Rough Love

by Landish, Lauren

  “Been kinda quiet tonight. Everything okay?” he says finally.

  I’m still frozen by the back door, but his quiet concern pulls me to his side. He’s sitting back on a lounge chair, one leg stretched out in front of him and one foot on the deck. Like he’s deciding whether he’s going to stay or go.

  Funny thing is, I don’t think he wants to go anywhere. I think he’s got that boot on the wood deck so he can be ready to chase me if I run again. I don’t want to run anymore, but the idea that he wouldn’t give up on me so easily is reassuring.

  Especially with the leap of faith I’m about to take.

  “I love you.” I blurt it out with no preamble, no warning. Just an honest confession that forced its way free, from my heart to my mouth to the air.

  “What?” Bruce says, his eyes finally locking on me. He looks shocked, his eyes wide and his brows high. A heartbeat later, his face relaxes into bliss as my words sink in, and a soft, happy smile appears on his face. “What?”

  “I love you.” It’s easier to say this time, my voice clearer even as my heart races. Somewhere inside my head, there’s a broken-winged bird who thought she’d never fly again fluttering like a madwoman at the too-small cage I’ve shoved her in. With a breath, I mentally release her, and she soars the same way my heart does.

  But there’s no anxiety, no fear, no finger tapping to focus. Because I am solidly here in this moment with Bruce and thrilled to have every single second with him I can get. If I could go back and get the last ten years, I would. As long as I could keep Cooper.

  “Fuck, Allyson,” Bruce groans, setting the beer down haphazardly as he grabs at me. He pulls me to the chair and into his lap, settling me between his spread legs as he cups my cheeks, forcing my eyes to his. “I love you too. I always have, always will.”

  I can see the honesty in his eyes, feel the intention in his body. He means always. He wants forever and so do I. He kisses me, deep and dark and slow like bitter chocolate melting deliciously on your tongue. And I want to get lost in him because I’ve found myself in him.

  But there’s more I need to say.

  “Bruce—” I say, trying to break our kiss. He’s not having it and smacks at me a couple more times, moaning like I’m too tasty to give up. “There’s something else . . .”

  He pauses at that, just barely. But then he’s kissing down my neck, at least letting me speak. Or I would be able to if my whole body wasn’t chanting Bruce, Bruce, Bruce right now.

  I push at his chest, just the barest resistance, and he straightens to look me in the eye. “What is it?”

  He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, waiting for me to go flight-er, as he calls it, as he watches me carefully.

  “I still need to go slow. I’m a mom, I’ve been a wife, we’re starting something new, and I just . . . I’ve got scars, Bruce. Jeremy really fucked me up.”

  It’s all the reasons I pushed him away, all the excuses I gave him and myself, all the objections I’m letting go of now with this leap of faith. I feel Bruce flinch beneath me, can taste his desire to understand exactly what I’m talking about, and know he’d be beyond livid. But I’ve moved past that. Anger, betrayal, hurt, and fear have no place in my life now. “I’ve done the work to be better, but I need to go slow.”

  It’s a bare-boned confession that costs me a lot to say, mostly because it’s to Bruce.

  But I don’t need to get back in that pit. I’ve dealt with it all, and Bruce is nothing like Jeremy. Literally nothing like each other. Jeremy was weak, playing at being strong, and I let him walk all over me to prove it. Bruce is strong but will tap into his softer side when needed, and neither side would hurt me.

  Most importantly, Bruce wants me strong. After Jeremy, I’ve been building myself back up, brick by brick from the dirt up, and my greatest fear was that any man I dated would be like Jeremy and want me weak again. It’s one of the reasons I’d sworn off men. But Bruce is not just any man. He never was, and he never will be. He’s shown me that over the past weeks, and even over the years together so long ago.

  Tears burn my eyes at the realization of what I almost lost, not just this chance with Bruce, but myself. I’d gone so astray that I lost me, but I’m better than back. I’ve grown up, learned from my mistakes, and molded myself into something greater than I was. So much of the past rears up inside me in this moment, and I fearlessly beat the demons into their boxes, shoving them away dismissively. It’s an exercise in imagination, but powerful nonetheless, to see how weak they are and how strong I am.

