by M. E. Carter
I’m supposed to be paying attention to Anderson’s hand placements, but instead I’m watching Stevens. He’s off today. Way off. And if I were a betting man, I’d make some good money guessing why.
He hasn’t spoken to Joie since he walked in on us over a week ago. She’s called. She’s texted. She even sent an email, but he refuses to respond. His silence is really hurting her. And that’s hurting me. Not only because I want to make it better, but because I haven’t spent the night with her since, just in case he shows up unannounced.
That’s a lot of wasted nights when I could have enjoyed being with her.
Sure, we’ve gone out. But when it gets late, I’ve gone home and slept alone, waiting for this pansy-ass to pull his shit together and act like an adult. Instead, he’s pitching the world’s longest temper tantrum, which has been fine until now. Okay, not fine. But instead of his anger dying down, it seems to be getting worse. So, not only am I worried about how many times I’m gonna have to spank the monkey before I get to be with my woman again, now I’m worried Stevens is gonna get himself injured.
This is the part of the job I hate. When these kids think they’ve been wronged, they can hold onto a grudge for-fucking-ever.
Last weekend was our off week, so we didn’t have a game. This weekend, we’re traveling to Wisconsin. Texas may be known as a football state, but Wisconsin is no joke. They grow some big kids up there with some fancy skills. If we need to take any team seriously, Wisconsin is it.
“What the fuck is wrong with that kid?” Apparently, Hank is finally zeroing in on Stevens, too, who has multiple false starts during practice. It’s like he’s not paying attention.
I shake my head. “That is a little boy pitching a hissy fit.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck. Dammit. I forgot the sunscreen again.
“Over what?” Hank demands. “He’s got a full ride, a prominent career ahead of him, and as much pussy as a twenty-year-old kid could ask for. What the ever-loving hell does he have to be pissy about?”
I look over at Hank, eyebrows raised. “Sounds like someone else has his panties in a twist today, too.”
He sighs and runs his hands down his face. “I just got the call about the ticket sale issue this morning.”
“University is trying to take part of our budget to offset the new third-party fees?”
“Yep.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That without new gear, we stand to be libel if someone gets injured.”
I nod my approval. “And did they understand how much more money a lawsuit will cost them than giving us the same cut?”
“They said they’d get back to me.”
“At least it wasn’t a no.”
We watch as another play unfolds in front of us. This time, Stevens launches at the wrong time. Plus he’s still not all-in and gets run over by a defender.
Hank slaps his clipboard on his thigh. “What the fuck is that kid’s problem?”
I take a breath and lean closer to him, so no one else overhears. “He caught me and his momma in a compromising position.”
Hank looks over at me, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “Seriously?”
I raise an eyebrow and turn to look at him. “Do you think that’s something I’d kid around about?”
A low whistle comes from between his lips. “How long ago?”
“Last weekend.”
“That would explain his attitude for the last week or so.”
“And how he’s gonna get his ass hurt if he doesn’t get his head back in the game.” I uncross my arms and stalk toward the field when Stevens takes another hit wrong, landing on his back with his arm at a weird angle. He’s not hurt, but if we were in a real game, he would be. “Stevens,” I yell, which makes the entire team take notice since I never raise my voice. “Get your ass over here right now!”
Hank chuckles. “You stole my line.”
I shake my head. “He’s pissing me off for so many reasons. This shit needs to stop.”
“Good luck,” Hank says, patting me on the shoulder and then turns back to the field. “Get back in position, ya pansies! No one said to stop! Reynolds—stand in for Stevens!” he yells as he walks away, leaving me to a very uncomfortable conversation with my girlfriend’s son. Especially if he keeps moseying on over, instead of running, like he should be. I bite my tongue from calling him out on it. Right now, the most important thing is for him to be safe on the field. Fuck the rest of it.
When he finally reaches me, he rubs his lip with his finger, looking anywhere and everywhere except at me. So this is how it’s gonna go. I tried, but it looks like all bets are off now.
Taking my normal stance again, I lower my voice. “What’s going on, son?”
He looks up at me, glaring, but doesn’t say a word.
I raise my eyebrows and turn my entire body toward him. “You got a problem?”
“I’m not your son,” he says with malice in his voice.
I take one step forward, arms still crossed. I’ve been nice. I’ve given him space, but this shit stops now.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I threaten. “I may be dating your momma, but I don’t give a shit about you beyond what you can do out there on that field. I get that you saw something you never should have seen. But if you don’t stop with the thirteen-year-old-girl drama and quit crying in your helmet, you’re gonna get yourself hurt out there.”
He looks back down at the ground, but I continue, “I don’t give a shit that you’re angry with your momma. I don’t give a shit that you’re angry with me. But when we are on this field, I am in charge, and I will damn well call you whatever I want, do I make myself clear, son?”
He nods but says nothing.
“I asked you a question, boy, and you better answer me unless you want to do up-downs until you puke. So I’ll ask again, do I make myself clear?”
Stevens takes a breath and looks up at me, eyes narrowed, but recognizing he has a lot to lose if he continues with this bullshit attitude. “Yes. Sir.”
