up her index finger. “One, money.” She adds her middle finger with a flick of her wrist. “And two, glitter.”

  As if to prove that my positive attitude for the night is going to pay off, I dodge the handful of glitter she releases before it can embed itself into my scalp or adhere to my skin.

  “Like a ninja!” I laugh . . . but not too hard. I don’t want her to plan a sneak revenge glitter bombing later.

  I make my way to the floor, waving to Sandra as she heads into the “entertainment” dressing rooms. They have better lighting and more comfortable chairs than we do. But since they are swinging around on oversize scarves and flipping headfirst toward possible death, I guess they deserve it.

  Leaving the well-lit hallway and entering the dim, smoky (even though smoking isn’t allowed) club always leaves me feeling a bit disoriented. My poor eyes aren’t what they used to be and they struggle to focus with the flashing lights being tested on the stage.

  Once they do adjust, I see Rochelle standing across from Phil having a very animated conversation. I didn’t think she was scheduled to open with us, but seeing the mood she’s in right now, I plan on working even harder than I normally do to stay away from her. I spin on my heel and, as silent as possible, make my way behind the bar, careful not to let my heels click against the clean-for-now tile.

  Too bad for me, I must have used all my ninja stealth with Sadie because I make it only three steps before Rochelle’s crazed, overlined eyes find me.

  “I cannot believe you!” she screeches, her arms flailing and her skinny legs struggling to keep her upright.

  I feel the wrinkles form on my forehead as I raise my eyebrows. “Ummm . . .” My eyes shift between Rochelle and Phil, both of whom are staring at me like I’m in deep shit. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t play stupid, Poppy,” Rochelle spits, and starts to walk my way, her long black hair whipping back and forth in sync with her ample cleavage. As she gets closer, I notice her bright blue eyes are now a striking shade of red. I’m not sure if it’s the reflection of the red lights in the club or the Devil making his presence known.

  “I’m not playing anything. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I use my gentle mom voice on her but take comfort in the bar between us and the rows of glass bottles behind me in case I need a makeshift weapon.

  “Really?” She tilts her head to the side and purses her lips. “Then let me refresh your memory.”

  She reaches into her fake Gucci purse and I know it’s risky seeing as she could very well be digging for a weapon, but I wonder if her lips are natural or if she’s had lip injections. She really does have great lips. Too bad she uses them to spew garbage.

  After a minute or two of digging and loose receipts falling to the floor, which really messes up the dramatic effect of the scene she’s acting out, she pulls out her phone. She taps in her password—123456, because she’s a genius—and her fingers dance across the screen before she shoves the phone in my face.

  It takes me exactly three seconds to realize what I’m seeing and four to realize a positive mind-set can only take me so far.

  On her phone, underneath the bold, hot-pink script declaring the website Baller Notice, are pictures—yes, multiple—of TK and me in the parking lot behind the Emerald Cabaret. The photos are grainy, but even so, there is no denying that it’s him as he stands next to my car or him climbing into the passenger seat. There is even one of him with his arms wrapped around me in the abandoned parking lot that I’m not sure I could even find again if someone asked.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  “I did all the work to get him in the club.” Rochelle’s perfectly plump lip curls up in disgust. “Not only did your ass steal his table and tips from me, you went ahead and pursued him outside of the club too!”

  “It . . . it’s not like that. I mean, yeah, I guess, but . . .” I stumble over my words, trying to peel my eyes off the screen. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Bullshit! This has everything to do with me!” She stabs herself in the chest with a sharp, pointed fingernail then aims it in Phil’s direction. “And Phil and everyone in this club!”

  “What? How?” I put her phone on the bar top between us, not chancing getting too close. I’ve been to the zoo with Ace too many times to stick my hand in the cage with an angry lion now. “Besides enjoying my immense embarrassment, I still don’t see what this has to do with you.”

  “TK hasn’t come back,” she says, calm and collected, like the wild beast I was just talking to a minute ago was a figment of my imagination. “He hasn’t been back in weeks. Neither have the other players. I called TK and he told me you’re the reason he stopped coming in.” She slams her case-protected phone onto the glass bar top. “These pictures were posted this morning. He came to see you last night but won’t come inside anymore. Three years! Three years I worked here, trying to get these big-money ballers to come in and you ruined it for all of us in a month!”

  I remember when he said he didn’t answer numbers he didn’t know. I hate the thread of jealousy that starts to unravel knowing they spoke. “TK answered your call?” I voice my thoughts out loud, which I realize is a mistake when Rochelle screams so loud, the bottles on the shelves behind me start to rattle.

  “Fuck you!” She reaches over the bar, her hands outstretched and aiming for my neck.

  “Rochelle.” Phil finally makes himself useful and moves from the spot his feet have been glued to. “Relax.”

  Once he reaches her, he spins her around and pulls her in for a hug, wrapping his arms tight around her, locking her arms at her side.

  A human straitjacket. Clever, Phil.

  “You need to leave,” he says in her ear.

  I turn around and start to fidget with the bottles of vodka to give them a bit of privacy during this strange, yet personal, moment.

  “Poppy.” Phil gets my attention.

  I turn around, prepared to see Rochelle’s retreating form heading to the exit, but when I look at him, I’m met with matching glares.

  “Go home, Poppy,” Phil says, his voice steady. “I’ll have Sadie clear out your locker and bring you your stuff.”

  The floor falls from under my feet and my stomach starts doing somersaults. “Wh— What?” I try to swallow down the bile rising up the back of my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Rochelle is right,” he says, a blank expression carefully laid on his aging face. “I’ve been fighting to get Mustang players in this club since I started it. It finally happened, and just as soon, you ended it—”

  “But—” I try to break in, desperate to keep my job. The job that has allowed me to be a class mom and keep clothes on my son’s back.

  “You’re a great waitress, but even the money you bring in can’t make up for the business you lost the Emerald C
abaret. You know the rules. I don’t care about your personal life. I don’t care if you date a client as long as it doesn’t affect my bottom line.” His eyes soften a bit as he watches the tears roll down my face. “I like you, Poppy, I really do. This isn’t personal.”

  I think about telling Phil about my past with TK. Telling him about Ace and everything that has transpired between us is on the tip of my tongue when Rochelle—or more specifically—the Cheshire Cat grin she’s now sporting catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. And in a split second I realize I’d rather lose my job than give her my secrets. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and compose myself.

  “I understand.” Shoulders squared and back straight, I walk from behind the bar and toward the exit.

  Not another word is uttered as I make my walk of shame in stilettos and a corset to the parking lot. I climb into my Volvo, my head held high and cheeks dry.

  On the scale of crappy things that have happened to me, this is at the very bottom.

  Screw Rochelle and screw Phil too.

  I’ll get a new job.

  And I’ll never straighten my freaking hair again.

  Twelve

  I come to but I don’t open my eyes.

  I scrunch them tight, trying to pinpoint what part of me hurts the most. I may have indulged in one or two glasses after I got home. Lucky for me, nothing hurts . . . besides maybe my pride.

  I grab my phone to check the time and see that I have two unread text messages. One from Sadie asking what in the hell happened and one that kicks my adrenaline into overdrive.

  I’ll be over at 2. Let me know if that doesn’t work for you.

  -TK

  Oh my God. TK. Today. Crap!

  I check the time and mentally break down how long I have until TK gets here—which takes longer than I’d like to admit—and then I shoot out of bed like my mattress is on fire as my ears strain to hear if Ace is up and about.