Fumbled (Playbook #2)(43)
“How much longer until it’s over?” Ace comes over to me for the first time since he went running off with Jagger. His face is beet red and glistening from the sweat he’s gained over the last two hours of relentless playing.
I glance at my phone, which I realize is pointless. “I have no idea,” I tell him before turning the question over to the experts around us. “Do you know?”
Vonnie glances at her rose-gold watch. “It should wrap up soon, I’d guess ten or twenty more minutes.”
“Thank you,” Ace answers. He starts to turn on his Nikes, ready to report his findings to the rest of his football offspring crew, but my hand on his wrist stops him.
“Why don’t you sit down for a minute? Have some water and cool off? You’ve been playing really hard and it’s hot.”
“But, Mom,” he tries to negotiate, “practice is almost over and I can rest the entire ride home.”
“Ace.” I raise an eyebrow and point to the coolers behind him. “Water.”
“Fine.”
“That’s a good idea,” Vonnie says before spotting her boys in the crowd. “Jett, Jax, Jagger! Come get some water before your dad comes to see you!” she yells, her booming voice gaining their attention and instant obedience.
The three boys run into the tent, grabbing water bottles and seats at the table next to Ace. I watch the four of them and it never fails to amaze me how easily friendship comes among children.
My attention is ripped away when I hear a sickening crash and the crowd yells out a collective “Oooooohhhh!”
I turn to the field to see the cart that has been sitting idly behind the end zone speeding onto the grass. My eyes immediately search out TK, making sure he’s not the player writhing in pain on the forty-yard line. When I find him on the sideline, taking a knee with the rest of his teammates, relief so heady floods my system that tears cloud my vision and my limbs feel like they’ve been filled with cement.
An eerie silence falls over the tent that was only moments ago buzzing with laughter and gossip. My eyes shift around, trying to find the woman who is partnered up with the injured player. My heart physically aching in my chest at how helpless she must feel watching her loved one lying on the field. But I don’t see anyone. No woman running onto the field, nobody crying at a table, surrounded by other wives and girlfriends trying to comfort her. Nothing. Just quiet observers who all share the same relieved expression that it isn’t their loved one.
“What happened?” I whisper to Charli, who is quietly tapping the screen of her iPhone.
She lifts her eyes from her phone, a look of sadness replacing the funny, free spirit I’ve talked to all afternoon. “He was trying to make a tackle but went in with his head down. It wasn’t pretty.” She glances at her phone again, her frown increasing. “Rookie free agent.” She turns the screen to me, showing me a kid, maybe twenty-two years old, smiling wide at the camera, his blue eyes sparkling and his cheeks flushed with excitement that his dreams might finally become a reality. A look I remember TK wearing whenever football came up.
“I hate this sport.” The words fall out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. I clench my eyes shut, feeling like an idiot and hoping I didn’t just burn the only bridges I’ve built. “Shoot. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . it’s just . . .” I fumble around my words, not sure how to recover.
“No.” Charli grabs my hand. “I hate it too.” Her voice is hushed, but Vonnie hears her.
“So do I,” she agrees. “Justin and I fight all the time about whether or not the boys will play.”
“Ace isn’t playing.”
Vonnie’s eyes widen at my declaration, whether in surprise, admiration, or disbelief, I’m not sure. “And TK’s good with that?”
“He has to be,” I say. “It’s nonnegotiable.”
“Good for you, girl.” She purses her glossed lips. “Justin has been playing in the league for eleven years. It’s obviously been good to us and he loves it. But I see the way he limps when he doesn’t think I’m watching or the way he’s starting to forget little things more and more. It’s a fucked-up sport.”
Charli doesn’t say anything, she just nods her head, her eyes still trained on the scene playing out on the field.
Then, almost as fast as it happened, the Mustangs rookie is loaded up on the back of the cart and making his way off the field. To everyone’s relief, his arms are moving animatedly as he talks to the trainer sitting next to him. The crowd cheers and the chatter around the tent returns as if nothing happened. On the field, the players circle around the coaches at the fifty-yard line before clapping once and yelling “Mustangs” in unison.
The poor rookie is long forgotten as fans make a mad dash to the newly opened autograph section. A few volunteers in bright orange vests and matching navy blue collared shirts guide a group of about fifty children to the gated-off area in between the end of the field and the front of our tent. “Everyone get a spot along the fence and have your jersey or ball ready for the players to sign,” one volunteer tells the children, who are wearing expressions of either pure bliss or complete disinterest.
“Ayden! Ayden! Move to the front!” a dad screams at his kid from the general fan area. “No! Pay attention! Get over, move!”