by Alexa Martin
Donny puts his glasses back on, knowing I’m full of shit. “Can you at least talk him into a fuckin’ suite? I’m not going through one more season in this fuckin’ snow. I got him his contract, I know he can afford it.”
“I kinda like it down here.” I also do not feel comfortable asking TK to spend what would most likely come to thousands of dollars on . . . well, on anything.
“Dammit.” He opens his suit jacket and pulls out a small flask. “This shit’s gonna be just like Marlee.”
“Maybe even crazier.” Charli offers her unhelpful opinion.
Ace laughs harder.
I glare at her.
Hmmm . . .
Maybe a suite wouldn’t be too bad.
Thirty
Football is the socially acceptable equivalent of a cult.
It seems like tons of fun and everyone around you is an avid follower of the religion.
Oops.
I mean sport.
They wear the colors. They memorize the prayers. They will shove a boot up your ass if you don’t believe like they do—just ask the Chiefs fan who has been hounded since he sat his ass in his seat. And no matter your reservations, you get sucked in. Before you know what’s happening, you’re jumping out of your seat, cheering when the ball is caught, and booing when the refs prove to be blind and make the worst calls ever. As soon as you enter the church they call a stadium, you’re a believer.
Until reality slaps you awake.
It’s the beginning of the fourth quarter, and much to my dismay, the score is tied 17–17. Some people might appreciate the closeness of the game. I, on the other hand, hate it. I’ll take a blowout over this any day. You call it boring, I call it ulcer preventive.
Tomato tomahto.
The Mustangs have the ball, and I—with my vast knowledge of the sport—assume they’re going to run it like they have for the majority of the game. Peter, the rookie quarterback who managed to snag the starting spot, turns his head to the left, motioning for TK to move out, then he looks to the right, yelling something else that causes the line to shift toward their sideline. He does his weird ritual of stomping his foot and clapping three times, then the ball is in his hands, and he’s on the move.
I know the play isn’t going well within seconds. A missed block? A missed step? I’m not really sure. But before Peter can fully scan the field, a defender—a very large defender—is charging toward him. Peter doesn’t think twice. Before he’s flattened to the turf, he launches the ball down the field. I figure it’s a throwaway like he’s done a few times already, but as I follow the ball, I see TK and a player in a red jersey bumping into each other, racing down the field.
I’m on my feet in a second. My eyes on the ball, my heart in my stomach, chanting the rosary in my head. I don’t have to look down to know Ace is doing the same—without the rosary.
Because of the hit Peter took, the ball starts to lose momentum sooner than it should. And with TK and the defender running full speed, I let the prayers fade, positive it’s going to be an incomplete pass.
But just as my butt unfolds the plastic stadium seat, TK turns and cuts to the ball. He stretches out his hands, his fingers channeling Spider-Man, and starts to pull the ball in.
The crowd, who has not stopped cheering and shouting this entire game—with the exception of halftime—shifts their volume up a decimal.
But even over the cheering, with crystal clarity, I can hear the sound of the other defender’s helmet slamming into TK’s, followed by the sickening thud of TK’s body against the field. The defender barely looks fazed as he jumps up and pounds his chest.
You don’t have to be a football fanatic to know it’s bad. But the way the cheering instantly morphs into a collective gasp confirms it.
Even scarier is the way Donny whispers, “Oh fuck,” before screaming “Targeting! Throw your fucking flag, ref!”
I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the field, but I can feel Ace shrinking next to me. I look down at him and he’s no longer on his feet. He’s sitting in his seat studying the fingernails he’s already bitten to the quick, all excitement and color drained from his face.
I sit down next to him, pulling one of his hands into mine just as Charli sits down and does the same. I keep my eyes on the jumbo screen, watching as TK lays unmoving for a second before standing up and stumbling sideways. His teammates are at his side before he can fall again, helping him off the field. The camera stays on TK as he sits on the bench, but once he’s circled with trainers and coaches, we’re given a pretty view of the field as the players hustle to a huddle to make the most of the timeout called.
From our seats in the stadium behind the Mustangs bench, I can see as the person I’m assuming is a trainer or medic helps TK up and walks him to the tunnel.
I squeeze Ace’s hand a little tighter, but I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. This is exactly why I hate this sport and I don’t think Ace wants to hear, “I told ya so.” And also, because I’m using almost all my energy to ignore the ignorant assholes behind us who I’m learning aren’t just football experts but medical ones as well.
“That’s gotta be a concussion for sure,” one says to the other, their voices slurred from the beers they’ve been cheersing over since they got to their seats.
“You know how much higher the ALS rates are with NFL players?” the other one asks in response. “Like a shit ton. This is why I’m glad I decided not to play after high school.”
“For sure, bro,” the other agrees. “Shit’s fuckin’ brutal. I wonder how soon they can find CTE or if they have to off themselves first?”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I stand up, leveling them both with a glare.
“Whoa. What’s your problem?” the one with awful facial hair asks me.
