Fumbled (Playbook #2)(91)

He’s wearing sweatpants and no shirt. His hair is tussled on the top of his head like he’s been sleeping.

And his beard is gone.

“Poppy?” He pulls open the door. “What are you doing here?”

“What happened to your beard?” I ask, momentarily forgetting the reason I’m here.

I haven’t seen him without a beard since high school, and it’s almost scary how little he’s changed with it gone.

He runs his fingers down his face, as if he forgot it was gone, too. “Needed a change, I guess,” he says, his lips turning up just enough for his dimple to show and looking more like Ace than ever.

Ace.

Focus, Poppy.

God. One meeting with a razor and he turns my brain into goo!

“What happened to you today?” I straighten to my full, still not tall height and narrow my eyes at him.

His eyebrows furrow together and he lifts his chin, not in a defensive way but in a way that conveys he has no clue what I’m talking about. “What are you talking about?”

I suck in a breath and take a step back. “You were supposed to pick Ace up from school.” I cock my head to the side, watching as he screws his eyes shut and his hands fly to his head.

“Fuck, Poppy.” He opens his eyes slowly. “I totally forgot. I’m so sorry.”

This is not how I expected the conversation to go. I didn’t expect to see the amount of remorse written all over his face or the self-loathing evident in his voice.

“TK,” I whisper. “This is not okay.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he snaps, catching me off guard by the sudden change. “You think I don’t know I’m a fuckin’ screw-up? That I’m not aware Ace hates me?” He clenches his fists, his knuckles going white as his face goes red.

And God.

I want to be so mad at him.

So fucking angry for already breaking his promise to Ace. For breaking his promise to me.

But I can’t.

I can’t look at this man, alone in a house that might be big and beautiful but is so empty. I can’t stare into his eyes and ignore the pain he can’t mask as much as he tries. I can’t deny the love I’ve had for him since I was fifteen.

“TK—” I try to cut in, but he doesn’t hear me.

“You and Ace were the one good fucking thing I had and you left!” he shouts, and pulls out the hairband, letting his hair fall around his face. “Things got tough, and you left!”

I move toward him, wrapping my arms around his waist and staring into his eyes. “You aren’t okay.” I repeat the words from the hospital room, the words that have been nagging at the back of my mind for months. “Your mood swings give me whiplash. Like when I told you about Ace or when your mom showed up, you get mad to an extreme you used to not be capable of. You forget your keys or your wallet almost every day and now you forgot about Ace.” He tries to look away, but I move with him, not dropping eye contact. “And I know how much you love him. When are you going to accept that something’s not right?”

His body goes soft as he closes his eyes, the fight gone just as fast as it came, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Do you really think these concussions have nothing to do with it?”

“This is the first season I’ve gotten a bad one,” he defends himself. “Everyone forgets stuff.”

“CTE isn’t just concussions and you know that,” I say. He stays silent, but he knows. “And I know it’s scary and easier to live in denial. But even if you don’t admit it to me, you have to admit something isn’t right, even if it’s just to yourself.”

“I . . . tell Ace I’m sorry.” TK straightens, pulling away from me and stepping back inside his marble-covered floors. “I’ll call you.”

“TK.” I slump, realizing I got nowhere with him. “Please.”

“I’ll call you,” he repeats before closing the door in my face.

Crap.

I turn and walk back to my car, hating how sad I feel, wanting to feel the fury from earlier.

I start the ignition and rest my head against my steering wheel.

It’s safe to say that didn’t go as planned.





Forty




Five Weeks Later

TK didn’t call.

He sent a few text messages and on the occasions when Ace would work up the nerve to call him, he’d answer, but that was it.

There was the time, a few days after I showed up at TK’s house, that his lawyer called me to tell me he had a check for back child support and needed my bank information for future payments.

I told him to tell TK to shove the check where the sun don’t shine and hung up.

Then I told Sadie and Vonnie and they told me they’d shove something up somewhere if I didn’t call and take the “goddamn check.”

I did as they said. Mainly because I was scared they’d follow through on their promise but also because as angry as I was with TK, I knew he was trying. And money was the only way he knew how to try.

Then we got on with life. Ace focused on soccer, I focused on Ace, and we both pretended we weren’t disappointed every time the phone rang and TK wasn’t on the other end.

In the surprise of the century, Lydia Moore reached out. It wasn’t much, just a card addressed to Ace. It had a note about how excited she was to get to know him and baby pictures of TK that I hate to admit how much I enjoyed. She wrote her number inside, but Ace still hasn’t called. And with TK missing in action, I can’t say I blame him.