Song for a Cowboy

by Sasha Summers

  She shook her head. “We really haven’t…talked.” About football.

  “No?” Daddy slowly turned the coffee mug between his hands. “I always figured he’d be part of the family someday.” He patted her hand. “I never saw a boy so sweet on anyone the way he was on you.”

  Daddy’s words stirred up a tangle of memories full of love and loss and bone-wrenching grief. “That was a long time ago, Daddy. Things change.”

  “Most times, your first love isn’t your only love.” Krystal piped up, banging around the kitchen, assembling ingredients. “Besides, Daddy, Emmy Lou deserves someone better. Someone true-blue. A rock.”

  “I thought Brock was all those things?” He sighed. “Guess I’m not the best judge of character.”

  Travis snorted. It didn’t slip out, either. It was loud and hard and intentional.

  Emmy Lou watched the narrow-eyed, unspoken exchange between her father and brother. It wasn’t right. None of this was right. Maybe the family counseling wasn’t a bad idea. At this point, they could probably all use someone objective to talk to.

  “What about you, Daddy?” Krystal asked. “I know you were Momma’s first love. But you were young and handsome and on the road long before she came along. Was there anyone special?” Her sister was watching their father like a hawk—all while whisking eggs in a big ceramic bowl.

  Where was this coming from? Emmy Lou took a sip of tea, staring at her sister over the cup’s edge.

  “That was a long time ago.” Their father shook his head.

  “Still, you never forget a first love.” Krystal pushed. “Not if it was the real thing.”

  Daddy nodded, turning his mug again, slowly. “No, you don’t.” He cleared his throat. “But you do move on.”

  Emmy shot her sister a what-are-you-doing look about the same time Travis went to pour himself another cup of coffee—and elbowed the bag of flour to the floor. A huge cloud of white billowed up to cover her brother and sister from head to toe. Krystal turned toward Travis, fuming, flour coated, with eggs dripping from her flour-covered whisk.

  “Krystal, now, it was an accident.” Daddy chuckled. “How about you two get cleaned up and we’ll go have brunch before heading out? Emmy Lou and I will clean up the kitchen.”

  Her daddy was laughing. For a split second, the tension and stress and drama were gone.

  * * *

  Emmy Lou King singing the national anthem for the Roughnecks’ first game of the season should have tipped Brock off that things were going to fall apart. Since he’d left LA, thinking of her left a bitter taste in his mouth. Now, here she was, like lemon juice in a paper cut. And things just kept going downhill. The Green Bay Bears weren’t projected to do well, so going into halftime tied was a serious blow to the team attitude.

  Listening to Coach McCoy’s halftime pep talk only made him hate being benched that much more. The man was a good coach. He knew this game, knew how to read the plays…so watching Ricky Ames roll his eyes, looking bored as hell, had Brock seeing red.

  Third quarter, Ricky Ames fucked it up. Not some accident; that shit happens. No, he’d been showboating—and lost the ball. Then Ames bowed up and chest bumped an opposing teammate. Flags were thrown, whistles were blown, and the Roughnecks suffered penalties.

  Brock was up and on his feet, pacing—willing himself to calm the fuck down.

  The Roughnecks had been projected to win by two touchdowns. In the end they won by a field goal.

  He headed back into the locker room, more than eager to head home, and yanked open his locker. An avalanche of underwear came pouring out onto the floor. Not just men’s underwear. Kids’ underwear. Women’s underwear. Action heroes, unicorns, lacy panties, and a bag of adult diapers.

  “We heard someone scored a big-ass endorsement deal.” Gene Byrd had been the Roughnecks’ running back since before Brock joined the team. “Congrats.”

  Brock laughed. “Dicks.”

  “I’m not sure the world is ready to see you in tighty-whities.” Quarterback Jacob Oliver slapped Brock on the shoulder. He leaned forward to tease. “When you’re not making money showing off your ass, maybe you could get it out there on the field, with the rest of us?”