“You.” I lean forward, pointing a finger in his face. “You’re my problem. Sitting back here, drunk as fuck, acting like you know everything about football and brain injuries. When in reality, I’d bet a thousand dollars your football career consisted of you warming the bench and your medical knowledge is nothing more than two episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.”
I feel not only the heat rising in my cheeks but the unmistakable sensation of eyes and cameras trained my way. But do I make the mature decision to sit down and shut up?
Never.
“So how about, instead of running your mouths like imbeciles, terrifying my kid, who’s already scared as hell . . .” I pause, clenching my fists to try to alleviate the shaking and catch my breath. “You shut.” I lean in closer. “The fuck.” Closer. “Up.”
I level them with my best try me if you want look, prepared and willing to keep going, but I’m cut short when Ace taps my shoulder and shoves my vibrating phone in my hand.
I don’t recognize the number as my finger glides across the screen, answering the call. “Hello?”
“Miss Patterson?” the deep voice on the other end asks.
“This is.” I turn and sit in my seat, covering my open ear with my hand to hear him better. The assholes behind me are long forgotten.
“This is Jason Metcalf, the Mustangs’ trainer. I’m here with TK and he’s requesting for you and Ace to come down.”
I don’t even answer before I snatch my purse off the ground, motion for Ace to get up, and step over Donny. “We’re on our way.”
“Perfect, I’ll meet you there,” he says, clicking off before I can ask him where “there” is.
“Crap.” I look between Charli and Donny. “I’m supposed to go see TK, but I don’t know where I’m going.”
“I’ll take you,” they say at the same time.
I nod my head and try not to hold Ace’s hand as we walk up the concrete stairs. I laser focus on the man in the blue polo at the top of the stairs and move as fast as my legs will carry me, needing to see with my own two
eyes that TK’s okay.
But it doesn’t prevent me from hearing Donny’s raspy laughter behind me. “You’re right . . . even worse,” he says to Charli. “And I fuckin’ love it.”
Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
* * *
• • •
“DAD!” ACE PUSHES past me into the medical room TK’s being checked out in. “Are you okay?”
TK pulls a towel off his head at Ace’s voice. I watch as his eyes go soft, seeing Ace run toward him, but I also see the way he flinches in pain when he sits up too fast. “Yeah, dude,” TK says. “Just a little knock to the head.”
I want to throttle him.
I want to jump his bones, kiss every inch of his gorgeous face, and freaking throttle him.
“Just a little knock?” I take a deep breath, not wanting to lose my mind in a room full of strangers. “I could hear the hit from my seat and you looked like you had fifteen shots of tequila when you stood up. That was not a little knock.”
“It’s just a slight concussion.” Jason, the trainer, tries—and fails—to comfort me. “He’ll be back on the field come Wednesday.”
“I’ve fuckin’ hit TK harder than that,” Donny pipes in. “If he couldn’t take a hit, he wouldn’t be a Mustang. He’s fine.”
I feel the heat creeping up my cheeks as unfiltered rage starts to flow through my body at the way everyone seems to be downplaying the seriousness of a concussion. I mean, what the hell? I know I’m no doctor, but a quick Google search will yield you pages upon pages of brain-injury-related articles.
“Poppy.” TK pulls my attention to him, probably concerned by the steam blowing out of my ears. “I’m okay. I promise.”
He’s not.
But I can tell Ace isn’t either, and I don’t want to scare him any more than he already is.
So I drop it . . . for now.
“Okay,” I whisper, my throat clogged and eyes burning all of a sudden.
Not surprising me at all, TK notices the change in my tone right away. And equally unsurprising, he does something about it.
“Hey, guys,” he says loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “Mind if I have a minute alone with my family.”
His family.
I freaking love him.
Now I’m definitely going to cry.
I walk to an empty wall past the navy blue upholstered exam beds and stare unseeingly at a poster detailing the muscles found around the knee. I don’t turn around until the trainers clear out, Charli tells TK to feel better, and Donny—a poet of vulgarities—parts with a classy, “You were a fucking beast out there today. That was a bitch hit and I know you’ll be back on the field soon.”
Awww.
Sweet.
The room we’re in doesn’t have doors, but it’s tucked away in a corner enough so the voices all fade after a minute or two.
“Come here, Sparks.”
I bite my bottom lip, breathe in through my nose and out of my mouth, and turn around once I’m positive my composure is back intact.
TK’s huge body is taking up the entire table he’s sitting on, and Ace is standing right next to him, so close he might’ve, in fact, fused himself to TK.
“You scared me.”
“I didn’t mean to.” He takes my hand into his and pulls it to his mouth, dropping gentle kisses on my knuckles and making Ace cringe so hard.
“I know you didn’t,” I say, proud of my even, nonhysterical voice. “It’s part of this stupid game. I just hate seeing you hurt.”
“She’s a worrier,” Ace pipes in. “She made me sit in a car seat until I was in second grade and still watches me walk to Jayden’s house even though it’s just down the street.”
