“Wow. I didn’t know that. Pretty cool, though. Maybe I’ll come by a game and watch you play, catch up with Coach.”
The kid looks like I offered him a winning lottery ticket.
The quick exchange ends abruptly when Kyle interrupts the conversation, pulling on my bicep to turn me around. “What the fuck, Brutal? Killian barely got any ball time. That’s why we fucking lost.” He points back at the bench where the boys have stopped eating their post-game snack of Mama Louise’s zucchini bread and are instead watching with dropped jaws as Kyle curses loudly.
I reverse my posture from the unintimidating curve I adopted to not scare the ref, broadening my shoulders and bowing my chest out. “Mr. Bloomdale,” I say quietly, my voice more of a harsh hiss than anything else.
To his credit, the referee steps forward, obviously quoting from the referee handbook. “Sir, as the referee for this game, I have to ask you to refrain from using vulgar language and also to lower your voice. As I was just explaining to Coach Meyers, a complaint was filed against the Wildcats because of your behavior. Further actions that go against the code of conduct will resort in a game suspension for the entire team. Also, spectators are not allowed on the field so I will have to ask you to step back.”
Ballsy kid. I like him already, but I don’t want him getting hurt. I turn, blocking the kid and putting myself in the line of fire. I’m who he wants, anyway.
“Kyle.”
His eyes are slow to leave Max, Kyle’s head turning before his eyes follow, but when he locks on me, they narrow. “Killian played. Everyone played. It was a good game, but you need to shut the fuck up.”
I never said I was good with words. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve loudly and somewhat proudly said that I suck with words. But I’m trying. I don’t want to punch this asshole out in front of his kid, but the jump to fists over words is habitual.
The threat of impending violence must be coming through loud and clear, though, because Allyson bravely steps forward, thwarting the staredown Kyle and I are locked in. For my part, I’m clear-eyed and thoughtful. He’s red-eyed and blustery, smelling like cheap whiskey and trying to playing tough. I don’t need to play at it. I can simply send him to the hospital without flinching.
“Mr. Bloomdale, please calm down.” Allyson holds up a hand, palm toward Kyle, imploring him. In the history of histories, I don’t think anyone has ever calmed down from being told to do so and today is not an exception to that rule. “There are children watching.”
I can hear her reaching into her professional bag of tricks again, but Kyle’s not having it.
Somewhere in his brain, a switch is flipped and he turns redder. His voice gets louder and his arm movements more erratic. “Stop telling me to calm down! You did my son wrong and I won’t stand for it. Killian’s the best fucking football player you’ve got, and if you can’t see that, then fuck you.” He points at Max first, then me. “And fuck you.” Before sticking his finger in Allyson’s face. “And fuck you, bitch.”
It happens so quickly and subtly, but her façade crumbles and she flinches as Kyle’s finger gets too close. Her eyes slip shut and she turns away from his touch, like she’s preparing . . .
Red. I see actual, literal red in my vision.
Allyson said Jeremy didn’t treat her ‘nice’, but I see it now. See the instinctive reflex to protect herself in Allyson’s movements. My heart breaks at the same time hot fury rushes through me, bitter and acidic, making me want to rage that someone could treat anyone that way. But most of all, disbelieving that anyone would treat her that way. My Allyson is special, a sweet angel who deserves the best of everything life can offer.
This is what she’s holding back, the shadows that haunted her and weighed her down, making her question her own judgement and not trust anyone. I know it as sure as I know that I love her and she loves me.
But I can’t deal with it right now. I have to protect her from the actual threat right in front of us, not the one that lurks in her past.
“Get the fuck away from her,” I boom, stepping between Allyson and Kyle and slapping his hand out of the air. Yeah, I’m cussing in front of the kids too because they definitely heard that, but I can’t even care. Not when it’s Allyson at risk.
“You need to leave, go home or wherever the hell it is you hide. Rethink how you’re treating people with a sober head because you’re a loser and Killian deserves better. Thank God for his grandparents.”