  Brock shook his head. “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder. We need you on the field,” Russell Ewen murmured as he walked by.

  Ricky Ames brushed past him, back stiff, chin stuck out. He was on the defensive; Brock got that. And even though the kid was a pain in the ass, it was his first game and he’d wanted to prove himself. Hopefully, he’d learn from today’s mistake and move on. It was the way the game worked. But that didn’t mean it was easy.

  “It happens,” he said.

  “What?” Ricky asked, wiping off his face with a towel.

  “Mistakes.” He started shoving the packages of underwear into his extra gym bag. Throwing them away was wasteful—Aunt Mo frowned upon that sort of thing. Maybe he could donate them—or something. He’d leave that up to Connie.

  “Mistakes?” Ricky faced him. It was clear from the fuck-you posture and scowl on Ames’s face he didn’t think he’d made a mistake.

  Should have kept my mouth shut. “Forget it.” He finished shoving the last underwear pack into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and closed his locker.

  “I get that you think you have some sort of role to play here. Like it’s your job to teach me shit or something.” Ricky threw his towel on the ground and crossed the room. “But I’m not sure why I’d listen to a recovering drug addict who spent just as much time on the bench as he has on the field in the last two and a half years.”

  “Everything you just said is true.” Brock was done letting Ames in his head. “Just so we’re clear: I don’t give a shit about your career or your ego. I care about my team.” He shrugged. “If you want to take another swing, go for it. You know what Coach will do.”

  Ricky Ames didn’t budge. He didn’t back down—but he didn’t open his mouth.

  And while Brock didn’t relish the idea of walking away first, he had no interest in having a pissing match with the kid. His father was being discharged from the hospital and Brock needed to be there for that. With a shrug, he grabbed his stuff and headed toward the exit.

  Outside the locker room, a few fans had gathered for autographs. He paused, signing programs and posing for pictures, then hurried toward the parking lot. His phone started ringing as he unlocked the door. He opened it…another avalanche of underwear came spilling out onto the hot concrete parking lot. “Shit.” He pulled open the back door of his four-door truck and started throwing the packages inside. If he got pulled over, he’d have a hard time explaining this. He answered the phone. “Brock here.”

  “Brock?” He knew the husky voice. “Hey, do you have second?”

  “Vanessa?” He slammed the back door and climbed into his truck. It had been a couple of months since he’d seen his ex-wife. He’d been leaving his Narcotics Anonymous meeting and she’d been going in. She’d looked good. Clean. Healthy. He hoped she was.

  “Hi.” Her voice wavered.

  “You okay?” If she was, would she have called?

  “I’m just having a hard day and, I don’t know, I wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

  He started the truck, waited for his phone to sync before answering. “How hard?” he asked, moving slowly through the parking lot and onto the highway.

  “Hard.” She paused. “Really hard.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, V, but you need to call Janine.” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “She’s your sponsor.”

  “No. I know. And I called her. I did. But she didn’t answer.” She sniffed. “I just, well, I called you.”

  Because he was one of the few people who knew the true scope of Vanessa’s addiction. She’d always dabbled—it helped her stay thin—a job requirem
ent for a model. But when he’d been injured and taking pain pills, Vanessa had introduced him to a new world of things to inject, snort, or smoke. It hadn’t ended well. “I’m going to an NA meeting in the morning. You need a ride?”

  “Sure.” She paused. “I’ll call in the morning, though, just to make sure.”

  “V? You’ve worked hard to get clean.” He didn’t know what else to say. Their divorce had been a mutual agreement, so they’d managed to stay friendly—but not close.

  “I know. I know.” She sniffed. “I heard about your dad. How is he?”

  “He’s being discharged to his assisted living facility. It’s good. At least there will be familiar faces.” Or would they be? His dad’s memory was continuing to slip.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Give him my best, please.” Her phone beeped. “It’s Janine.” The relief in her voice was instantaneous. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Take care, Brock. Bye.” She hung up.