  The tears spill over, freely running down my face in relief and even happiness, and Bruce sweetly shushes me as he wipes at them reassuringly, for once not understanding the emotional journey the tears represent. “Hey, hey . . . what’s wrong, baby? We can go slow. That’s fine. As long as you’re mine, everything else will work itself out.”

  Why doesn’t that set off alarm bells? It should. His possessiveness, his demanding bossiness, his rough brand of love should scare the absolute bejesus out of me. I should fall in love with a nice accountant who likes puzzles and board games and missionary sex once a week with the lights off. That’s the smart thing to do.

  But that’s not what I want. I want Bruce.

  “I love you,” I repeat again.

  He snuggles me into his chest, patting my back soothingly. “I love you too, Allyson.”

  It’s not the roses and rainbows most people get when they profess their love. It’s not even the hot sex that often follows the declaration.

  It’s quietly profound, it’s gut-deep, it’s soul-baring. It’s us in love. Again, or maybe still.

  Chapter 27

  Bruce

  This first game is not going well. I meant it when I told the boys that we’re winners before we even step foot on the field. But I think we all expected the actual game to be a little more evenly matched.

  The other team is the same size but experienced, having been together for the past two years in the younger division. At this stage, that makes all the difference.

  We’re two touchdowns down, which for pee-wee ain’t a big deal, but it’s the level of mastery on the field that’s most drastically different. Both teams are running plays, but the Wildcats look sloppy compared to the Bulldogs’ crisp cleanliness on the field.

  I’ll admit to myself that I wanted a better showing for them. They’ve worked so damn hard, and I want them to feel the joy of success from that. And selfishly, I wanted to show off my own coaching prowess a bit too. The Tannens and Bennetts, each and every one of the loud and crazies, are standing on the sidelines, cheering for my guys. They’re cheering for me.

  Even Bobby. We might not have our shit straightened out about Allyson, but he supports my coaching, at least.

  “Go, Derek, go!” I yell from the sidelines. Derek’s giving it his all, legs pumping and elbows flying high as he beelines toward the endzone. At the five, though, he’s tackled hard, going down in a tumble of limbs. I know a moment of real fear, one I never felt when it was me on the field getting beat up, but the knot releases in relief an instant later when Derek pops up. He even fist-bumps the player who tackled him.

  He’s showing good sportsmanship and will be a great player one day if he wants to be. He’s got the skills, even at this early age, and most importantly, he’s willing to take coaching and work hard.

  We reset, and Anthony looks up and down the line. I can’t read his face from this angle, but he’s up to something. I scan too, and it hits me.

  It’s so fast I don’t think anyone else even realizes what’s happening until it’s over. Anthony just ran in a quarterback sneak, rushing across the line into the end zone himself. Everyone cheers loudly, more for the boldness than anything else. A sneak is rare and virtually unheard of at this level. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s legal, but I don’t give a fuck. That was some solid football playing.

  “Woo-hoo! Way to go, Anthony!” Allyson cheers. When I look over, her cheeks ar
e flushed pink and she’s waving her fists around like she’s got pompoms. Old habits die hard, I guess. “We get to kick now, right?”

  I nod in answer, and she looks over to the teenaged scorekeeper on the sideline. “One more touchdown and we’ll tie.”

  She’s getting better. I imagine us sitting around watching Monday night football, the three of us with mouths full of burgers as we cheer the teams on television. Or maybe I’ll take Allyson and Cooper to a game? We could start with the local high school game, then progress up to the state college level, and if we want, try a pro game. I like the idea of it being ‘our thing’.

  We make the extra point, and there’s a renewed energy on the field. Anthony’s ballsy move makes him a fresh target, and he gets hit a couple of times, barely tossing the ball away before he hits grass.

  “Uh! C’mon, kid.” I hear a male voice from the stands behind me call out in exasperation. I turn to see who’s mouthing off at my team, scanning the tiny foldable bleachers for the culprit.

  But I can’t tell for sure. There are a couple of dads I haven’t met, and all eyes are on the field, watching the next play.