I chance the quickest glance across the field to see them standing halfway across the field. It looks like they tried walking over but had to stop. Mr. Bloomdale is helping prop Mrs. Bloomdale up and she’s crying softly.
The split-second look away is a mistake on my part, a poor judgement when I’m known for being observant and aware. Kyle takes advantage of my quick distraction, throwing a messy right hook my way.
Instinctively, I duck and throw up a block. He’s untrained and drunk, which make him unpredictable and sloppy, and as his right arm moves away from me, he tries to come back with a left hook. It’s a wide swing, wild and uncontrolled, and instead of hitting the intended target of my jaw, it connects with Allyson’s cheek.
I see it happen in slow-motion, hear her cry of surprised shock and pain, and even feel her bump into me from the force of the hit.
My fist connects with Kyle’s gut before I even think to do it, the reflexive movement primal and instinctual. He grunts, grinning like a fucking maniac, like we’re goofing off as he flails back, his punches bouncing off my arms like raindrops. I follow up the first gut shot with one to his jaw, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
The crazy drunk fuck is somehow still conscious, laughing maniacally. “Good one, Brutal.” He seems okay. Alcohol can do that to you, dull the pain enough that you think everything’s fine until the buzz wears off and you feel the damage.
I spin to check on Allyson, scared to see the damage Kyle’s punch did to her. She’s soft and sober, and I’m afraid the violence will have done more than fuck up her face.
But she’s not behind me. Max, the kid’s eyes wide with shock, holds up his hands like I’m about to punch him too.
“Al?” I grunt.
Max points, and I follow the direction he’s indicating. Allyson is full-on sprinting across the field toward the boys. I have a moment of hope that her Mama Bear instincts are kicked in and she’s just protecting the team from the ugliness. “Allyson?” I call.
She looks over her shoulder, her face gone pale white and blank. It’s the blankness that scares me. There’s no fear, no surprise, just utter vacancy as she grabs Cooper’s hand and drags him toward the parking lot.
“Allyson!” I holler again, louder this time.
She doesn’t turn around even though I see her shoulders creep an inch higher, so I know she heard me.
Michelle runs after her, telling Liam to come on. “I’ll get her. Handle that.” She points at Kyle, who’s laid on the grass curled into the fetal position with his hands folded together under his cheek. He looks like an angel except for the blood on his busted lip and the fact that it’s not even lunch time and he’s passed out drunk on a kids’ football field.
I don’t give a single flying fuck about Kyle. He can choke on his own goddamn vomit for all I care. My every cell is telling me to chase Allyson. She’s a flight-er, but maybe now I know why. Maybe running is her way of fighting, not a retreat but a move for preservation. A smart strategy, but it kills me that she had to learn that.
Motherfucker! Not my Allyson.
Along with the urge to follow her is a desire to find this Jeremy asswipe and teach him a lesson or two on how to be ‘nice’ to women. He fucking deserves it. I take two steps, following Allyson’s tracks, when I hear a noise behind me.
Max clears his throat, louder this time. “Want me to call the police? He totally threw the first punch so I’ve got your back, Brutal.”
I look to Mr. and Mrs. Bloomdale, both of whom are sobbing openly and holding Kil
lian against them as they do their best to plead with me through their watery eyes. They’re their own little dysfunctional family in the middle of the chaos Kyle has created, trying to find something resembling normalcy for their grandson in the mess their son left behind.
“No, that’s okay. Thanks for keeping your shit together though. Speaks volumes about the man you are.” Some of the shock of the situation seems to have worn off, and he nods politely like this is just a normal post-game wrap-up.
“He’s obviously banned.” Max tilts his head to the snoring fucker on the ground. “If he shows up, the Wildcats will forfeit.”
“Understood.” I walk to the Bloomdales with my head held high, ready for their harsh words and judgment. But instead of contempt, I find sadness.
“Thanks for not calling the cops on him. He used to be such a good boy, but we lost him along the way. We’ll get him back to rehab again and pray this time it sticks.” Mrs. Bloomdale rubs Killian’s shoulder soothingly.
