Kiss Me Tonight: Put A Ring On It

by Luis, Maria

  Everyone halts in their tracks, save for Dominic, who stalks across the field with that swagger of his that should be deemed illegal in all fifty states. “Gather up, boys!” Once I have everyone’s attention, I drop the whistle and fold my arms over my chest. “Since Coach DaSilva here thinks his smack talk is going to make us quake in our cleats”—all my offensive line, including Topher, boo like the awesome kids they are—“I think it’s only right that we put him in the game.”

  Chirping crickets are louder than the response I’m given.

  Then Topher shoots up a hand, his mouth guard hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Wait, like he’ll play with us?”

  I point to the metal bleachers where we regularly set up shop. “Flag football. I don’t need any of you being pummeled by the Hulk over there.”

  One glance at Dominic shows him smirking and rubbing his hands together like an evil scientist. Or a retired NFL player who spent years in a league where acquired injuries became equivalent to notches on a bed post.

  Harry hooks his fingers over the cage of his helmet. “I’m so in.”

  “Me too!” calls out Bobby, who’s still holding the football under his armpit.

  Timmy slinks an arm over Matthew’s padded shoulders. “I mean, if he comes my way, I’m just gonna take cover.” He points up at Matt’s face. “That’s where you come in, my friend. You can take him.”

  Matt, who stands almost at six feet tall, though he only recently turned fourteen, curls his gloved hands into a set of vicious claws and growls, “Gooooooo Wildcats!”

  Unfortunately for him, puberty is a real pain in the ass and his voice cracks on the last syllable. I smother a laugh amidst manly guffaws. Dominic ambles toward the incoming freshman, pops him on the back with a friendly thump, and says, “Don’t worry, kid. Happened to me until I was twenty, at least.”

  One hard glance at Dominic’s face and I know he’s fibbing, but some of Matt’s redness clears and the grin Dominic gives our JV-hopeful is nothing but kind understanding.

  Be still, my heart.

  Then he turns on me, that smile leveling out as it turns challenging.

  I back up a step. “I don’t like that look, Coach.”

  “You should,” he drawls, approaching me like a panther hunting its prey. Once at my side, he turns to face the team. “Who thinks Coach Levi should join the game?”

  Some of the kids exchange hesitant looks.

  Except for Topher, who sends me a subtle wink. “Oh, I don’t know if you guys want to take it that far.”

  Bobby, falling for my son’s ploy, tosses the football up in the air before catching it again. “What? You don’t think we can take her?”

  “I don’t think you can.” Topher points to the faint scar in his right eyebrow. “You know how I got this?” Everyone stares at him, waiting. “I got it because my mom taught me everything I know about ball. Every day after school we ran drills together in front of our house. One time, she threw the ball—perfect spiral, guys, perfect—and I was so dead set on getting it, I ran right into a tree.”

  Timmy gapes. “Did you get the ball?”

  “Of course I got the ball,” my son scoffs. “Then I hit the tree.”

  “So, she’s in then.” Dominic nabs the football from Bobby’s grasp. “We’re flagging it up, boys and woman. Get yourselves ready and then meet back here.”

  I manage two steps toward the bleachers before fingers hook in the waistband of my shorts and tug me backward. Sandalwood. Dominic. Putting on my best go-get-‘em expression, I face him with a smirk that feels more playful than arrogant.

  “Wanting to say a few last words?” I taunt, poking him in his hard as steel chest.

  He grasps my finger, lifting my hand to his mouth. Heat floods my core, and, oh man, he should not be looking at me like that when we’re surrounded by teenagers. His dark eyes skirt right, then left, before he drops a single kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Yeah,” he murmurs with a silky edge, “don’t think I’m gonna go easy on you, Coach.”

  I stand up taller, spine straight, and take that final step between us. Chest to chest, I tilt my head back and stare him down. “Don’t think I’m going to go easy on you. I feed off the fear of my enemies.”

