Fumbled (Playbook #2)(69)

Last night TK handed over the keys to his Range Rover and had me drop him off at the team’s hotel—the Marriott in Downtown Denver. He showed me the inside of his glove box, which was stashed with our parking pass to the players’ lot and wristbands to go to some kind of room during halftime or something, and he laid the sweetest kiss on me for good luck. There were a few fans lining the entrance who snapped some pictures I’m sure are now floating around on the Internet.

But I’m too happy to care.

“TK said his agent is going to be here. I’ll have to keep an eye out for him.” I look over my shoulder, not knowing how I’m supposed to find a single person in this madness. “I think he said his name is Donny?”

Charli sputters out a laugh and almost sprays the lady sitting in front of her with beer.

“What?”

“Trust me.” She uses her napkin to dry her face. “Donny isn’t hard to spot . . . or hear.”

I shake my head, always feeling one step behind everyone around me lately. “Whatever that means.”

“You’ll find out soon.”

“Can we go see Mrs. Vonnie and Jagger later?” Ace asks when his hot dog is gone.

“I don’t know if we can go up to the suites without tickets, but she said they’d meet us in the family room at halftime.”

Vonnie is too fancy to rough it out with all of us normal folks and shares a suite with another offensive lineman’s family. She told me she forced Justin to get a suite or she wasn’t going to any more games once her boys became more interested in snacks than football.

“Sounds good,” Ace says, too excited to be at the game in his Mustangs gear to care where he’s sitting or who he’s sitting with.

All of a sudden, music blasts from the speakers and fog billows out in front of the tunnel at the back corner of the field. A video starts to play on the jumbo screens at both ends of the stadium, the serious faces of Mustangs players crossing the screen one at a time. The noise around me rises from a steady hum to rip-roaring screams. Then, out of the fog emerge hundreds—fine, like thirty— of cheerleaders dressed in orange and blue (in what I’m assuming are supposed to be sexy cowgirl costumes) running to the field. They split into two lines, creating another tunnel, and stand in their places kicking their legs higher than my body could even dream and bouncing around with their pompoms in the air.

“Mustangs fans!” The announcer comes on the speakers. “Let’s make some noise for your Denver MUUUSSSSTANGS!”

If anyone was still sitting, they aren’t anymore. The screams reach eardrum-piercing levels, and everyone is jumping around, high-fiving their neighbors, beer and sodas sloshing all over the ground. I expect the next thing to come out of the tunnel will be the team. What I do not expect is a woman, in an actual cowgirl costume—or is it a uniform?—riding a horse onto the field followed by the Mustangs’ mascot waving a giant Mustangs flag.

I, personally, think it’s a little overkill on the Mustangs stuff. But judging by the reaction of the crowd around me, Ace included, I’m the only person who feels this way.

Then, finally, the team flows out of the tunnel. Some men are jogging, focused on the grass in front of them, while others are in a full sprint, jumping up and down and pointing to the crowd.

Charli is waving to Shawn, who is blowing her a kiss through the face mask on his helmet. Ace and I are both scanning the group of players, looking for TK. “Where’s Dad?” Ace asks.

It still makes my heart skip a beat when I hear him call TK Dad.

“I don’t know.” I roll on to my tiptoes and squint my eyes harder. “I don’t see him either.”

“He’s not out yet,” Charli yells over the noise. “They are going to announce the starting offense.”

I don’t have to repeat what she says to Ace. I know he heard by the way his eyes start to sparkle and the flush rises up his cheeks.

The announcer starts with the linemen, saying each name as they run out of the tunnel, and fire blasts out of columns on the field at the mouth of the tunnel, startling me every time. He moves through the wide receivers and even the quarterback. The hairs rise on my arms, knowing not only that TK is coming up, but that he’s last.

The song changes without warning, “We Ready” blasting from the speakers, and the fog gets a revival. The screams of the crowd change into a steady, synchronized chant of “MOOOOOORE” before the announcer’s voice broadcasts through the stadium again, “Number eighty-two, TK MOOOOORE!”

The crowd goes berserk.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been out in public with TK, I understand how well liked he is in Denver, but I had no idea it was this.

Then, like I’m living in a dream, TK walks through the fog. His helmet in one hand, his hair down and swaying around his face, he bounces to the beat of the music to the top of the barrier tunnel. Then he drops to a deep squat, bobs his head around for a few more beats, and springs up, jumping off the ground with fire shooting out in sync with his movements.

It’s amazing.

And I have to blink away the tears.

“Fuck yeah, TK!” a loud voice breaks through the noise and my thick wall of feelings. “My fuckin’ boy! You better show them what the fuck is up!”

Ace might be nine, but my hands still earmuff his ears as I turn around, searching for the asshole shouting obscenities at a family event.