“Come on, Killian. We’ve got a team meeting real quick, ‘kay?” I look to his grandparents, who nod understandingly. When Killian lifts his head, there’s a healthy dose of fear there. I offer my hand anyway, feeling a real doubt about whether he’s going to take it. He just watched me beat the shit out of his dad, so I’m probably the monster in his eyes.
But he looks behind me at his dad on the ground and then takes my hand. I can’t imagine what strength that requires. He’s got a core of good in him, this kid. His grandparents should be so proud because they’re the ones doing a damn fine job of instilling that in him.
I take a knee when I get close to the boys. “Guys, I am so sorry you saw that. First and foremost, let me say that fighting is very rarely the right thing to do. Almost never, which is something that took me a long time to learn. I want you to learn from my mistakes and not have to make them on your own because they hurt . . . you and other people.” I hold up my hand, knuckles red from the punches, and look back at Kyle in the grass.
“On the other hand, you look out for each other—for the teammate beside you, for the person beside you, for what’s right. You support and protect people when they need it and always do the right thing. I know it might look ugly and even scary, but Kyle was being mean to Coach Allyson and I had to protect her.”
‘Mean’ is putting what Kyle did so very lightly. I’m worried about Al, not just her emotions and reaction to the fight but her cheek, too. Did Kyle break a bone, hurt her eye, loosen teeth?
Fuck, I have to get to her. Now.
I need to hold her, check her over, and soothe whatever freakout she’s in the midst of. And I have some questions I’m going to need answered because I think it’s time to lay it all out. I’ve been patient. Fuck, have I been patient. But no longer.
Today might’ve made her scurry back into her shell to hide away from me, but if I have to, I’ll follow her into the depths of her mind and drag her kicking and screaming back into the sunshine and into my arms. She deserves that. I want to give that to her.
A bright future for the three of us.
I signal Mike, glad he could make the first game even if it’s all gone to hell in a handbasket. I point back at Kyle. “Help me with him, will ya?”
“Nah, we got him.” He points between himself and Bobby, who’s standing at the ready. Actually, with the snarl of wrinkles at the neck of his shirt, he looks like someone might’ve been holding him back from getting all up in my not-even-a-fair-fight with Kyle.
Bobby’s dark eyes meet mine, filled with emotion. I don’t need his apology. I can see straight into that guy’s mind, and half the time, predict what he’s gonna say.
“Go after Allyson and make sure she’s okay,” he growls. His message is clear—she’s one of us now. He might not get it, he might not trust her fully, and hell if I even know what made her run out of here looking like she’d seen a ghost. But he’s got my back when the shit hits the fan, no matter what.
“Thanks, man.”
And I’m off to get my woman. Because she might be a fleer-slash-fighter, but whatever she is, she’s mine. And I’m hers. And we’re gonna figure this shit out right now. Together.
Chapter 28
Allyson
One second I’m trying to calm down Kyle Bloomdale, and the next his finger’s in my face and he’s calling me a bitch. It’s not the first time I’ve been called names. Hell, it’s not even the first time that’s happened this month. I’m a mediator, after all, and my job is helping angry people on two sides of an issue come to some sort of resolution. It’s sometimes an ugly process.
But I reflexively flinch. I feel the too-familiar electric jolt as my muscles tense, and it sends a wash of shame through me. I don’t do this anymore. I worked too hard to not be this person ever again. Scared and shrinking is not me. I am bold and bright. I just lost that for a minute when I was with Jeremy.
So why is this happening now? Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about the past a bit more the last few days, analyzing the differences between my relationship with Bruce and my marriage with Jeremy and revisiting my slow crumble under Jeremy’s influence.
I know that eventually, I’ll have to tell Bruce more about my marriage and divorce, but I’ve been putting it off, not wanting him to see me as the broken woman I was for too long.
Bruce steps between Kyle and me, and for the briefest of seconds, I feel relieved that he’s going to handle this. The tension amps up, and I step back, needing to get away.
It’s not far enough, though, and I don’t see the punch coming before my face explodes in pain. It’s hot and fiery, bright and deep all at once. I stumble backward, almost falling to my ass, but the teenage referee steadies me with a firm hand on my elbow.
