by Alexa Martin
Ace’s steps stutter beside me as we approach the set of cement stairs leading down to the madness.
Sensing his nerves starting to take over, I squeeze his hand in mine. “You ready?”
“I guess so.” The enthusiasm he’s been toting around for the last week is almost completely diminished, which means one thing—I have to act like an actual grown-up and ease his fears, even though I feel like throwing up or running away . . . or maybe both.
“Then move it, Patterson.” I walk down the steps, pulling him with me. “Which way are we going to go?”
Please say left. Please say left. Please say left!
“Ummm . . .” His eyes shift from side to side between the overwhelming crowd fighting to get the best view of the field and the calm of the white tent, where a few small children are running around in circles just outside the makeshift door. “Right.”
Mother sucker! I bite the inside of my cheek and nod my head, turning on a rubber heel toward the tent of affluence.
We make it to the tent, and I can feel that when Jane said they had fans, she meant they had an industrial air conditioner. A cool breeze blasts out of the opening, causing goose bumps to cover my bare arms and legs, and even Ace rubs his hands along his exposed arms.
I walk inside first, too focused on Ace’s hesitant steps to notice eyes swinging our way and the quick lull in the conversation floating around. As soon as he steps inside, a group of kids, mostly younger than him, run right to him.
“I’m Jagger. What’s your name?” a boy who’s probably around seven and wearing jean shorts and a Mustangs jersey like I’ve never seen before asks him.
“Ace.” He answers the question I hope he’s prepared to answer all day.
“Hi, Ace,” Jagger says, his brown eyes smiling and his brown skin flushed even in the chill of the tent. “We’re gonna go play tag, do you wanna play with us?”
Ace looks to me before he answers and I nod my head encouragingly even though I want him at my side.
“Sure,” Ace says. The smile that disappeared moments ago returns full force. He yanks off his family pass and shoves it in my hands before he runs off with his new friend and leaves me alone.
Well, damn.
I look around the tent, now very aware of being alone and new. It’s like high school all over again . . . but worse. Even though the air conditioning has me wishing I brought a sweater, my palms are sweating and my cheeks are flaming hot.
The front of the tent is open, giving everyone a clear view of the practice fields. There’s a table in the corner covered with sandwiches, salads, chips, and all sorts of goodies. Considering I’m already on the verge of emptying my breakfast all over the floor, I skip it, but I do grab a bottle of water from one of the many fully stocked coolers lining the back “wall.” Plastic tables and chairs are scattered about and cheers from outside fill the space, giving me the false hope of flying under the radar.
I find an open table near the back of the tent and take in the scene in front of me. It’s like watching a Bravo TV show being filmed live. Women with their hair straightened or curled to perfection move from table to table, giving air kisses and hugs to old friends. Their glossed lips, contoured faces, and false lashes are a stark contrast to my bargain bronzer and drugstore mascara. And don’t even get me started on their outfits. The few who are wearing Mustangs gear have their shirts cut and sewn into body-hugging masterpieces. Designer jeans cover every set of legs, and I’m the only person in the room in flip-flops. High heels and red-bottom soles bounce in the plastic chairs as they animatedly fill each other in on their off-season adventures. Diamond rings wink and sparkle from every angle . . . even in the shade.
Listen, I know I’m no schmuck, but these women could give anybody a complex. It’s like I’ve walked into a Christian Siriano fashion show. The women are all different sizes and races, but they are all freaking stunning. I thought I was coming to football practice, not freaking fashion week.
I don’t fit in with the soccer moms and I won’t fit in with these women either. I’m happy with my Target flip-flops and discount shorts. I don’t want to be one of those women who judge other women based on their clothes. The kind of woman who guards herself under Gucci and Chanel armors.
“And what’s your name, sweetie?” A voice with a strong Southern flare startles me out of my wealth-filled trance.
I look up to see the tiniest woman with the biggest, blondest hair I’ve ever seen. Her bright pink lips are framing teeth one bleaching appointment away from glowing in the dark, and the diamond-covered hoops in her ears are nearly as big as her head.
“Poppy.” I smile big and stretch out my hand, faking the confidence I do not feel. “Poppy Patterson.”
“I’m Dixie Thompson,” she tells me while shaking my hand and not at all discreetly checking my very empty ring finger. “Your first training camp?”
“How’d you guess?” I let out a bitter laugh.
“We all had a first, which is a blessing in itself.” She sits in the empty chair beside me and leans in close. “My husband’s Chad, Chad Thompson, he’s an offensive lineman.” She keeps going when my eyes don’t light up with recognition. “This is his twelfth season with the Mustangs.”
I shrug my shoulders, offering her an apologetic look. “I don’t really follow football.”
“Well then.” She pats my hand resting on the table. “Nothing we can’t fix. I’m from Texas and my daddy was a high school football coach, so I grew up under Friday night lights. If anybody can fill you in, it’s me.”
That’s nice of her, I guess.
“Thanks.”
“Are you here with someone from the front office?” she asks, clearly trying to connect the dots as to how someone with no football knowledge is sharing this space with her.
“Ummm . . . no.” I move my hands under the table to hide the fidgeting. “TK Moore.”
