Fumbled

by Alexa Martin

  It’s also the same doorbell TK has, but that’s not nearly as impressive as Forbes.

  The second I’m just assuming because I glanced at the bill for the security system when the guy put it on the kitchen table and there was a comma in the price. I would’ve objected, but there were already holes in most of my walls from the touchscreen alarm boxes scattered throughout my house and video cameras at different angles on the outside of my house.

  It takes the security guys (and one girl) over an hour to point out all the features and test me on arming and disarming the system and practicing pushing the panic button in case of emergencies. By the time they finish, the Advil and water have kicked in and my hangover is nothing but a memory.

  Praise Jesus.

  “TK.” I grab his hand after he closes the front door behind the security team heading back to their vans. “You didn’t have to do this,” I start, and squeeze his hand in mine when he tries to interrupt me. “But I’m glad you did. I already feel safer and I really appreciate you doing this for us.”

  His mouth goes tight and he pulls me into his chest. “I’ll do anything to keep you guys safe, Sparks.”

  It’s a rare moment where TK is completely serious.

  Then that annoying thing that’s been happening more and more often when I’m with him happens—something inside me settles. An ache I wasn’t aware I’ve been feeling for years disappears, leaving me lighter and happier than I thought was possible for me.

  An ache I’m afraid will only multiply when this ends.

  I don’t say anything.

  Instead I wrap my arms around his stomach and hold on tight.

  “Ew,” Ace says, ruining the moment with the efficiency and ease only nine-year-olds possess. “What are you guys doing?”

  “Hugging.” I state the obvious.

  Ace shakes his head and rolls his eyes, not at all amused by my answer.

  “Do you feel left out?” I ask, unwrapping myself from TK.

  “Mom . . . ,” Ace warns me.

  “Is my Acey-Wacey feeling left out?” I start toward him, using the nickname I always used when he was little.

  “Stop it, Mom.” Ace holds his hands in front of his chest, backing away from me.

  “I can’t.” I lunge at him, wrapping my arms around him as tight as I can, and swing him around, peppering his face with kisses. “I need to hug my Acey-Wacey!”

  “Mom!” he screeches, trying, but failing, not to laugh and sound delighted.

  “I can’t stop!” I shout, letting my hands fall to his waist and squeeze his tickle spot. “I need hugs!”

  “Make her stop!” Ace yells through the giggles he’s trying so hard to mask in anger. “Dad! Help!”

  Nothing could make me stop tickling and being the annoying mom who has the audacity to kiss her kid.

  Nothing, I thought, until I heard that one word.

  Dad.

  Holy shit.

  My hands stop and all the strength drains from my arms. I look up at TK, who is staring, his eyes glazed over, his lips tipped up, at the back of Ace’s curl-covered head.

  And it’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen TK look.

  Which is saying a lot.

  Ace, unaware of how much saying that three-letter word means to TK, breaks free from my Jell-O arms, turns, and runs to TK’s side. “Let’s get her, Dad,” he says again.

  I know I want to cry and I’m pretty sure TK does, too. But instead, he gives a quick shake of his head, bringing himself back to the moment, and the small smile he had changes into a mischievous one.

  Now this look? I know it well.

  “Don’t you dare,” I warn the twins in front of me wearing matching expressions.

  “Don—” I can’t even finish the word before they both take off in my direction.

  I turn and scream, but I only make it two steps before I’m upside down and slung over TK’s shoulder.

  “Put me down!” I pound my fists against TK’s back a few times, but before I’m able to inflict much damage, I’m flying through the air until my back bounces off my throw pillow–lined couch.

  “Get her!” Ace yells like a freaking war cry.

  And TK, the big kid he is, doesn’t miss a beat.

  “Noooo!” I flail my legs and arms and try to flip off the side of the couch.

  And shocker.

  I don’t get away.

  TK grabs both of my wrists and pins them above my head and Ace, the freaking traitor, tickles my armpits.