In slow motion, I see Bruce’s face twist in rage as he bares his teeth. His fist lifts, connecting with Kyle’s belly with a thud. Kyle throws wild punches back, barely any landing, and even the ones that do, Bruce doesn’t show any sign of even feeling them. Bruce punches Kyle once more and he goes down.
It’s over in a flash, but my blood is thundering through my body, a roar in my ears blocking out everything and everyone.
No, no, no, no. I can’t do this. He hit me. I have to get out of here.
Cooper! Where’s Cooper?
I hear Bruce calling my name, but I grab Cooper’s hand. “Let’s go, Cooper. Now.” He starts to say something, but when he looks at my face, he quiets and lets me drag him to the car. “Buckle up, honey.”
The drive is fast, my back ramrod straight as I check the rearview mirror for the tenth time. Nothing is behind us but open road.
“What’s wrong, Mom? Why were Coach B and that guy fighting?” His voice is hesitant, but as I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, the blue so similar to mine, he looks worried.
“It’s fine, honey. It’s fine.” My voice trails off, not answering him because I’m mostly trying to reassure myself.
Cooper’s quiet after that, and my brain whirls, replaying the scene at the football field but overlapping the way I felt with Kyle’s pointing finger in my face with Jeremy’s accusations and insults.
It’s hitting me hard, flashbacks of arguments and sneered insults that made me feel small, accusations that made me doubt myself. I haven’t had a panic attack like this in years. I didn’t think it would ever happen again, but here I am.
My breathing quickens, trying to force oxygen into my too-tight chest, and my whole body gets tingly as adrenalin floods my veins. Rationally, I know there’s nothing to be scared of here in my car. I left the threat behind at the football field. But my brain doesn’t care about rational and reasonable logic.
Bitch. His finger in my face. He hit me. Jeremy. Kyle. Bruce. People watching.
Run. Save Cooper. Run.
They’re not complete thoughts, just words floating across my mind like a scrolling marquee, the red LED lights flashing in warning.
My fingers tap on the steering wheel, but I can’t find a rhythm and it�
�s more drumming than the anxiety-alleviating pattern I usually employ.
I pull into the driveway at home, a fleeting thankfulness at the closeness of my house trying to take root, but my brain swats the positive thought away like an annoying mosquito. “Inside. Let’s go.”
Cooper unbuckles his seatbelt and rushes inside with me, fear etched on his face.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He doesn’t need to see this. He shouldn’t have seen that at the field. Is he scared of me? Bruce? Kyle?
The small bit of control and awareness I have takes hold for a moment. I squat down, eyes meeting Cooper’s, and I promise him, “Everything’s fine. Mom just got a bit nervous at the field so I thought we should come home.” I can hear the false robotic note to my voice, but I can’t change it. It’s taking all I have to speak this calmly and not scare him further.
“Okay, Mom.” I hug him to me, letting the sweaty boy smell of him ground me, feeling him solidly and safely in my arms. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, hot and painful, but I blink them away so he doesn’t see.
“Go to your room for a little bit for me, okay?” He nods and scurries down the hallway.
It’s the last bit of restraint I have. Even as I know it’s ridiculous, I’m in survival mode, and I can’t help but check the lock on the front door and then the windows. I peek through the blinds, looking at the driveway that’s empty except for my car.
He’s not coming.
I’m not sure who ‘he’ even is . . . Kyle, Jeremy, Bruce? All of them? The image of the three of them converging on my lawn is ridiculous but not enough to stop the panic.
I’m glad . . . about Kyle and about Jeremy, who’s not a threat, anyway, since I don’t even know where he is now. I’m sad that Bruce isn’t here to hold me and soothe this panic away.
I don’t need him. I can do this on my own.
I sit down in the living room floor, crossing my legs in front of me and laying my hands on my knees. I close my eyes, inhaling as I count in my head, holding the too-deep breath until it stretches my chest, then exhaling. I repeat it several times, so many times that I lose count and drift into my subconsciousness, feeling dissociated from my body as if I’m floating.
Rough Love Page 28