Her eyes damn near pop out of her head and her jaw is on the table. She stares at me, saying absolutely nothing for about ten seconds longer than is socially acceptable before half asking and half screaming, “TK?,” drawing the attention of everyone within fifteen feet of us.
“Ummm . . .” I bite my bottom lip, unable to focus on Dixie with damn near the entire tent staring at us.
“Well, bless your little heart. Isn’t that just special?” She smoothes her face into a smile that doesn’t look natural or happy.
“I guess so?”
She pushes away from the table and unfolds herself from the cheap plastic chair that’s probably burning a hole in her jeans. Her hair, which must be responsible for at least forty percent of the deterioration of the ozone layer, never moves. “Nice meetin’ you . . . Poppy, wasn’t it?”
I only nod, not at all understanding the direction this conversation went.
“Poppy,” she repeats, looking down her nose at me. “Enjoy your day.”
She turns on a heel that puts my work stilettos to shame and saunters her tiny self to a table filled with more wide-eyed beauties, who don’t even attempt to hide their interest in wanting to be filled in on TK Moore’s guest.
What in the world was that about?
“Ignore Dixie, she thinks she’s queen supreme and her guard goes up whenever she thinks someone is a threat.” A gorgeous brunette with the sharpest bob I’ve ever seen sits in the just-evacuated seat before I even have a chance to get a grip on what happened.
“Umm . . .”
“I’m Charli Easton.” She points to the field diagonal from where we’re sitting. “Number eighty-seven, Shawn, he’s mine.”
“Poppy.” I half wave, still recovering from the whiplash Dixie gave me.
“So . . .” She pauses, a smile wide on her face, but unlike the Southern pixie, there’s no calculating glint in her eye. “TK, huh?”
“Umm . . .” She’s going think the
re’s something wrong with me if I don’t start stringing words together soon, but how do I answer that? “It’s complicated.”
I almost laugh at the gross understatement. “Complicated” doesn’t even begin to describe the saga that is Poppy and TK.
“The good stories always are.” She leans back in her chair, making herself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you can get in a plastic folding chair.
I take a long sip of my water. “Isn’t that the truth.”
“What are we talking about?” a curvy black woman with loads of long black hair almost down to her ass says, taking the empty seat to my right.
“I was just introducing myself to Poppy, here.” Charli talks across me. “How are you holding up so far?”
“Girl.” She leans back into her seat with a flair one can only learn by watching daytime soaps. “These damn kids are going to kill me. If not now, then from liver failure later. When I tell you I’m almost up to a bottle of wine a day, I am not lying. Little demons. They won’t stop wrestling and pretending to be Daddy. Cute until they’re breaking shit and almost breaking bones. I’m already ready for the season to be over. Anyways . . .” She sits back up and looks at me, flicking her wrist in a mini wave. “I’m Lavonne, but you can call me Vonnie. Sorry about that little rant, but I figured if you’re gonna be my friend, you might as well know what to expect from me from the beginning.”
I might love Vonnie. Some may say it’s too soon and I’m too young to know what true love is, but she had me at wine and demons.
“I always make sure I have a bottle of wine stashed in the house,” I tell her, feeling happy for the first time today that I decided to come. “So I totally understand.”
“You have kids?” Charli leans in, her voice hushed and her eyes wide.
“One, Ace.” I point to Ace, who’s still running around, having the time of his life. “The one with the perfectly highlighted mess of curls, he’s nine.”
“I was wondering who the little cutie keeping my crew entertained was. They’ve usually scared off most of the other kids by now, but they’re loving running around with him,” Vonnie says.
Pride wells up in my chest the way it always does when Ace is mentioned. “He’s a good kid.”
“Mine are the ones in the Lamar jerseys.” Vonnie points to Jagger, the one who stole Ace from me, and two other not-so-little boys with matching haircuts. They look like they could be triplets and my respect for her multiplies. “Wait.” She pauses, squinting her eyes at Ace as he runs away from her boys. “Is that a Moore jersey?”
“Ummm . . .” My hands start to fidget underneath the table again. I pinch my thigh to avoid biting my lip and looking even more nervous than I already do. “Yeah.”
“Wait,” Vonnie repeats as she and Charli both lean in closer. “You and TK are a thing?”
“You didn’t hear Dixie announce it to everyone?” Charli asks Vonnie, like she’s annoyed to have to go over these details when there’s a much bigger, juicier story to be told.
“You know I ignore Dixie’s ass whenever possible.” Vonnie looks from Charli to me. “Which is all the damn time. That woman works my damn nerves.”
Considering my one experience with Dixie, that’s not hard for me to believe. “I can see how that could happen.”
“Yes, Dixie is insane. Everyone knows this,” Charli whisper yells at both of us. “But what nobody knows is if TK has a son.”
“Oh yes.” Vonnie purses her lips and nods her head, the same look Maya’s church friends give when spilling church tea. “Good point. Is Ace TK’s?”
How did this become a paternity interrogation?