  Talking to Janine would help. He didn’t know how he’d make it without his sponsor, Randy. Hopefully, with her new fiancé and her career on the upswing, Vanessa would have the motivation she needed to stay clean.

  The Three Kings were playing on the radio. Their number one hit “Your Loss” was the ultimate breakup song. He didn’t know who or what inspired it, but after Emmy Lou had started sending back his letters and his heart had been shredded, the angry lyrics hit close to home. It was like Krystal had stolen his thoughts and feelings and put them to music.

  He blasted the music, humming along, fingers tapping out the beat on the steering wheel.

  You tell yourself you never loved me.

  You tell yourself you never cared.

  But every kiss makes you miss me

  And every touch leaves you scared.

  Now your heart, your soul, your bed is empty

  And you know, you see, there’s no replacing me.

  But, baby, all I can say is: it’s your loss.

  Oh, baby, baby, baby, it’s your loss.

  His phone buzzed as he was parking. A message from Aunt Mo. He’s not himself, Brock. They had to restrain him for his own safety. His discharge has been delayed. You don’t have to come.

  He sat in his truck, clearing his mind of Emmy Lou and Vanessa and Ricky and the pile of underwear he had in the back seat of his car. Aunt Mo meant well, but he did have to be there. When he hit rock bottom, it had been his father who had helped drag him back. Even struggling with the beginning stages of this horrible disease, his father had taken care of him—showed him how to fight, took him to meetings and doctor’s appointments, never gave up on his son or stopped reminding Brock what was worth fighting for. His father might not remember any of that now. But Brock would never forget.

  Chapter 10

  “Wave,” Emmy said, pointing at the image on one of the jumbotron screens.

  All eleven kids waved, some made silly faces, others had shy, little smiles—one little boy burst into tears and hid behind Shalene. They sat, each in their Houston Roughnecks T-shirt, on a bench along the sideline while the players warmed up.

  “Who’s your favorite?” Emmy asked the quiet little girl sitting beside her. Anna was adorable, with a lopsided ponytail and massive tortoiseshell glasses that covered most of her face.

  Anna shrugged. “I don’t know. My daddy likes Gene Byrd so I guess I do, too.”

  “My daddy does, too.” Emmy nodded. “He’s a good player.”

  Shalene had called her this morning, frantic, after one of their ambassadors canceled. So here she was, playing guide to eleven lucky elementary students who’d all signed a Drug Free Like Me Agreement. It was halftime, and the kids were on the field and ready to play catch with the teams when they showed up…

  Bear—Emmy always thought of him as the triangle player—had taken a bad hit at the end of the second quarter. While there’d been no official statement on his condition, Emmy suspected he wouldn’t be joining them after all. Hopefully, he was okay.

  “Is Bear dead?” one of the little boys asked, his teeth and lips dyed purple from his frozen slushie.

  “No,” Emmy assured him. “He’ll be just fine.”

  “He looked dead,” another little boy agreed. “He fell over.” The little boy stood up and fell on the ground, flat. “Boom. Just like that.”

  For the next five minutes, all eleven kids did their own imitation of Bear’s fall. Emmy wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or not. But when one of the boys shared a story about his goldfish dying and how it did not fall over—it floated upside down—before proceeding to demonstrate how it looked, fish face and all, Emmy had to laugh.

  That was why she didn’t notice Brock until he was kneeling by Anna saying, “Don’t let Emmy Lou throw the ball.”

  “Why?” Anna asked.

  “Trust me.” Brock shook his head, looking serious. “She needs to work on her aim.” But he was looking at her ankle brace.

  “Maybe she needs lessons?” Anna said, pushing her glasses up. “My daddy says lessons make you better.”

  “Maybe that’s it.” He nodded, looking up at Emmy. “You want some lessons?”

  “Only if RJ has time.” Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Her gaze bounced his way.

  Brock’s blue eyes locked with hers a second longer before he turned to Anna. What did that look mean? I don’t care. Why would she care about someone who thought she’d use a hospital visit for promotion? I don’t.