“I’m serious, Stevens.” I point a finger right in his chest. “You get your head back in that game. We have a very big, very strong team coming up this weekend. Unless you want to run the risk of being injured and ruining your entire career, you better figure out how to get your brain to compartmentalize and think only about this game. You’re pushing off too soon, you’re not using your upper body, and you’re not anticipating your opponent’s moves. Figure this out.”
For the first time since this conversation began, his shoulders seem to relax, like he’s finally hearing what I’m saying, and he nods once.
“Good. Now get back on that field and get your head back in it. Go.”
As soon as the play is over, he runs back on the field, relieving Reynolds. Getting in position, the QB calls the play, and they get back at it. Stevens pushes off at exactly the right time, and everything goes off without a hitch.
Hank bangs his clipboard and yells in victory as it all goes exactly like it was designed. “Damn, Pride, what did you say to that kid?”
“Nothing you wouldn’t have said,” I answer, although we both know Stevens is probably on-point because he’s imagining it’s me he’s tackling.
Whatever works.
“I think I like doing Bunco on Sunday nights.” Amanda plunks a load of dirty dishes down on the counter for me to wash. She’s the last one here after a couple hours of games with our friends. We used to do it on Friday nights, but that didn’t give me much time to clean house and cook after classes all day, so we tried something new. “We start earlier so everyone can get home a little earlier before the week starts, which is awesome . . . Oh hey! Drea left the last of the cake balls!” she exclaims and pops one in her mouth.
I smile and shake my head at her. When it comes to desserts, Amanda has no shame.
“I was thinking the same thing. I studied all weekend, so it was really nice letting my brain relax for a while, too
.”
“We didn’t have any major disasters today.”
“That’s because you and I don’t play at the same table anymore.” Unplugging the drain, I grab a hand towel to dry what I’ve washed. I’ll do the rest later. “No one is as competitive as the two of us.”
Amanda tosses another cake ball in her mouth and covers the leftover dip with plastic wrap. “I don’t get that. The whole point of Bunco is to get the dice. You’re supposed to go for it. Not sit there waiting for them to roll into your lap.”
“If it’s too boring we could always go back to playing at the same table.” I move to stack the clean plates into the cabinet. “But you’ll have to start bringing your own card tables. I can’t afford to keep replacing them.”
She chews while she thinks for a second. “As tempting as that is, I think I’ll have to suffer through a game with less action.”
“Not willing to spend that much money on broken furniture?” I ask with a smirk. The last two times we played at the same table, we both launched ourselves at free dice. Needless to say, when we landed on the table, its legs broke under our weight and we ended up falling on top of each other in a heap. It was painful. It was also hysterical in hindsight.
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” she says with a shake of her head. “I don’t want to end up with another dice-shaped bruise on my boob.”
“A what?” I laugh.
“I didn’t tell you about that?” I shake my head and snatch up some silverware to sort in the drawer. “Oh yeah. Apparently, I fell right on top of at least one die. When I woke up the next morning, I found a square bruise. You could see the outline and the shape. In case you were wondering, you rolled a four.”
We both burst out laughing at the visual image. “Oh my gosh, that is so funny!”
“It’s funny now. But it wasn’t then. Jeff is a boob man. I can barely keep his hands off the girls at night and with a giant bruise? That shit hurts!”
Laughing uncontrollably, I give up on the silverware. I’m having too much fun talking with my best friend. “Poor, Jeff.”
“Poor, Jeff? Poor me! Don’t tweak my nipples when I’m all bruised up!”
I shake my head at her ridiculousness. Amanda is such a great friend, but she is also a nut. You just never know what is going to come out of her mouth.
“Speaking of tweaking nipples . . .”
Like that. I knew the conversation would end up back on me at some point.
She raises an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to say something. I shake my head back at her. “What? Why are you looking at me that way?”
Crossing her arms, she leans against the counter and stops cleaning. No surprise there. She always stays to help me get things back in order once game night is over. And by help me, I mean she talks to me while I clean. Apparently, this time she wants me to talk back.
“You know exactly why I’m looking at you this way. I wanna know more about Jaaaaaack,” she singsongs.
Turning to the sink, I put the plug in and begin the process of filling it with soapy water for the second time. These ladies eat a lot of food to leave this many dishes behind. “What do you want to know?” I ask without looking at her. I can feel my face blushing, even if my skin doesn’t turn pink.
“How was it?”
“What?”
“You heard me. How was it? The last thing you told me was Isaac walked in while you were riding the Pride Pony,” I snicker, “but then we got distracted by Drea and these amazing cake balls.” She grabs another and pops it in her mouth.
I sigh and drop the last of the dirty dishes in the water to soak, before grabbing the hand towel again and drying off.
Before I can say anything, Amanda’s face registers understanding. “Wait, you still haven’t heard from Isaac?” I shake my head sadly. “But you’ve tried to contact him, right?”
“Amanda, I’ve called. I’ve texted. I even sent an email. And I know he’s gotten them. I can see that he’s read them.”
She crosses her arms, chewing slowly while she thinks. “He’ll be back. He can’t ignore you forever. Eventually he’ll want his Christmas presents.”
