Fumbled (Playbook #2)(8)
“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 pastime 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.
* * *
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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.