Fumbled (Playbook #2)(21)

It’s messed with my tips a bit, staying out of VIP, but my sanity is worth so much more.

Plus, training camp is starting soon, so I won’t have to worry about them coming for a while.

“Ace is looking great out there.” Cole pulls my thoughts from work to the soccer field in front of me.

“So is Jayden.” I try to look up at him, but the sun is settled right over his head and not even my sunglasses can help me out. I get out of my pink soccer mom chair to stand next to him. “I hope they end up on the same team.”

I’m letting Ace try out for competitive soccer this year. Jayden played last year, and other than video games, soccer is all they talk about. It’s going to cost a mint, but he’s not talking about football anymore, so I’ll take what I can get.

Plus, with school starting soon, I can get a part-time job during the days as well.

“Me too. It’ll be good for the boys and for us.”

Ummm . . .

“For us?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know.” He shields his eyes with a hand over his forehead . . . even though the sun isn’t in his eyes. “Carpooling and stuff.”

“Oh yeah,” I agree, not mentioning the fact that I’ve never missed a game or a practice. “That’ll be helpful.”

“Which, speaking of, did you walk or drive today?” Cole asks.

Smooth.

Except not at all. I mentally slap myself again for sleeping with him. One moment of weakness and years of awkwardness.

“We always walk, unless the weather’s insane.”

“Oh, cool. Maybe we’ll join you next time,” he invites himself.

I don’t want to be a bitch, but no.

If Cole and Jayden join us, Ace is going to talk to Jayden the entire walk, which defeats the purpose of us walking together. “I mean, you’re always welcome, but it’s kind of our time together,” I say.

“We wouldn’t want to intrude.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “We were gonna drive down to Bonnie Brae and get some ice cream since this is the last tryout if you guys want to come with.”

Dammit.

It looks like Cole has discovered my weakness.

I love wine, but I adore ice cream. And Bonnie Brae ice cream is the best in Denver. They make all their ice cream in the shop and have these chocolate, sprinkle-covered cones that are downright sinful.

“I actually cannot say no to that offer,” I say, and he laughs at my very serious declaration. “But would you mind if I ran home first? I made chicken in the Dutch oven and I need to take it out.”

“Not a problem.” He reaches over and rests his hand on my lower back.

Lucky for me the crazy soccer parents are paying attention to their kids instead of Mr. Touchy-Pants. You’d think after working at the Emerald Cabaret for as long as I have, I’d be an expert in the art of rejecting unwanted touches. And I am . . . at work. Outside of it, it’s this weird gray area where I want to be assertive but not a bitch. Even though I taught Ace when he was two to keep his hands to himself, I’ve come to learn it was a lesson many men missed.

I’m trying to think of a polite way to get him off me when another hand taps me on the shoulder.

I turn my head and am greeted by the most beautiful and unwanted sight on the entire planet Earth.

Trevor Kyle Moore.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I accidentally say out loud.

“Nice to see you too.” He smirks.

I roll my eyes.

Asshole.

“Holy shit. You’re TK Moore!” Cole says.

When you hate a person, you want the entire world to hate him. And out of everything I hate about TK, everyone else adoring him is what I hate the most.

But at least Cole drops his hand.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“You know TK Moore?” Cole asks. But he doesn’t sound as excited anymore. I guess a superstar football player is only exciting before you realize he might be your competition.

He just doesn’t realize I have no desire for either of them.

“No,” I say at the same time TK says, “Yes.”

“Sorry, Cole.” I turn my back to TK. “I’ll be right back.”

I look at the soccer field and take a deep sigh of relief when I see tryouts are still going strong and Ace isn’t the least bit focused on the sideline.

I walk away from the field without looking back at TK, assuming he’s following behind. “What are you doing here?” I point an accusatory finger in his direction when we stop a good distance away from prying ears.

“I came to see my friends.” He gestures to a couple with a stroller NASA could’ve designed. There’s about a football field’s length between us, but as soon as I look in their direction, they wave, not even attempting to be discreet in their curiosity. “They live right outside the park.”

I focus my gaze a little harder. “Is that Gavin Pope?” I ask, even though I know the answer. Gavin Pope is F.I.N.E. fine. He was the only reason I peeked at games the single season he played for the Mustangs. “I thought he was in New York now.”

“Yeah, and his wife, Marlee. They’re here for the off-season,” he says, but I knew that too. It had been all sorts of scandalous when they hooked up. I couldn’t tell the difference between the gossip columns and sports sections for months. “They head back to New York next week, I was saying bye.”