  His chuckle is nothing but hot sex and tangled sheets. “That threat ever work for you?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He gives me a gentle push toward the bleachers, the tips of his fingers coming dangerously close to the curve of my butt. When I flash him a warning glance, he pulls back boyishly and stares at his hands like they’ve personally betrayed him. “No ass grabbing at practice,” he berates, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, it’s like they don’t know any better.”

  Absolutely ridiculous—but my smile lingers long after I’ve suited up with my orange flag belt looped around my hips. Since not everyone can join in at once, Dominic and I agree to play twice, first with Group A and then with Group B, who, led by Timmy, forces everyone to into some sort of choreographed cheerleading on the sidelines that has everyone rolling with laughter.

  For the sake of getting me in the game longer than the normal kicker, I join the defense as one of the linebackers on the scrimmage line.

  I hitch my sweats at the knees, getting down low to the ground.

  One glance up puts me at eye level with Topher.

  He waggles his eyebrows. “Heya, Mom.”

  I give him by best mean-mugging glare. “Don’t forget who taught you everything you know.”

  “I won’t”—tweet!—“oops! Got a ball to catch. See you!”

  And then he’s off, dashing to the right as he hightails it down the field. I pause only momentarily to admire his excellent form, then push forward, my knees extending as I sprint past Bobby, who’s playing wide receiver to Dominic’s quarterback.

  Because, of course, the Hulk would play QB among his teenage disciples.

  “Fall back, Harry!” he shouts now, bouncing up on his toes in that way only professional players do. He’s as heavy as a bull and still manages to prance around the field like he’s as limber and delicate as a ballerina.

  I wait for Dominic to make the pass, my gaze following the arc of the ball as it spirals toward Harry’s hands—and then dart forward, yanking one of the orange flags from the teenager’s belt.

  “Crap!”

  Patting Harry’s shoulder in commiseration, I look to Dominic and wait for him to catch my eye. When he does, I lift my hand, middle and index fingers straight, and bring them to my eyes in the classic, I see you gesture.

  With his ball cap facing backward, there’s no hiding the way his brows draw inward. He claps his hands, shouting, “Again!”

  For a second time, I face off against Topher, whose eyes are narrowed as he drops into position.

  I blow him a kiss. “No greeting this time, bud?”

  Tweet!

  It’s been years since I’ve played football with anyone but Topher in our front yard, but it all comes back to me instinctively. Sure, I’m a little heavier than I was in college—and that’s saying nothing about how much harder it is to run with larger, post-baby boobs. But the groove . . . I still have it.

  In spades.

  Spotting Dominic’s intent as he eyes Bobby midway down the field, I change gears and haul ass toward the end zone.

  Ten yards.

  Five yards.

  I look up, expecting to see the ball coming straight down over my head into Bobby’s waiting arms when I hear, “Boo-yeah!” come from my left. Oh, no. Thighs protesting my abrupt pivot, I watch in awe as Dominic sprints down the field to make the touchdown. Like he’s back at Raymond James Stadium playing for the Bucs, he kisses the football and runs in a semicircle, playing to a crowd of teenage boys who worship the ground he walks on.

  Then he turns my way, football cradled to his chest, and mimics my earlier threat with his free hand: I see you.

  “Game on,” he mouths for me only.

  I
love you.

  I mouth the three little words to his back, once he’s jogging up the field and bumping fists with his teenage teammates.

  Not wanting to be outdone, I call for a timeout where I explain the plan. “Like we practiced, guys. Break through the fold and get to the QB. We’re gonna take him down.”

  Matthew lifts a finger. “Can I hit him?”

  “It’s flag football, Matt. No, you can’t tackle him.” I clap my hands together. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Like a unit prepared for battle, we all fall in line.

  It’s me and Topher, round three.

  “I love you,” I tell him, just to see him squirm when his teammates overhear me.

  He makes a face, groaning, “Mom.”

  Tweet!

  “See-ya, son!”