“I mean . . .” I look between the two women at my sides. I’m not ashamed, but it’s also not really their business. But on the other hand, since I had Ace, I’ve become a pretty decent judge of character, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure they aren’t asking for gossip ammunition. And letting my guard down a couple of inches can’t hurt too much . . . right? “Yeah. TK and I went to high school toge—”
Vonnie and Charli both cut me off before I can explain further.
“No more,” Charli says.
“Yeah.” Vonnie agrees and only ups my confusion. “Most of these women are the shit, but there’s a small handful who you do not want to overhear your business.”
“Cough, Dixie, cough.” Charli points to the table where Dixie and five other women are sitting.
Vonnie puts an expectant palm in front of me. “Give me your phone.”
“Oookay . . .” I give it to her because she doesn’t seem like the kind of woman to take no for an answer.
She fiddles around on it for a couple of minutes before giving it back to me. “There. I entered my number, my address, and made an appointment for you to come over tomorrow for lunch.”
I open my mouth to interrupt, but I don’t get a word out.
“No excuses. You come, drink wine, and chat. Ace and my boys can run around and play. It’s a win-win.” Damn. She’s good. I thought I had mom authority down, but she’s putting me to shame.
Still one problem, though. “I’m actually supposed to start working this weekend. I can do Sunday night, though, if you aren’t already busy.”
“The only plans I have for the next two weeks are trying to not lose my mind. You coming over will greatly increase my odds of survival. Plus, Sunday is the first preseason game. Come over early and we can watch it together.” She grabs her soda off the table and twists it open. “What about you, Charli? Can you make it Sunday?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I did have some pretty exciting plans with my DVR, but they can wait a night, I guess.”
“This bitch.” Vonnie rolls her eyes and tries to sound irritated, but the smile tugging at the corners of her full lips reveals her true feelings.
“So Sunday?” I confirm.
“Sunday.” Charli nods her head. “I’ll bring dessert and you bring details. Like, all of them.”
Well, shit.
What the hell did I get myself into this time?
Nineteen
I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of dreading the whistle blowing and this day ending.
Admittedly, I pay zero attention to the football being played in front of me, I’m much more interested in the women beside me. Vonnie and Charli are hilarious and I feel guilty for the preconceived notions I had when I first stepped foot into the tent.
Charli, whose name I learn is really Charolette, is getting her master’s in business from the University of Denver. Vonnie has her law degree but decided to take a break while Justin is playing. She started sharing her struggles adjusting from being a part of the workforce to a stay-at-home mom, and I guess she is Internet famous . . . which I also learn is a thing. You know people can make a crap ton of money from YouTube videos? What in the actual world and sign me up. Please and thank you.
“How much longer until it’s over?” Ace comes over to me for the first time since he went running off with Jagger. His face is beet red and glistening from the sweat he’s gained over the last two hours of relentless playing.
I glance at my phone, which I realize is pointless. “I have no idea,” I tell him before turning the question over to the experts around us. “Do you know?”
Vonnie glances at her rose-gold watch. “It should wrap up soon, I’d guess ten or twenty more minutes.”
“Thank you,” Ace answers. He starts to turn on his Nikes, ready to report his findings to the rest of his football offspring crew, but my hand on his wrist stops him.
“Why don’t you sit down for a minute? Have some water and cool off? You’ve been playing really hard and it’s hot.”
“But, Mom,” he tries to negotiate, “practice is almost over and I can rest the entire ride home.”
“Ace.” I raise an eyebrow and point to the coolers behind him. “Water.”
>
“Fine.”
“That’s a good idea,” Vonnie says before spotting her boys in the crowd. “Jett, Jax, Jagger! Come get some water before your dad comes to see you!” she yells, her booming voice gaining their attention and instant obedience.
The three boys run into the tent, grabbing water bottles and seats at the table next to Ace. I watch the four of them and it never fails to amaze me how easily friendship comes among children.
My attention is ripped away when I hear a sickening crash and the crowd yells out a collective “Oooooohhhh!”
I turn to the field to see the cart that has been sitting idly behind the end zone speeding onto the grass. My eyes immediately search out TK, making sure he’s not the player writhing in pain on the forty-yard line. When I find him on the sideline, taking a knee with the rest of his teammates, relief so heady floods my system that tears cloud my vision and my limbs feel like they’ve been filled with cement.
An eerie silence falls over the tent that was only moments ago buzzing with laughter and gossip. My eyes shift around, trying to find the woman who is partnered up with the injured player. My heart physically aching in my chest at how helpless she must feel watching her loved one lying on the field. But I don’t see anyone. No woman running onto the field, nobody crying at a table, surrounded by other wives and girlfriends trying to comfort her. Nothing. Just quiet observers who all share the same relieved expression that it isn’t their loved one.
“What happened?” I whisper to Charli, who is quietly tapping the screen of her iPhone.
She lifts her eyes from her phone, a look of sadness replacing the funny, free spirit I’ve talked to all afternoon. “He was trying to make a tackle but went in with his head down. It wasn’t pretty.” She glances at her phone again, her frown increasing. “Rookie free agent.” She turns the screen to me, showing me a kid, maybe twenty-two years old, smiling wide at the camera, his blue eyes sparkling and his cheeks flushed with excitement that his dreams might finally become a reality. A look I remember TK wearing whenever football came up.