“Dang, kid, you’re just gonna throw me under the bus like that?” I ask Ace, even though I don’t care at all. I’m just glad the haunted look he’s worn since TK went down is gone.
“She can’t help it.” TK wraps an arm around Ace’s shoulders, leans to his ear, and stage whispers, “I told you, us Moore men make her crazy.”
Since I can’t argue with that, I roll my eyes and say nothing.
“Now.” TK stands up, slow and with the caution my granny had after she had a hip replacement when I was seven. “Let me get changed so we can head out.”
“You can go?” I look up at the small screen mounted in the corner of the room and see the game is still going on.
“Yeah, it’ll be better because I’ll miss press and fans asking for autographs upstairs.” TK follows the path everyone else took a few minutes ago. “With the headache I have, I wouldn’t be my best.”
I don’t argue with him.
For one, I know nothing of the rules or etiquette of injuries.
Two, I’ve wanted to get him home since I saw him run out on the field.
And three—
“Plus, it’s a schoooooool night,” I sing to Ace, whose only response is a quick roll of the eyes and subsequent terrified expression for daring to roll his eyes at me.
“I think they set up some after-game snacks already in the family room. You guys can sit in there and wait for me if you want,” TK suggests before I can ask Ace if he took a hit in the head today too. “I won’t take too long.”
“Sounds good,” Ace and I say at the same time.
Because while Ace might be getting a little too grown up for his own good, the family room has brownies and Cherry Coke. And neither of us will ever be too grown up—and I will never have the self-discipline—not to hoard chocolate and caffeine.
Thirty-one
I roll off TK, my curls fanning across my pillow and my chest moving up and down as I try to catch my breath.
Seeing as TK is injured, I took it upon myself to do most of the work tonight.
“Jesus, Sparks,” TK says, also out of breath, even though he just got to lie back and enjoy the ride. “That was fucking incredible.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“No, I loved it,” he corrects me. “From now on, after every game, I’m gonna need you riding me.”
My insides and my thighs clench at his words. So much so, I almost climb right back on top of him.
“Fuck,” TK groans, and rolls on top of me. He pushes his hips down and I bite my lip so I don’t moan as I feel him harden against me. “You can’t look at me like that and not expect me to need to bury myself inside of you again.”
I don’t fight the moan this time.
TK stopped fighting with me about turning off the lights, so even though the only light in the room is from the streetlights filtering in through my curtains, I still see his eyes darken.
“You’re gonna kill me.” He drops his head and covers my nipple with his mouth.
My back arches and my nails dig into his back.
“Wouldn’t be a bad way to go,” I tease once I can speak actual words again.
“You got that right.” He laughs, but the laughter is cut short when he cringes in pain and rolls off me.
And I know as much as I don’t want to have this conversation, I have to get it over with.
Maybe being naked and sated will help. I dive right into it. “I don’t know if we can keep coming to your games.”
“What?” he asks.
“Ace and me,” I clarify. “I don’t know if we can keep coming.”
“Yeah, Sparks,” he says with fire in his voice. “I got that part. Why the fuck not?”
So maybe postcoital wasn’t the best decision?
“I told you how I feel about football. I don’t like it.” I lay all my cards on the table. “It’s dangerous and unnecessary and I feel physically ill every time someone gets hit.”
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it at training camp.” He stares at me, and even though his expression doesn’t change, I swear I can see shut
ters go over his eyes.
“I got caught up.” I reach for his hand and intertwine our fingers, even though TK’s fingers are stiff and not giving in to me at all. “You were out there living the dream you told me about when we were kids. Ace got to run around, making new friends and watching his dad transform into a real-life superhero out on the field. I felt special watching you, knowing all these people worship you and want you and you’re mine.”
His fingers finally start to curl around my hand.
“But then, tonight, when I heard that hit and saw you go down so freaking hard, all I could think was, we just found each other again and it could all end because of a fucking game.” I climb on top of him when I feel him start to stiffen again. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, I looked to my side and saw Ace with tears in his eyes as his hero wobbled to the sideline and the guys behind us rattled off all the ways you’ll probably die because of football. It was like a bucket of ice water being dumped on my head.”
“I’m not going to die because of football,” he says with an authority he doesn’t have. “The helmets are better now than ever and the league is really coming down on concussion safety. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that.” I run my fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to make you choose us over football, but I also don’t want you to make me watch you go out there and get tackled into an early grave.”
“Poppy—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“No, let me finish.” I lie down on his chest, not wanting to have to look in his eyes as I say what I have to say. “Ace wasn’t lying when he told you I’m a worrier. And you weren’t wrong when you said Moore men make me crazy. I am crazy about you and that’s why I cringe seeing you get hit. I don’t want to, but every time it happens, the stats for CTE and ALS and every other brain-injury-related disease run through my mind. I can’t handle being at the stadium again.” I lift up my chin. “I cussed out some random dudes! I clearly need some football girlfriend training before I’m released with the general public again.”