  Is it okay to call my kid an asshole?

  Because I’m really tempted to.

  I try to tell them to stop, but it’s hard to understand between my painful laughter.

  “No!” I scream, trying to free my wrists and buck Ace off me. “You’re gonna make me pee!”

  And it’s not a lie.

  Don’t judge me. Ace was a really big baby, my pelvic floor might never fully recover.

  “Ace, I’ll never—” I screech louder when TK manages to restrain both of my wrists with one of his hands and his newly free hand goes to my ultrasensitive neck. “Please! I’m sorry!”

  I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, but I’ll say anything at this point.

  “No more tickling me?” Ace, the little creep, asks.

  “No more tickling,” I promise. I’m completely out of breath and my hidden abs are aching. They have officially tickled all the fight out of me.

  Ace looks up at TK, who must have given him a nod of approval, because I’m freed from their grips.

  “I can’t believe you did that.” I aim narrowed eyes at TK. “I’m a grown woman. You can’t tickle me.”

  “Well then”—he looks at Ace, shrugging his shoulders and lifting his hands—“how’d we do such a great job?”

  Ace dissolves into a fit of giggles, falling onto the couch at my feet, his little body shaking so hard, the cushion under my butt is vibrating.

  I lean down and gently tug on one of his curls. “Traitor. See if I bake you strawberry muffins when school starts.” I stick out my tongue, extra satisfied by my threat.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Ace sits up straight, looking so worried, I’d laugh if it didn’t mean breaking character. “Don’t you think you’re taking it a little too far? Strawberry muffins are like . . . your mom staple.”

  And here I thought my mom staple was always putting Ace first and dedicating my entire life to him.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, knowing damn well I’ll be up late making strawberry muffins for breakfast and my fabulous chocolate chip cookies (the trick is one-fourth cup more flour, salted butter, and dark brown sugar—not any of that light crap) for his lunchbox. “But speaking of school, you want to head to Target and get school supplies today?”

  “Yeah!” Ace shouts, jumping off the couch with such height that for a nanosecond I question if I gave birth to a superhero. “I’ll go get dressed!”

  “Oh!” TK jumps up from behind me. “I love back-to-school shopping. Mind if I come?”

  “Not at all.” I don’t say it, but I’m beyond thrilled not to have to deal with the crowds on my own. “But be warned, it’s not fun like it used to be. It’s a superstrict list about what to get.”

  “I know, I donate a lot of supplies to the Mustangs to pass out to schools around the city,” TK says, like it’s not the sweetest, most admirable thing he could do. “I still like it.”

  “Oh . . . okay.” I don’t make a big deal out of it since it’s clear he doesn’t want me to, but I almost tell Ace to go to Jayden’s so I can jump TK’s bones right here on my dusty living room floor.

  “Ready!” Ace runs out of his room in the same shorts he had on before and goes straight to the front door.

  Since TK has been here, my Volvo has been banished to the garage, only to be used whe
n TK’s Range Rover is gone. I’d be insulted, but I hate driving and buying gas, so I’m a big fan of this arrangement.

  I slide into my flip-flops and TK pushes his feet into his Nikes, motioning for Ace and me to head out as he sets my alarm system.

  “Damn,” TK says right as he reaches the car. “Forgot my keys.”

  “Keys are a critical part of turning a car on.” I laugh, digging my keys out of my purse and tossing them to him.

  He runs up to my house, a view I very much appreciate, and is in and out so fast I can’t help but be impressed.

  And then we load into the same car, laughing at my lame jokes and TK’s terrible singing voice, and run errands together.

  Just like any other family.

  Just like my dreams.

  Twenty-nine

  “How’s school going?” Charli asks Ace.

  “The best! Dad comes to school on Tuesdays to have lunch with me.” Ace takes a giant bite of his relish-loaded hot dog. “All my friends think it’s so awesome.”

