The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(5)

I look over to where Harris stands airing out his junk while smelling his socks.

“Yeah, well, I’m over all the clowning for the moment. Including yours, dumbass. Later.” I head out of the room, passing coach’s office door, thankful he’s on the phone. He doesn’t bother glancing up.

Making my way to the parking lot, I weigh the cost of living next door to my son. It will be tight, but I should be able to make it. Though it would be more money smart for me to live with Harris and take the free ride, it’s time I make a stand where Dante is concerned. Clarissa still refuses to cash the checks I mail, though I know she needs them, but teaching must be paying off because the house she rented is a pay grade above her last two places.

Now might be the time to finally stake my claim for a place in his life, but the fear is real. I don’t want to make her life any harder, but Dante’s passed the point of recalling his first memories, and I’m determined that from this day forward, I want as many of his memories as possible to include me.

“Dude, where’s your head at?” Kevin asks, nudging me.

“Huh?” I ask distractedly pulling out my keys.

“You constipated, man?”

“What?” Kevin keeps up beside me as I head toward my truck.

“I’ve been talking to you for like, five minutes, and the whole time you’ve had this ‘need to shit’ look on your face. What in the hell are you thinking about?”

“Nothing…coach. He seems off. You know what’s going on with him?”

“No clue. But God help us.” Kevin does the sign of the cross as I unlock my truck, and he jumps in the passenger side.

“I told you to find a ride.”

He shoots me a devilish grin. “Just drop me at the library.”

“When are you going to take the hint? She’s not feeling you, like at all.”

“Nah, she loves me, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Fine, and I hate to say it, bro, but you’re setting yourself up for failure.” It occurs to me then that the statement might be just as true for me as it is for him.





Tracey’s Incredible Breakfast Bake

Wildlife Photographer, California



Makes 8 servings





45 minutes


1 Can Flaky Grands Biscuits





8 Ounces Shredded Cheddar Cheese


? Cup Milk

5 Eggs – Beaten

1 Cup Cubed Ham or Cooked Ground Sausage



Cut each biscuit into quarters. Mix all ingredients together saving biscuits for last. Pour into a greased 9x13 casserole dish.



Bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes.





Clarissa



After a quick stop at the market, I pull up to Dante’s daycare, and his teacher greets me as he climbs in the back. “Hey, Peanut, have a good day?”

He wrinkles his nose. “It was a five at most.”

His teacher and I share a smile. “Hi, Tammy.”

“How are you, Clarissa?”

“Hanging in there. A few more days of mental prep and I think I’ll be ready for another year of teaching teenagers.”

“I don’t envy you,” she chuckles. “I like them much younger. Especially this little stinker.”

“I’m fond of him too,” I say, glancing back at Dante as he buckles in. “Most days.”

“He got in trouble for trying to record on his phone during naptime.” She hands me his cell.

“Sorry about that. He knows to leave it at home.” I direct my sharp tone back his way, so he knows I mean business.

“I’ve seen his videos, they’re pretty awesome, and my son loves them too. You’ve got a budding star on your hands.”

“Don’t I know it,” I grin. “But I’ll have another talk with him.”

She ruffles his hair. “This one is bound for great things, and we had a talk today, no worries.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Have a good one.”

“You too.” She shuts the door, and I glance back in my rearview.

Dante sinks into his seat, ready with an excuse. “It was only a minute.”

“Son, we’ve gone over this.”

“But I’m too old to nap.”

“Uh uh. You’re getting to be a big boy, but I need a few workdays before school starts. Just hang in there. Big school in two sleeps.”

“I’m sorry, Mommy. I’ll do better.”

“You are better. You’re the best.”

“I know,” he deadpans. I laugh, and he nods toward the dash. “Old Town Road.”

I’m already shaking my head. “No. No way.”

“PLEAAAAASE,” Dante orders in the same tone I use when I’m at my wit’s end.

“Motown?”

“No Motown! Old Town.”

“Is there any other song?” I implore for mercy. “Like anything? I’ll listen to tribal music, French rap, I’ll even try bluegrass. Anything but that song.”

“Mommmmmy,” he whines impatiently.

I lift my head to the heavens. “Why, Lord, why? You gave him “Achy Breaky Heart,” wasn’t that enough? Couldn’t you have just stopped there? Did he have to make another hit that was so annoying it makes you want to chum up and feed yourself to the sharks?”