  I hear a couple more comments from the peanut gallery over the next three plays. When the kids set, I turn my back to the field, scanning the group of parents and watching for the offender. I even questioningly glance at Brody to see if he can point me in the right direction. From here, I can see that his jaw’s clenched, but that’s about it. No help from him or any of the other Bennetts or Tannens. They look as pissed as everyone else, but I can’t tell who’s smack talking.

  “Throw to Killian! He’s open! Killian’s open!” It’s loud and aggressive, threaded with anger. I don’t have to turn around to know Anthony didn’t throw to Killian because I can suddenly see Kyle Bloomdale as he steps almost onto the field. He’s still mouthing but not yelling at least as he says, “Fucking useless QB. He should’ve thrown to Killer Killian. We would’ve gotten a TD if my kid had the ball. Yank number three and put in a quarterback who knows what the hell he’s doing.”

  Parental eyes snap to me, silently asking me what I’m going to do.

  I call a timeout and step closer to Kyle, my voice deep and scary. “Mr. Bloomdale.”

  He looks to me, a smile growing on his too-skinny face. “Hey, Brutal! Get my kid some action, a’ight?” He makes it sound like we’re buddies and I’d be doing him a solid.

  I don’t return the too-casual, friendly tone. “Cheer or shut up. No insulting my players.”

  His brows knit together, but he holds up his hands in something resembling an apology.

  I turn back around to see Allyson talking to the boys, who are all smiling. I tune in, listening to her tell them what a good job they’re doing. “Keep it up, guys. Post-game pizza if we win.”

  It’s an incentive we’d decided on as a team, and she’s dangling it like a tantalizing carrot to keep them working hard. I rejoin the group. “Awesome work so far. That yardage was on point, Derek. All of you have been playing your hearts out. Make sure your moms save those videos for your varsity play reel.” I wink at them and they laugh at the compliment. “Keep it up, Wildcats.”

  The kids hustle back out and play resumes.

  We’re doing pretty well, even make that other touchdown we need to tie up the game. But there’s a cloud hanging over the excitement. The cloud’s name is Kyle Bloomdale.

  He’s still mouthing, though quieter and not as obnoxiously. But now that I’m tuned in to him, I can’t not hear him. The other parents are rolling their eyes, and I even hear a few tell him to hush. To their credit, my family doesn’t interfere, letting me handle my own shit for a change. I know how hard that must be for them.

  Kyle disappears for several minutes, missing a chunk of the third quarter, and a relieved sigh runs through the entire group. I try to stay focused on the team and the good effort they’re putting forth. I’m damn proud of these boys and how far they’ve come.

  Even with their hard work, the other team makes headway, scoring a touchdown and then, on a messed-up play, we basically hand them another. That puts the Bulldogs solidly in the lead.

  Which is when Kyle returns, hot and red-faced. “What the fuck?” he yells. “I leave for five minutes and they’re just giving the game away.” He’s gesturing wildly toward the scorekeeper’s plastic number display.

  I turn to head over there again, but Allyson puts a staying hand on my arm. “Let me,” she says quietly. The absolute last fucking thing I want is her anywhere near this asshole, but there’s something in the set of her shoulders that says she needs to do this. I don’t understand it, but I dip my chin, letting her do what she thinks is best.

  Still, my attention is torn between the boys on the field I’ve make a commitment to and Allyson going over to the stupid redneck who’s still mouthing. His parents, Killian’s grandparents who are so kind and caring, look embarrassed but unable to do anything about their son’s ridiculous behavior.

  I can hear Allyson, her voice calm and steady like she’s talking to a rabid dog. She sounds submissive, non-threatening, which is definitely not the tact I would’ve taken with the asshole.

  It’s her professional voice, I realize. I can almost hear her mental reminders, the ones she told me play on repeat in her head at work. Mediate, mitigate, deescalate. None of those are my specialty. I’m more in the fuck shit up and figure it out later camp, but maybe she’s got a point given the audience we have now.

