Fumbled (Playbook #2)(68)

Is it okay to call my kid an asshole?

Because I’m really tempted to.

I try to tell them to stop, but it’s hard to understand between my painful laughter.

“No!” I scream, trying to free my wrists and buck Ace off me. “You’re gonna make me pee!”

And it’s not a lie.

Don’t judge me. Ace was a really big baby, my pelvic floor might never fully recover.

“Ace, I’ll never—” I screech louder when TK manages to restrain both of my wrists with one of his hands and his newly free hand goes to my ultrasensitive neck. “Please! I’m sorry!”

I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, but I’ll say anything at this point.

“No more tickling me?” Ace, the little creep, asks.

“No more tickling,” I promise. I’m completely out of breath and my hidden abs are aching. They have officially tickled all the fight out of me.

Ace looks up at TK, who must have given him a nod of approval, because I’m freed from their grips.

“I can’t believe you did that.” I aim narrowed eyes at TK. “I’m a grown woman. You can’t tickle me.”

“Well then”—he looks at Ace, shrugging his shoulders and lifting his hands—“how’d we do such a great job?”

Ace dissolves into a fit of giggles, falling onto the couch at my feet, his little body shaking so hard, the cushion under my butt is vibrating.

I lean down and gently tug on one of his curls. “Traitor. See if I bake you strawberry muffins when school starts.” I stick out my tongue, extra satisfied by my threat.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Ace sits up straight, looking so worried, I’d laugh if it didn’t mean breaking character. “Don’t you think you’re taking it a little too far? Strawberry muffins are like . . . your mom staple.”

And here I thought my mom staple was always putting Ace first and dedicating my entire life to him.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, knowing damn well I’ll be up late making strawberry muffins for breakfast and my fabulous chocolate chip cookies (the trick is one-fourth cup more flour, salted butter, and dark brown sugar—not any of that light crap) for his lunchbox. “But speaking of school, you want to head to Target and get school supplies today?”

“Yeah!” Ace shouts, jumping off the couch with such height that for a nanosecond I question if I gave birth to a superhero. “I’ll go get dressed!”

“Oh!” TK jumps up from behind me. “I love back-to-school shopping. Mind if I come?”

“Not at all.” I don’t say it, but I’m beyond thrilled not to have to deal with the crowds on my own. “But be warned, it’s not fun like it used to be. It’s a superstrict list about what to get.”

“I know, I donate a lot of supplies to the Mustangs to pass out to schools around the city,” TK says, like it’s not the sweetest, most admirable thing he could do. “I still like it.”

“Oh . . . okay.” I don’t make a big deal out of it since it’s clear he doesn’t want me to, but I almost tell Ace to go to Jayden’s so I can jump TK’s bones right here on my dusty living room floor.

“Ready!” Ace runs out of his room in the same shorts he had on before and goes straight to the front door.

Since TK has been here, my Volvo has been banished to the garage, only to be used when TK’s Range Rover is gone. I’d be insulted, but I hate driving and buying gas, so I’m a big fan of this arrangement.

I slide into my flip-flops and TK pushes his feet into his Nikes, motioning for Ace and me to head out as he sets my alarm system.

“Damn,” TK says right as he reaches the car. “Forgot my keys.”

“Keys are a critical part of turning a car on.” I laugh, digging my keys out of my purse and tossing them to him.

He runs up to my house, a view I very much appreciate, and is in and out so fast I can’t help but be impressed.

And then we load into the same car, laughing at my lame jokes and TK’s terrible singing voice, and run errands together.

Just like any other family.

Just like my dreams.





Twenty-nine




“How’s school going?” Charli asks Ace.

“The best! Dad comes to school on Tuesdays to have lunch with me.” Ace takes a giant bite of his relish-loaded hot dog. “All my friends think it’s so awesome.”

“Gross, Ace,” I scold. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth, nobody wants to see that.”

I thought I’d be able to stop telling him that after the age of five. I was sorely mistaken.

Mom life is not glamorous and kids are freaking gross.

Ace takes an obnoxious amount of time to finish chewing and swigs a big gulp of lemonade. “Sorry, Mom,” he says when he’s finished. But the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth tells me I’ll end up having to tell him the same thing at least three more times today.

But since this is our first time at a real, live football game, I let it go.

Preseason is officially over.

What does that mean? Well, I’m still learning as I go, but what I do know is too many guys’ dreams came to a crashing halt when they were cut. TK has been home a lot more, even though he’s taken over Maya’s room as his film study room and locks himself in there for a few hours a week, but we still have dinner as a family every night. Except the night before games. Even if it’s a home game, they still have to spend the night at a hotel.