Fumbled (Playbook #2)(70)

“What the hell?” I say to Charli, not doing so hot at the clean-mouth thing myself. “Could that guy be more obnoxious?”

“Yeah, he actually can,” she says, laughter coloring her voice. “Poppy, I’d like to introduce you to Donny, TK’s agent.”

She aims her eyes over my shoulder and I see a man on the shorter side, not fat, but thick, sticking out like a sore thumb in a pinstripe suit and brown leather loafers.

“Charli, baby.” He looks past me and Ace. “How the fuck have you been?”

“I’ve been good. How about you?” She smiles, used to his antics and language.

“I’d be better if that stubborn-ass husband of yours would dump his lame fucking agent and come my way. And if I knew what fuckin’ surprise TK has for me,” he says, still ignoring me. “I told him, I don’t like fuckin’ secrets. But TK does what the fuck TK wants. I just hope his bitch of a mother isn’t here.”

Oh.

Maybe Donny isn’t so bad after all.

“You’re my dad’s agent?” Ace asks from beside me, proving my earmuffs to be one hundred percent ineffective.

“I don’t think so, kid. Who’s your dad?” Donny answers, and it’s clear he’s just humoring Ace.

“TK Moore,” Ace says, pointing to the 82 on his jersey.

I wish I had my phone out to record Donny’s reaction as he processes what Ace is telling him because I know for a fact TK would’ve loved to see it.

“You’ve gotta be fucking shittin’ me.” He takes off his sunglasses and wipes the sweat that magically developed in the last five seconds off his forehead.

“Surprise!” Charli shouts, giving great jazz hands.

Donny turns his attention to me.

I’m in skinny jeans and the Moore jersey TK put on our bed before he left last night. I’m having a great hair day, my curls are huge, and my lips are painted red at Sadie’s request (aka demand). And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m basically smashing this football girlfriend thing.

“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters. “If this is gonna be another Pope scandal, I’m tapping out now.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I ignore Charli’s and Ace’s giggling next to me.

I know what he means.

Just because I nearly died of alcohol poisoning doesn’t mean I could ever forget the Marlee/Gavin/Lady Mustangs saga.

Donny puts his glasses back on, knowing I’m full of shit. “Can you at least talk him into a fuckin’ suite? I’m not going through one more season in this fuckin’ snow. I got him his contract, I know he can afford it.”

“I kinda like it down here.” I also do not feel comfortable asking TK to spend what would most likely come to thousands of dollars on . . . well, on anything.

“Dammit.” He opens his suit jacket and pulls out a small flask. “This shit’s gonna be just like Marlee.”

“Maybe even crazier.” Charli offers her unhelpful opinion.

Ace laughs harder.

I glare at her.

Hmmm . . .

Maybe a suite wouldn’t be too bad.





Thirty




Football is the socially acceptable equivalent of a cult.

It seems like tons of fun and everyone around you is an avid follower of the religion.

Oops.

I mean sport.

They wear the colors. They memorize the prayers. They will shove a boot up your ass if you don’t believe like they do—just ask the Chiefs fan who has been hounded since he sat his ass in his seat. And no matter your reservations, you get sucked in. Before you know what’s happening, you’re jumping out of your seat, cheering when the ball is caught, and booing when the refs prove to be blind and make the worst calls ever. As soon as you enter the church they call a stadium, you’re a believer.

Until reality slaps you awake.

It’s the beginning of the fourth quarter, and much to my dismay, the score is tied 17–17. Some people might appreciate the closeness of the game. I, on the other hand, hate it. I’ll take a blowout over this any day. You call it boring, I call it ulcer preventive.

Tomato tomahto.

The Mustangs have the ball, and I—with my vast knowledge of the sport—assume they’re going to run it like they have for the majority of the game. Peter, the rookie quarterback who managed to snag the starting spot, turns his head to the left, motioning for TK to move out, then he looks to the right, yelling something else that causes the line to shift toward their sideline. He does his weird ritual of stomping his foot and clapping three times, then the ball is in his hands, and he’s on the move.

I know the play isn’t going well within seconds. A missed block? A missed step? I’m not really sure. But before Peter can fully scan the field, a defender—a very large defender—is charging toward him. Peter doesn’t think twice. Before he’s flattened to the turf, he launches the ball down the field. I figure it’s a throwaway like he’s done a few times already, but as I follow the ball, I see TK and a player in a red jersey bumping into each other, racing down the field.

I’m on my feet in a second. My eyes on the ball, my heart in my stomach, chanting the rosary in my head. I don’t have to look down to know Ace is doing the same—without the rosary.