  And then I’m off once again. Lo and behold, the boys stick to the plan. Kevin and another boy, Jason, aren’t able to hold the tight formation and I dive right through them. Pivot on my heels to change trajectory and head straight for Dominic, my arms pumping, my lungs heaving like they haven’t in years. Adrenaline fuels me as Dominic arcs his throwing arm back, his gaze locked on someone down the field—I rip off the flag at his hip with such gusto his shorts nearly come down in the process.

  Unfortunately, I have so much momentum, stopping isn’t an option.

  I plow into him, driving us both to the turf with a resounding thud.

  “Oh, c’mon, Coach!” Matthew shouts at me as I see stars. “You said we couldn’t hit him!”

  Dominic grunts beneath me, and then I feel his hand around my pelvic bone. “Don’t move,” he warns, “or everyone is gonna get a real good glimpse of little DaSilva.”

  I freeze, muscles locking. Do. Not. Laugh. It seems a futile cause, especially when I choke out, “I wouldn’t call him little, per se.”

  “You’re trouble, Coach. You know that?” He hikes his shorts up, lifting me off the ground as he pulls the waistband around his hips. “Big. Fat. Trouble—”

  “Dad?”

  Topher.

  Planting a hand on Dominic’s chest, I shove myself up.

  “Dad!” I hear Topher shout.

  I land on my butt, but there’s no mistaking the way my son rushes across the field to the oh-so-familiar figure strolling toward us like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  No.

  Rick “the Prick” Clarke has descended on London all over again.

  35

  Aspen

  Blood roars in my head.

  Why is he here?

  Why is he here?

  For years, I played the good-cop card. Every time Rick failed to show up to one of Topher’s football games, I promised him that Dad had a big surprise coming in the mail for him. I bought Topher video games. Football gear. A basketball hoop for the driveway. Each present that arrived at our house was signed by Rick, courtesy of his personal assistant, Patty.

  In our house, we have only one rule: never lie.

  And I broke it time and time again, all to ensure Topher never saw beneath the slick veneer Rick wears oh too well.

  One day, I figured Topher would learn the truth. One day, which I always hoped would never actually come, and if it did, I prayed for it to be sometime in my baby boy’s twenties or thirties—later, when he was older, so he would be more emotionally equipped to handle the devastation.

  I never expected it to happen now, on a high school football field surrounded by his peers.

  My heart shatters when Topher throws his lanky arms around Rick’s shoulders and Rick doesn’t return the gesture. Like a statue, he stands there, accepting the affection as though it’s his right, before gingerly removing Topher’s arms and stepping to the side.

  Altogether, the hug lasts less than five seconds.

  For a teenage boy who’s always craved his father’s attention, five seconds is all it takes for devastation to settle in.

  Topher’s expression crumbles at Rick’s casual ambivalence.

  Fuck you, Rick. Fuck. You.

  “Aspen.”

  A hand grasps my bicep, but I shake it off. “Dominic, not right now. Please—”

  “Aspen.”

  I whip around, frustration boiling to the surface as though I’m a pot that’s been set to heat for far too long. “What?”

  Black eyes flit from me to the team. “Take Topher and go home. I’ll deal with the kids.” He gives me a little shake, staring down at me. “Tell me something you’re grateful for—right now.”

  Right now? He wants me to count one of my lucky blessings right now?

  I slick my tongue over my bottom lip, struggling to come up with something when my ex-husband is upsetting my son and my emotions are fired up and ready to make Rick rue the day he was ever born.

  Dominic’s grip tightens around my shoulders. “I’m grateful for you,” he tells me, his voice low, urgent, “because it wasn’t until you that I knew love wasn’t a figment of imagination. I see it—every time you look at Topher and your players.”

  Every time you look at me, his dark gaze implores.

  I swallow, hard. “Dom—”

  And then the voice of my nightmares interrupts us, and sneers, “You always were about that easy pussy, weren’t you, DaSilva?”

  36

  Dominic

  Richard Clarke has the stereotypical appearance of a used car salesman.

  Slick, brown hair that reminds me of Topher’s, but instead of hanging in front of his face, Clarke’s is smoothed back over what I want to imagine is a bald spot.