  “Gross, Ace,” I scold. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth, nobody wants to see that.”

  I thought I’d be able to stop telling him that after the age of five. I was sorely mistaken.

  Mom life is not glamorous and kids are freaking gross.

  Ace takes an obnoxious amount of time to finish chewing and swigs a big gulp of lemonade. “Sorry, Mom,” he says when he’s finished. But the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth tells me I’ll end up having to tell him the same thing at least three more times today.

  But since this is our first time at a real, live football game, I let it go.

  Preseason is officially over.

  What does that mean? Well, I’m still learning as I go, but what I do know is too many guys’ dreams came to a crashing halt when they were cut. TK has been home a lot more, even though he’s taken over Maya’s room as his film study room and locks himself in there for a few hours a week, but we still have dinner as a family every night. Except the night before games. Even if it’s a home game, they still have to spend the night at a hotel.

  Last night TK handed over the keys to his Range Rover and had me drop him off at the team’s hotel—the Marriott in Downtown Denver. He showed me the inside of his glove box, which was stashed with our parking pass to the players’ lot and wristbands to go to some kind of room during halftime or something, and he laid the sweetest kiss on me for good luck. There were a few fans lining the entrance who snapped some pictures I’m sure are now floating around on the Internet.

  But I’m too happy to care.

  “TK said his agent is going to be here. I’ll have to keep an eye out for him.” I look over my shoulder, not knowing how I’m supposed to find a single person in this madness. “I think he said his name is Donny?”

  Charli sputters out a laugh and almost sprays the lady sitting in front of her with beer.

  “What?”

  “Trust me.” She uses her napkin to dry her face. “Donny isn’t hard to spot . . . or hear.”

  I shake my head, always feeling one step behind everyone around me lately. “Whatever that means.”

  “You’ll find out soon.”

  “Can we go see Mrs. Vonnie and Jagger later?” Ace asks when his hot dog is gone.

  “I don’t know if we can go up to the suites without tickets, but she said they’d meet us in the family room at halftime.”

  Vonnie is too fancy to rough it out with all of us normal folks and shares a suite with another offensive lineman’s family. She told me she forced Justin to get a suite or she wasn’t going to any more games once her boys became more interested in snacks than football.

  “Sounds good,” Ace says, too excited to be at the game in his Mustangs gear to care where he’s sitting or who he’s sitting with.

  All of a sudden, music blasts from the speakers and fog billows out in front of the tunnel at the back corner of the field. A video starts to play on the jumbo screens at both ends of the stadium, the serious faces of Mustangs players crossing the screen one at a time. The noise around me rises from a steady hum to rip-roaring screams. Then, out of the fog emerge hundreds—fine, like thirty— of cheerleaders dressed in orange and blue (in what I’m assuming are supposed to be sexy cowgirl costumes) running to the field. They split into two lines, creating another tunnel, and stand in their places kicking their legs higher than my body could even dream and bouncing around with their pompoms in the air.

  “Mustangs fans!” The announcer comes on the speakers. “Let’s make some noise for your Denver MUUUSSSSTANGS!”

  If anyone was still sitting, they aren’t anymore. The screams reach eardrum-piercing levels, and everyone is jumping around, high-fiving their neighbors, beer and sodas sloshing all over the ground. I expect the next thing to come out of the tunnel will be the team. What I do not expect is a woman, in an actual cowgirl costume—or is it a uniform?—riding a horse onto the field followed by the Mustangs’ mascot waving a giant Mustangs flag.

  I, personally, think it’s a little overkill on the Mustangs stuff. But judging by the reaction of the crowd around me, Ace included, I’m the only person who feels this way.

  Then, finally, the team flows out of the tunnel. Some men are jogging, focused on the grass in front of them, while others are in a full sprint, jumping up and down and pointing to the crowd.

  Charli is waving to Shawn, who is blowing her a kiss through the face mask on his helmet. Ace and I are both scanning the group of players, looking for TK. “Where’s Dad?” Ace asks.

