Fumbled (Playbook #2)(28)

“He’ll be here at two.”

He looks at the clock and then closes his eyes, no doubt calculating a countdown in his head. “I gotta go clean my room!” He pulls his hand from mine and pushes away from the table, the old legs dragging against the hardwood floor.

“Ace.” I stop him just short of sprinting out of the kitchen.

“Oh.” He shakes his head and reaches for his dirty plate. “In the sink. Sorry.”

“Not that.” I pull the plate from his hand again. “I have to tell you who he is.”

His brows furrow. “Ummm . . . okay?”

He clearly thinks I’m insane.

“Your dad is . . .” Why is this part so hard? “TK is your dad. TK Moore.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but sheer bliss was not it.

“That’s why you were talking to him after my practice!” he shouts. “Oh my god! TK Moore!” His hands fly to his hair then out in front of his face, then back to his hair. “Wait until my friends find out!”

I want to stop him. Don’t tell your friends. We don’t know how long he’ll be around. But I don’t. I might be scared TK will bail, but those are my insecurities and there’s not a chance in hell I’m screwing Ace up about his dad any more than I already have.

Ace continues to punch the air while dancing around the tight kitchen. I can’t remember the last time he’s been this happy.

He just found out his dad is Superman. Why wouldn’t he be thrilled?

But I can’t help wondering, how long until he thinks I’m the villain who kept him from his hero?





Thirteen




AS the day goes on, I can feel the shift of energy in the house. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight from the static energy the nerves are creating. Ace asks a few more questions—if his room looks okay, if it’ll be all right for him to mention football—before he retreats to his sports-covered room. At one thirty, he comes out of his room, dressed in the Jordan outfit I found at Ross before summer started, and sits next to me on the couch. I give him the remote, but he’s too focused on the empty street in front of our house to even notice.

At two o’clock sharp, TK’s Range Rover glides to a stop in front of our house. I leave Ace, whose knee hasn’t stopped bouncing since he sat down, on the couch while I greet TK.

“Hey.” I open the door as TK walks up the uneven pathway to the porch, plastering a smile on my face I’m ninety-eight percent sure makes me look like a murderous clown.

But it’s the effort that counts, right?

“Hey,” he repeats, his eyes shifting around like I’m going to bombard him with a village of children. “How are you?”

“We’re good.” I answer for Ace even though it might not be true.

“Good . . . that’s good.” One of TK’s hands is holding an oversize plastic bag, the other one is in his pocket, but even through the thick fabric of basketball shorts, I can still see it fidgeting. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” I say even though I know he’s lying.

I look a hot-ass mess. I didn’t even try to put on makeup. I thought if I acted casual and nonchalant about the whole thing, Ace would too. Also, if I let a few tears slip without makeup on, there won’t be a faded spot on my face traced with bleeding mascara.

I move out of the doorway and motion to the living room like a Price Is Right model. “Come on in.”

He doesn’t say anything and I watch as he transforms right in front of me. He closes his eyes and his long fingers flex around the bag handle. He inhales a breath so deep, I’m surprised there’s any oxygen left over for me. He exhales and rolls his neck from left to right and back again and kicks out each leg three times. I bet this is what he looks like in the locker room before a game. Then his eyes open, his shoulders relax, and a genuine smile from under the thick beard—dammit to hell, I still want to dig my fingers into it—appears.

All hints of nerves gone, he walks past me and into my living room.

And straight into Ace’s life.

No turning back now.

He walks to the middle of the room and stops cold, no doubt taking in the beauty that is Ace. I ignore the butterflies rioting in my stomach, walk past him, and stand between the two of them.

I watch as they both stand in silence, checking each other out. After a minute, they’re both wearing matching smiles and expressions of awe. The fear I’ve felt since I walked out of that clinic dissipates and excitement takes over. I’m able to forget my guilt for a minute and bask in the goodness of Ace and TK together.

TK holds out the bag he’s been clinging to. “I hope you’re a Mustangs fan.”

“I am.” Ace takes his time reaching for the bag. I think he’s afraid to look too eager, not only wanting to be the cool nine-year-old he always is but wanting his superstar dad to think he’s awesome too.

TK slides the bag onto Ace’s wrist, and Ace’s eyes widen as his arm falls under the weight of the bag.

Ugh.

Just great. The bribery begins . . . bribery I have no feasible way of competing with.

Ace turns and runs to the couch, where he promptly dumps out what I assume is every Mustangs item TK was able to get his hands on. Including, but not limited to, a Moore jersey, socks, hats—baseball and the knit variety—a stuffed Mustang that Ace might be too old for, and a hoodie I wish was a few sizes bigger so I could steal.