Fumbled (Playbook #2)(52)
I knew we’d have to have this conversation at some point, I just hoped it wouldn’t be in front of thousands of strangers. “It doesn’t.”
He swings his head in my direction, his brows knit together like I’m speaking German. “What do you mean?”
“Ace isn’t playing football.”
“You didn’t sign him up yet?” he asks, trying to make sense of what I’m telling him.
“No, TK.” I rub my hands together to try to stop them from fidgeting. “I’m not signing Ace up for football ever.”
TK’s back goes straight, and even through his thick beard I see his jaw tick. “Why not? Do you not see how good he is?”
“He’s your kid, TK. He’s the best athlete I’ve ever seen.” This is the truth—there hasn’t been one sport Ace has played that he isn’t amazing at. “But I made my mind up about football a while ago and he’s not playing.”
“You care to explain why?” he grinds out, color rising up his face.
“It’s too dangerous. The risks aren’t worth it.”
For some reason, this seems to calm him down. His shoulders relax and his lips turn up at the corners . . . which makes my back go straight.
“I get that you’re a mom and you don’t want him to get hurt, but he’s a boy. He’s supposed to be rough and get hurt sometimes.” He keeps going, oblivious to how angry he’s making me. “I’ll get him the best helmet and teach him tackling techniques, he’ll be fine. You don’t need to coddle him.”
Oh no he didn’t.
“No.”
His head jerks back and his smile flees. “No?”
“You heard me, TK. The answer is no.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” He rolls his eyes, only further pissing me off. “He’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure since you play football, you think you know everything there is to know about it, but I’m not bending on this.” I plant my fists on my hips. “This isn’t some decision I made willy-nilly because I’m afraid he’ll get a boo-boo. There have been so many discoveries about the long-term effects of concussions caused by football. I know football is America’s thing, but a game isn’t worth his health.”
“I told you I’ll get him a good helmet. He won’t get a concussion.” He keeps his voice low, but it does nothing to disguise the anger lingering in each word.
“Helmets don’t make a difference.” I fight the urge to slap the patronizing look off his face. “Our brains aren’t connected to anything. They are free floating inside our heads. So every single hit you take, your brain rattles around and hits your skull. Every hit, TK, not just the bad ones. And each of those hits adds up and causes damage. Then there are the inevitable concussions that come with the sport on top of those little knocks he’d be taking every day. I’m not letting it happen.”
The hardness behind his eyes has softened, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’ve talked to Ace about it. He loves football and he hates that he can’t play—a feeling I’m sure has grown being around you. So I really need you to not fight me on this, TK.” I grab his hands and hold them as tight as I can. “I know how much you love football. I mean, it’s your freaking career! And I might hate watching you get hit and I dread knowing you will probably get hurt, but I’m not asking you to quit. I just need you to back me when it comes to Ace playing.”
“This is important to you.” TK says what might be the understatement of the century.
“It’s Ace’s health, so yeah, it’s important to me.” I pull my lips into my mouth.
“Then I won’t mention it to Ace, and if he brings it to me, I’ll back you,” TK says.
Relief floods my system. I close my eyes and draw in a breath so deep, I go a little light-headed. “Thank you.”
I don’t care how sweaty and gross he is, I pull my hands from his and wrap my arms around him as tight as I can.
TK hugs me back and drops a kiss on my forehead.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Always.” I tip up my head and watch as a smile crosses his face.
“Then let me get showered so I can feed my woman.”
“Sounds good,” I manage to say without jumping up and down and screaming.
Because it doesn’t sound good. It sounds like the best thing ever.
We had a disagreement. I told him it was important to me. Now he wants to feed his woman . . . and I’m his woman!
Every time I think he can’t get better, he gets better.
He’s not taking a hammer to my boundaries, he’s using a freaking bulldozer.
Twenty-two
I love HERS and I love Brynn.
I thought I’d liked the Emerald Cabaret. But after working at HERS for two weeks, I knew I’d been lying to myself for two years.
At HERS, I don’t have to coach myself when I approach a table. I don’t have to lie about my name or flirt with a scumbag looking to get his kicks. I don’t have to pretend I’m someone else to make it through the night. And I don’t report to a misogynist who thinks my worth lies between my legs.
Plus, with Brynn being best friends with Marlee Pope, HERS was already a hangout spot for Mustang wives. Charli and Vonnie insisted on coming over and quizzing me on the menu . . . which they knew by heart.