  The two of them, side by side, were quite a picture. He was a mountain. Next to him, Anna looked like a tiny doll.

  “Go easy on me, okay, Anna?” He stood, hands on his hips, staring down at the little girl.

  “My daddy says you should always give a hundred percent.” Anna shrugged.

  Emmy had to smile at that. “Always,” she agreed.

  “Sounds like your daddy and my daddy would get along.” He shook his head, winked at Anna, and ran across the field.

  Between RJ acting like one of the young kids was throwing too hard and Gene’s acrobatics on the field, the kids were having a great time. Emmy, too. She snapped a few pics on her phone and laughed as five little boys tried to tackle Brock.

  But then Ricky Ames came onto the field and headed straight for her, his eager smile a little too eager. “I was hoping you’d show up again, Miss Emmy Lou King. Looking even prettier than last time I saw you.” He smiled. “Been playing my heart out, just for you.”

  Emmy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Really?” Was he for real?

  “Yes, really.” He stepped closer, closer than he needed to. “You need to know now, when I set my sights on a woman, I’m all in. Just like I am on the field.”

  “Ricky.” She paused, making sure he was paying attention so there was no misunderstanding her when she told him it was never ever going to happen.

  He wasn’t listening. He was so focused on her boobs that he jumped when the whistle blew. “Kiss for good luck?” he asked, sticking his cheek out.

  “No.” She walked past him, following the kids and Shalene back to the sidelines. They waited as the parents came, one by one, to escort their children back to their seats.

  By then, the players where back on the field, helmets on, in the zone and ready to go. The air was charged, expectant—kind of like it was for the Three Kings before a show. She blinked, a movement catching her eye. It was so fast she wasn’t sure what it was… Something small, moving quickly. But then the ball of black fluff stopped, midfield, tiny ears poking up and fluffy tail barely visible. No. It couldn’t be. A kitten?

  It was so small. Too small. Would the players see it? The refs? Someone?

  Move. Please move.

  It didn’t. The tiny, black puffball hunkered down in the middle of the twenty-yard line. Terrified and frozen and in harm’s way. She looked around for someone, anyone, but no one could hear h
er over the pure chaos on the sideline. Standing here doing nothing wasn’t an option.

  “This is a bad idea.” Then she took off, running as fast as she could. Everything was a blur. The crowd roared. A solid thunk and crack echoed behind her. Then another—louder. Closer? Her speed picked up, her lungs bursting, her ankle throbbing…but she was so close. All that mattered was getting the tiny thing away from thundering cleats, two-hundred-pound-plus players, and missile-force footballs flying through the air. The kitten took one look at her and mewed. It mewed again when she scooped it up and held it close. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

  That was when she noticed the cheers. The stands were going wild, some booing, some cheering—the overall noise was deafening. And when she turned around, she saw why. Two Dallas Bronco players, on their butts, staring back and forth between her and Brock in disbelief.

  Brock, who was breathing hard, the human wall standing between her and them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing back and forth between the players and Brock, the enormity of what she’d just done sinking in. “I am so…so sorry.” She cradled the kitten close and limped/ran off the field, mumbling apologies to the wide-eyed staff along the sideline. But they weren’t looking at her. They were looking up.

  At the jumbotron. The instant replay… It wasn’t pretty.

  There she was, racing across the field. And Brock jumping up, putting on his helmet as he charged after her onto the field. He flattened the two unsuspecting Dallas Bronco players headed down the field to score—all while Emmy was scooping up the kitten. Finally, Brock, breathing hard and nodding at the shower of yellow flags flying onto the field before he helped the two Bronco players back on their feet.

  This was bad.

  “Miss King.” A referee was headed her way, two uniformed security guards with him. “We need you to leave the playing area.”

  One of the security guards stepped forward. “We’ll escort you to your seats.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary.” This was so much more than bad.

  “Actually, it is, ma’am.” The security guard cleared his throat. “Normally, we’d escort you from the building, but you being you…”