Fumbled (Playbook #2)(51)
“And that’s just sites designated to athlete gossip.” Vonnie continues on like a camp counselor trying to scare the kids with ghost stories. “Then you have all the little side forums and Facebook groups sharing pictures and trading stories.”
“But . . .” I struggle to form a cohesive sentence. “Why?”
“You’re so sweet.” Vonnie pats my shoulder, turning to look at the group of women who are meeting our gazes head on. “Because for them, this is a game. Some people collect football cards and autographs. And some”—she motions to the women in front of us—“collect dicks and chlamydia.” She smiles sweetly and waves before turning us back around.
“Those are the women who watch WAGS and Real Housewives. They see the red bottoms, designer bags, and mansions,” Charli tells my poor, scandalized soul. “They don’t see the guys who get cut after training camp and never play again or the heightened chances of substance abuse and gambling. They don’t see the women who dedicate their lives to raising their kids and following their husbands from state to state, only to have to become a caregiver when their husband gets diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or ALS at forty.”
“Damn, Charli,” Vonnie says. “I was just warning her about groupies. You gave it all to her.”
Charli shrugs. “She can handle it.”
I’m not sure I agree.
“Well, shit,” Vonnie says, squeezing my hand. “I’m not sure I wanted to hear all that.”
“Oh, whatever!” Charli shakes her head, not making the slightest effort to hide her laughter. “You’ve been at this longer than either of us. You’re the one who schooled me!”
“I know I did.” Vonnie lets go of my hand and shoves Charli’s shoulder. “But shit, I don’t want to think about these scary-ass stories all the time. Retirement is my light at the end of the tunnel. I can’t have you messing with that dream when it’s this close to becoming a reality.”
“Not sorry.” Charli sticks her tongue out right before Shawn runs up behind her and swoops her into his arms, causing a high-pitched scream and a girly giggle that seems almost foreign coming from Charli.
I turn to give them a little privacy and look around for TK.
When I find him, he’s taking a selfie with Miss Tiny-Jersey.
Just my luck.
I don’t want to watch. I don’t feel threatened—honest, I don’t. More like morbidly curious. The group of iPhone-wielding friends circle around TK. Hands coming from every direction to touch his shoulder, graze his hand, and one even “trips” and uses his chest to stabilize her skanky body. After she trips, TK takes a comical step back before moving down the line to grown men who fawn all over him.
The group of women make a circle, their smiles so big I’m sure they must crack their foundation. They fan themselves off, exaggerated hand motions no doubt describing how it felt to touch the TK Moore.
Gag.
It’s as amusing as it is pathetic.
Then one of them turns her head and sees Maxwell and Peter Bremner, the rookie quarterback, coming her way, and all thoughts of TK are thrown out the window.
“TK!” a familiar voice shouts.
“Ace!” TK yells back, running our way and dropping his gear by my feet before picking up a nearby football and shouting, “Go long!”
Ace takes off down the field, his nearly completely blond curls with how much time he’s spent outside blowing behind him as he creates his own wind machine, looking back over his shoulder at TK every few steps. TK makes a sudden movement, pointing the football to a hard left. Ace pivots with grace and sprints, following the route with a speed that even impresses me. TK launches the ball, sending it spiraling across the field a little in front of Ace. But with a determination and talent I didn’t know he possessed, Ace leaps into the air, diving over the low-cut grass beneath him. He stretches his arms in front of him as far as possible and cradles the ball in his hands before gravity kicks back in and he slams into the ground.
“Holy shit!” TK says to nobody in particular, and it almost gets lost in the applause breaking out from the sideline. The crowd, apparently, finding this father-son moment as captivating as I do.
“I thought you said Ace didn’t play football?” Vonnie asks, watching TK run across the field to high-five Ace.
“He doesn’t,” I answer, but don’t look at her. My vision is locked tight on Ace, TK, and the few other players who drifted over to congratulate Ace on what may be the play of the day.
“Shit, girl,” Vonnie whispers beside me.
My eye starts twitching. “I know.”
A second later, Ace is lined up next to TK and across from a player I don’t recognize. TK pulls the ball back, standing up straight from his squared position, and watches Ace stop and go, trying to beat his professional opponent. He spins to the right this time and TK throws the ball right into his chest.
Even from a hundred yards away, I see Ace’s eyes light up and his love of soccer start to fade.
* * *
? ? ?
“HOLY SHIT.” TK jogs up to me, his eyes still on Ace, who’s running routes with Justin now. “Are you watching him?”
“I’m watching,” I say, sharing none of TK’s excitement.
“He’s amazing. I wasn’t half as good when I was his age.” He keeps going, pride evident in every word. “When does his football season start?”