  “Mr. Bloomdale, please lower your voice. There are rules, and we really need to remember that they’re kids and it’s just a game. The point is for them to have fun and learn, not the numbers on the board.” She’s reasonable, rational, and I can hear her hope that this can all be settled easily. My thudding heart isn’t so sure.

  He scoffs at her. “Whatever. Just get the ball to Killer Killian.” It’s dismissive but still an order, one that makes my hackles rise.

  “Every player will get a chance to play,” she reassures him and returns to my side. The boys riding the bench look at her with concern, and I’m looking at her with barely-restrained fury. I’m not mad at her, but it’s ridiculous that we’re having to deal with this at a fucking pee-wee game. These boys are still scared of monsters under their beds and believe in Santa Claus. We’re not talking NFL contracts here. And even if we were, Kyle Bloomdale’s yelled ‘advice’ from the bleachers wouldn’t help matters.

  Allyson’s smile is meant to reassure the boys, but as soon as their attention is back on the play, she talks quietly out of the side of her mouth. “I think he’s drunk.”

  Her expression doesn’t change, but I can see the tension in the faint lines around her eyes.

  “Are you serious?” I ask softly. I’m shocked, but maybe I shouldn’t be. I’m putting some puzzle pieces together that this might be why Killian lives with his sweet grandparents and not his shit stain of a father. Twice I’ve seen him, and twice, he’s been under the influence. “It’s eleven AM. Guess we know where he was during the third quarter.”

  I shake my head, glancing over my shoulder and gritting my teeth to keep from calling the bastard out.

  Kyle looks back, his eyes hard as he mouths his son’s name and points Killian’s way. Like I need a fucking reminder.

  We’ve only got a few minutes left in the fourth, but they seem to take forever. The rest of the parents seem to unanimously decide that the best way to deal with Kyle is to drown him out, and they cheer loudly and encouragingly for every single action on the field. I do the same, making sure that the boys only hear positive feedback about their gameplay.

  But I can still hear that nasally voice cutting through the air, the current of his ugliness undermining the experience we’re trying to give these kids. When the scorekeeper blows her whistle, signaling the end of the game, we lose by six. So close but yet so far.

  We do the line-up of high-fives between the teams and shake the other coach’s hand. Lastly, the referee comes over. “Coach Meyers?” The bo
y can’t be more than sixteen, but he refereed the game fairly, cleanly. Allyson turns to offer him a handshake too, but he hands her a piece of paper. “I’m sorry to have to do this, Coach, but I’m required to review the league’s rules with you as a complaint was lodged.”

  He goes on to say that a parent from the Bulldogs complained about one of our spectators not following the positive-only rule. I’m not surprised, and the boys do deserve that type of support. I just wish there’d been a way for me to get fucking Kyle off the sideline from the start of the game. But my way of handling it would’ve resulted in someone calling the cops.

  I inhale deeply, blinking slowly as I listen to the kid. I’m trying my damnedest to not be intimidating, curling my shoulders in and hunching down to listen. He’s just doing his job and is honestly doing it very well. He’s a damn fine referee who made some tough calls today.

  When he’s done with his spiel, I offer a hand. “Good job, man. Reffing is a hard gig and you did great today. You a player yourself?” I scan his body, used to sizing up opponents. “Wide receiver?”

  “Yes, sir.” He nods, still shaking my hand. “Max Womack. It’s an honor to meet you, Brutal. I mean, Mr. Tannen.” I laugh at how the kid went from all self-assured confidence to bumbling over his own tongue. “Uh, if it’s not too much trouble, would you sign a ball for me? Well, actually, it’s for my coach at school. Maybe you know him? Coach Wilson?”

  “Coach Wilson is still at the high school?” I ask in shock. “What’s he, like seventy now?” I take the ball and marker he hands me.

  “Oh, if you don’t mind, can you sign it Brutal Tannen? You’re kind of a legend, an inspiration to us guys, I guess.” I chuckle. I’m nothing special, just a guy who used to be good at being an immovable force. My talent? Being a wall, I think wryly.

  I hand the ball back, and he blows on the drying ink, saying between breaths, “It’s not the same Coach Wilson. It’s his son. Father-son legacy thing, you know?”