Fumbled (Playbook #2)(41)

Listen, I know I’m no schmuck, but these women could give anybody a complex. It’s like I’ve walked into a Christian Siriano fashion show. The women are all different sizes and races, but they are all freaking stunning. I thought I was coming to football practice, not freaking fashion week.

I don’t fit in with the soccer moms and I won’t fit in with these women either. I’m happy with my Target flip-flops and discount shorts. I don’t want to be one of those women who judge other women based on their clothes. The kind of woman who guards herself under Gucci and Chanel armors.

“And what’s your name, sweetie?” A voice with a strong Southern flare startles me out of my wealth-filled trance.

I look up to see the tiniest woman with the biggest, blondest hair I’ve ever seen. Her bright pink lips are framing teeth one bleaching appointment away from glowing in the dark, and the diamond-covered hoops in her ears are nearly as big as her head.

“Poppy.” I smile big and stretch out my hand, faking the confidence I do not feel. “Poppy Patterson.”

“I’m Dixie Thompson,” she tells me while shaking my hand and not at all discreetly checking my very empty ring finger. “Your first training camp?”

“How’d you guess?” I let out a bitter laugh.

“We all had a first, which is a blessing in itself.” She sits in the empty chair beside me and leans in close. “My husband’s Chad, Chad Thompson, he’s an offensive lineman.” She keeps going when my eyes don’t light up with recognition. “This is his twelfth season with the Mustangs.”

I shrug my shoulders, offering her an apologetic look. “I don’t really follow football.”

“Well then.” She pats my hand resting on the table. “Nothing we can’t fix. I’m from Texas and my daddy was a high school football coach, so I grew up under Friday night lights. If anybody can fill you in, it’s me.”

That’s nice of her, I guess.

“Thanks.”

“Are you here with someone from the front office?” she asks, clearly trying to connect the dots as to how someone with no football knowledge is sharing this space with her.

“Ummm . . . no.” I move my hands under the table to hide the fidgeting. “TK Moore.”

Her eyes damn near pop out of her head and her jaw is on the table. She stares at me, saying absolutely nothing for about ten seconds longer than is socially acceptable before half asking and half screaming, “TK?,” drawing the attention of everyone within fifteen feet of us.

“Ummm . . .” I bite my bottom lip, unable to focus on Dixie with damn near the entire tent staring at us.

“Well, bless your little heart. Isn’t that just special?” She smoothes her face into a smile that doesn’t look natural or happy.

“I guess so?”

She pushes away from the table and unfolds herself from the cheap plastic chair that’s probably burning a hole in her jeans. Her hair, which must be responsible for at least forty percent of the deterioration of the ozone layer, never moves. “Nice meetin’ you . . . Poppy, wasn’t it?”

I only nod, not at all understanding the direction this conversation went.

“Poppy,” she repeats, looking down her nose at me. “Enjoy your day.”

She turns on a heel that puts my work stilettos to shame and saunters her tiny self to a table filled with more wide-eyed beauties, who don’t even attempt to hide their interest in wanting to be filled in on TK Moore’s guest.

What in the world was that about?

“Ignore Dixie, she thinks she’s queen supreme and her guard goes up whenever she thinks someone is a threat.” A gorgeous brunette with the sharpest bob I’ve ever seen sits in the just-evacuated seat before I even have a chance to get a grip on what happened.

“Umm . . .”

“I’m Charli Easton.” She points to the field diagonal from where we’re sitting. “Number eighty-seven, Shawn, he’s mine.”

“Poppy.” I half wave, still recovering from the whiplash Dixie gave me.

“So . . .” She pauses, a smile wide on her face, but unlike the Southern pixie, there’s no calculating glint in her eye. “TK, huh?”

“Umm . . .” She’s going think there’s something wrong with me if I don’t start stringing words together soon, but how do I answer that? “It’s complicated.”

I almost laugh at the gross understatement. “Complicated” doesn’t even begin to describe the saga that is Poppy and TK.

“The good stories always are.” She leans back in her chair, making herself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you can get in a plastic folding chair.

I take a long sip of my water. “Isn’t that the truth.”

“What are we talking about?” a curvy black woman with loads of long black hair almost down to her ass says, taking the empty seat to my right.

“I was just introducing myself to Poppy, here.” Charli talks across me. “How are you holding up so far?”

“Girl.” She leans back into her seat with a flair one can only learn by watching daytime soaps. “These damn kids are going to kill me. If not now, then from liver failure later. When I tell you I’m almost up to a bottle of wine a day, I am not lying. Little demons. They won’t stop wrestling and pretending to be Daddy. Cute until they’re breaking shit and almost breaking bones. I’m already ready for the season to be over. Anyways . . .” She sits back up and looks at me, flicking her wrist in a mini wave. “I’m Lavonne, but you can call me Vonnie. Sorry about that little rant, but I figured if you’re gonna be my friend, you might as well know what to expect from me from the beginning.”