  He’s dressed in a navy-blue suit, no matter the fact that he’s standing on a football field. The fabric is clearly tailored, with silver thread and silver cufflinks and a matching silver handkerchief tucked away for safekeeping in his breast pocket.

  Leather loafers that no doubt cost as much as my ramshackle investment property.

  He looks exactly the same now as he did when he flew to Tampa and invited me to a business lunch, the particulars of which have never escaped me. Even then, during a time when I took sponsorships from companies whose morals didn’t align with my own, all for the sake of a healthy paycheck, I looked Rick Clarke in the eye and knew I would never take this man up on his offer.

  The fact that he just insinuated Levi is an easy lay hasn’t escaped me and my hands ball tightly at my sides. I want to ram my fist into his perfect nose. Watch the blood spurt out from his nostrils and see his eyes go wide when he realizes that I’m about to make his life a living hell.

  I step forward menacingly, fully prepared to deck him.

  Only, instead of being intimidated by my size, he only smirks. Then plucks at his jacket sleeves, brushing away nonexistent lint. “I wouldn’t do that,” he says pleasantly, “or are you trying to teach your team that violence is an acceptable method of communication?”

  The pointed reminder, that we have forty-plus teenage eyes trained on us, is the only reason I don’t lay him out cold where he stands.

  Speaking slowly, so he doesn’t miss a word, I demand, “You’re crashing practice, Clarke. Couldn’t find it in yourself to wait out the last thirty minutes in your car?”

  Though I outsize him by at least six inches, Clarke doesn’t shirk back in fear. Nor does he once spare a glance toward Levi.

  Fucking prick.

  Levi bumps me out of the way, fury embedded in her stiff movements as she confronts her douchebag ex-husband. “I’m going to let your comment slide, Rick—but only because I don’t give a damn what you think of me.” Her nostrils flare. “But that doesn’t excuse you shrugging your son off just now. How could you do that? He misses you.”

  “He’s fine, Levi.”

  Her jaw visibly tightens. “He’s called you every day for the last month and a half.”

  “And we’ve spoken,” Clarke says calmly, like they’re discussing the weather and not their fifteen-year-old boy who looks like his dog has just been stomped on by an elephant. “Once a week, every Friday at 3 p.m.”<
br />
  I’ve never seen Levi more livid. The pulse in her temple jumpstarts, fluttering fast. “You’re lying,” she seethes, breathing heavily. “Topher wouldn’t lie about something like you never calling him.”

  “Topher is a teenager, and teenagers lie. Now”—Clarke’s black eyes cut to my face—“I’m in the mood for a beer. DaSilva, care to join me?”

  Over my dead fucking body.

  The words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to fly, when I spot the boys watching the three of us. Timmy has his shoulder pressed up against Topher’s in silent camaraderie. On the other side of Levi’s son are Harry and Bobby. All are sporting serious, flat mouths and hard eyes. All witnessed Clarke brush off his only son.

  Just as they all watched Levi unravel the moment her ex-husband showed up.

  They might not know who this man is, but they know enough to recognize when things are on a one-lane track to shit creek.

  Jesus fuck.

  The last thing I want to do is spend any amount of time with Rick Clarke, especially after that nasty comment of his, but this . . . this is what you do for the people you care for, right? You put their best interests before your own. You take the hurt and the frustration and bear it so they don’t have to.

  Purposely, I turn to Levi and subtly brush my fingers over her knuckles. “Aspen, wrap up practice, will you?”

  Her eyes promise murder if I go with her ex-husband.

  Better me than her. I don’t trust the asshole farther than I can throw him—which says a lot because I played both tight end and quarterback at LSU. Brien hated that I was his backup. I always did love to needle him and pretend I’d steal his position.

  “Aspen.”

  She jerks away, her body poised to strike. “Sure, yeah. I can do that, Coach.” Storming away, she hollers to the guys to strip off their flag belts and prepare for conditioning.

  Pissed or not, hopefully she’ll realize I’m subjecting myself to Rick’s company so she won’t have to. Because she needs to bring Topher home and comfort him after his dad’s stinging rejection.