  It still makes my heart skip a beat when I hear him call TK Dad.

  “I don’t know.” I roll on to my tiptoes and squint my eyes harder. “I don’t see him either.”

  “He’s not out yet,” Charli yells over the noise. “They are going to announce the starting offense.”

  I don’t have to repeat what she says to Ace. I know he heard by the way his eyes start to sparkle and the flush rises up his cheeks.

  The announcer starts with the linemen, saying each name as they run out of the tunnel, and fire blasts out of columns on the field at the mouth of the tunnel, startling me every time. He moves through the wide receivers and even the quarterback. The hairs rise on my arms, knowing not only that TK is coming up, but that he’s last.

  The song changes without warning, “We Ready” blasting from the speakers, and the fog gets a revival. The screams of the crowd change into a steady, synchronized chant of “MOOOOOORE” before the announcer’s voice broadcasts through the stadium again, “Number eighty-two, TK MOOOOORE!”

  The crowd goes berserk.

  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been out in public with TK, I understand how well liked he is in Denver, but I had no idea it was this.

  Then, like I’m living in a dream, TK walks through the fog. His helmet in one hand, his hair down and swaying around his face, he bounces to the beat of the music to the top of the barrier tunnel. Then he drops to a deep squat, bobs his head around for a few more beats, and springs up, jumping off the ground with fire shooting out in sync with his movements.

  It’s amazing.

  And I have to blink away the tears.

  “Fuck yeah, TK!” a loud voice breaks through the noise and my thick wall of feelings. “My fuckin’ boy! You better show them what the fuck is up!”

  Ace might be nine, but my hands still earmuff his ears as I turn around, searching for the asshole shouting obscenities at a family event.

  “What the hell?” I say to Charli, not doing so hot at the clean-mouth thing myself. “Could that guy be more obnoxious?”

  “Yeah, he actually can,” she says, laughter coloring her voice. “Poppy, I’d like to introduce you to Donny, TK’s agent.”

  She aims her eyes over my shoulder and I see a man on the shorter side, not fat, but thick, sticking out like a sore thumb in a
pinstripe suit and brown leather loafers.

  “Charli, baby.” He looks past me and Ace. “How the fuck have you been?”

  “I’ve been good. How about you?” She smiles, used to his antics and language.

  “I’d be better if that stubborn-ass husband of yours would dump his lame fucking agent and come my way. And if I knew what fuckin’ surprise TK has for me,” he says, still ignoring me. “I told him, I don’t like fuckin’ secrets. But TK does what the fuck TK wants. I just hope his bitch of a mother isn’t here.”

  Oh.

  Maybe Donny isn’t so bad after all.

  “You’re my dad’s agent?” Ace asks from beside me, proving my earmuffs to be one hundred percent ineffective.

  “I don’t think so, kid. Who’s your dad?” Donny answers, and it’s clear he’s just humoring Ace.

  “TK Moore,” Ace says, pointing to the 82 on his jersey.

  I wish I had my phone out to record Donny’s reaction as he processes what Ace is telling him because I know for a fact TK would’ve loved to see it.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking shittin’ me.” He takes off his sunglasses and wipes the sweat that magically developed in the last five seconds off his forehead.

  “Surprise!” Charli shouts, giving great jazz hands.

  Donny turns his attention to me.

  I’m in skinny jeans and the Moore jersey TK put on our bed before he left last night. I’m having a great hair day, my curls are huge, and my lips are painted red at Sadie’s request (aka demand). And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m basically smashing this football girlfriend thing.

  “Oh, fuck me,” he mutters. “If this is gonna be another Pope scandal, I’m tapping out now.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” I ignore Charli’s and Ace’s giggling next to me.

  I know what he means.

  Just because I nearly died of alcohol poisoning doesn’t mean I could ever forget the Marlee/Gavin/Lady Mustangs saga.