My lips quirk at her attempted joke. “I don’t know what to do. I mean, I get that he needs space. He saw something no child ever wants to see, ya know?”
“And I sympathize with that part. But I gotta say, Joie, he’s kind of being an asshole now.”
If anyone else called my child a name like that, I’d be really mad. But in Amanda’s case, it’s not offensive. It causes me to sit up and listen.
“Just hear me out. I get that he’s all traumatized from seeing you in the throes of passion. I get that it’s only been the two of you, so this is something he has to get used to. But it’s been how long since he’s responded?”
“Ten days.”
“Ten days?” she says incredulously. “That’s not being surprised or even stunned anymore. That’s being a dickhead. And I know. I have a dickhead for a son.”
A giggle escapes me. “Dylan is not that bad.”
“Don’t try to defend him. He must have horrible parents for all the shit he pulls.”
I laugh a bit harder at her ridiculous statement. “Stop,” I say through my chuckles. “You guys are great parents. He’s just . . . stubborn.”
“And strong-willed. And refuses to grow up.”
“Well, he is his own person,” I defend. “Even if he acts like he can’t function without some sort of intervention.”
“I told you about his latest academic probation, right?”
I think for a minute about the details of it. All I know is that his GPA was so low last semester, he was warned he’d be kicked out of school if it didn’t improve.
“Just that he was on it.” I shrug. “I didn’t know there was anything more to it than that.”
“There’s so much more.” I look at her quizzically. “We finally found out exactly how bad his GPA was.” She turns to face me, a dramatic look crossing her face as she leans in for effect. “Point- one-five.” My jaw practically hits the floor. “Not one-point-five. Less than one. Point-one-five.”
“How did he manage a grade point average of almost zero? That’s not even possible.” I run the math over in my head and can’t figure it out. He must have failed almost everything.
“Oh, it’s possible. He was taking thirteen credit hours. Twelve of them were in classes he quit going to, but he never dropped them. Just stopped going so those calculate in as F’s. That last hour was bowling.” She looks me dead in the eye before deadpanning, “He got a C.”
“How do you get a C in bowling?”
She shakes her head in exasperation. “I have no idea. All I know is it ended in the lowest GPA, probably in history, and a strongly-worded letter from the dean’s office about changing his ways.”
“He’s doing better now, though, right?”
“Oh yeah,” she exclaims. “We told him if he didn’t get his shit together, we weren’t paying for school anymore, and since he’s an adult, he could get a job to pay his own way. The little shit pulled a three-point-two over the summer.”
“That’s great!” And really, it is. I know she was stressed about what would happen if he flunked out of school.
“It is,” she agrees. “It also goes to show he can man up if he really wants to. Just like Isaac can if he wants to.”
I sigh. “You really think he’s throwing a college-sized temper tantrum right now?”
She nods slowly. “I do. And I hope you’re not just sitting around here, putting everything on hold while you wait for him to pull himself together.”
I crinkle my nose and bite my lip. She knows me too well sometimes.
“I’m gonna guess by the grimace you’re sporting, that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”
“I didn’t want him to accidentally find Jack over here again and the whole thing blow up even more than it already has.”
She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. “Ho
ney, I love you. But you have to stop putting him ahead of everything else in your life. If he was having a major life event or something, yeah, of course. But he’s not. He’s just throwing a fit. You deserve to have a life. Don’t let him stop you.”
I absorb her words as I think about the last ten days. It’s true. I’m in a new relationship with a man I enjoy so much, he’s all I can think about sometimes. But I’ve pushed Jack aside while I wait for my adult child to get over himself. Why? Why can’t I put myself first this time? Why can’t “Joie” and “Isaac’s mom” be the same person? Why do I have to separate things out anymore? Isaac’s not just grown up. He’s been gone for two years. He has his own life. It’s time I had mine, too.
A soft knock at the door startles us both. Amanda and I look toward the door before looking back at each other.
“Are you expecting someone?” she asks me.
I shake my head. “No. You think maybe Isaac is here?”
“Would he knock?” I quirk an eyebrow at her as I walk past her and round the corner. “Oh, I guess he’d be overly cautious now, wouldn’t he?”
Looking out the peephole, my heart speeds up. It’s not Isaac, but I open the door anyway. “Jack,” I breathe, my face beaming.
Holding up his take-out bags in offering he says, “I found authentic Mongolian.”
Grabbing the front of his shirt, I pull him to me and kiss him with everything in me. He gasps in surprise, but soon enough, he’s got one hand around the back of my neck while we explore each other’s lips with gentle kisses, small bites, and nibbles. I didn’t realize how much I genuinely missed him until right at this moment.
A voice clears behind us and I realize Amanda is still here. Pulling away shyly, I clear my throat and turn to face her. “Um . . . yeah. Sorry, Amanda. I forgot you were here.”
“I can see that.” She pushes off the wall where she’s been leaning and walks toward us, hand extended. “It’s about time I finally met the famous Jack Pride.”
“You follow football?” he asks, sporting his fake game-face smile and reaches out to shake her hand.