football players.”
“Six-year-old football players.”
Eddie blows his whistle. “We’re done for the day,” he says.
The look on Wright’s face says he’s not done.
I can’t help it. I start laughing.
“What?” he growls.
“Oh my God, you’re actually into this.”
“Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”
I fold my arms over my chest and smirk at him. “Oh, really.”
“Really. I could show you. I can think of a few things worth doing with you.”
My heart tries to skip a beat, and fire burns its way up my neck and cheeks. I turn away and try to say something smart, but I’m running out of retorts.
“I’m sure” is all I can manage, hoping I sound droll.
“So you changed your mind, then? Friday? I’ll pick you up.”
“No. Besides, you have a game on Saturday. Remember?”
“Yeah, you can cook me breakfast first. You owe me a meal.”
“I didn’t ask you to cook dinner. I don’t owe you anything.”
He smirks. “Fine then, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
I roll my eyes, dismissing him and his banter as Carrie runs up to me, carrying her helmet by the face shield. She’s flushed and sweaty and looks so excited, she could just burst.
Sparing Alexander a glance, I can’t help but think as I take my daughter’s hand. I haven’t had breakfast in bed in a long, long time. David did that for me the very first time we spent the night together.
Thinking of him in the same context as Alexander Wright forms a cold pit in my stomach, and I stumble a step in the grass.
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow, right, Mom?” Carrie asks, oblivious.
“Of course, honey, I’d never miss it.”
I walk her back to the Tahoe and put her in the front seat. She likes to wear her pads and uniform all the way home. I don’t even get why the need for pads considering they can’t actually tackle each other. Maybe it’s just for the sake of authenticity.
Carrie loves it.
When we get home, I send her upstairs to change and do her homework. I pre-heat the oven and drop onto the couch. I could use a beer. I haven’t been much of a drinker since David, but now and then, I feel like I could use a touch. Just something to take the edge off.
There’s a knock at my door
Resignation and panic clash in my head like waves meeting rocks. It’s either a door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness or it’s a reporter. I have very little tolerance for either. I go to the window and peel back the drapes to spy onto the porch before I open the door.
Standing on my porch are a pair of boys in uniform from Albie’s, the grocery store.
When the door opens, they hand me a list.
“Got your delivery, ma’am.”
“What?”
“Your delivery. Your husband called it in.”
“What husband?”
“Groceries. We’ll bring them inside, no trouble.”
I step back and gape at them as they haul load after load of bags into my kitchen. It takes them almost five minutes, and when they return to the door, they stand there. Expectantly. The taller one all but puts out his hand and coughs.
“I’ve got it,” Wright announces loudly, stepping onto my porch.
He pulls out a sheaf of bills and slaps one in both boys’ hands. They blink a few times, and the one almost opens his mouth before they realize that no, they are not dreaming and Broadside Wright just tipped them a hundred dollars, each. His look sends them scurrying.
He steps into my house.
“What are you doing?”
“It’d be rude to drop all this on your lap and not help you put it away.”
My mouth works, but I don’t manage to say anything before he walks right into my kitchen and starts organizing my groceries.
“Hey!” I yell as he takes a couple frozen dinners and pitches them in the garbage can. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t need this crap.”
“What? Yes, I do. What are we supposed to eat?” I pull open one of the bags of groceries he bought for me. “Artichokes?” I blurt out, holding one up.
“Yes,” he says,
“Six-year-old football players.”
Eddie blows his whistle. “We’re done for the day,” he says.
The look on Wright’s face says he’s not done.
I can’t help it. I start laughing.
“What?” he growls.
“Oh my God, you’re actually into this.”
“Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”
I fold my arms over my chest and smirk at him. “Oh, really.”
“Really. I could show you. I can think of a few things worth doing with you.”
My heart tries to skip a beat, and fire burns its way up my neck and cheeks. I turn away and try to say something smart, but I’m running out of retorts.
“I’m sure” is all I can manage, hoping I sound droll.
“So you changed your mind, then? Friday? I’ll pick you up.”
“No. Besides, you have a game on Saturday. Remember?”
“Yeah, you can cook me breakfast first. You owe me a meal.”
“I didn’t ask you to cook dinner. I don’t owe you anything.”
He smirks. “Fine then, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
I roll my eyes, dismissing him and his banter as Carrie runs up to me, carrying her helmet by the face shield. She’s flushed and sweaty and looks so excited, she could just burst.
Sparing Alexander a glance, I can’t help but think as I take my daughter’s hand. I haven’t had breakfast in bed in a long, long time. David did that for me the very first time we spent the night together.
Thinking of him in the same context as Alexander Wright forms a cold pit in my stomach, and I stumble a step in the grass.
“You’re coming to the game tomorrow, right, Mom?” Carrie asks, oblivious.
“Of course, honey, I’d never miss it.”
I walk her back to the Tahoe and put her in the front seat. She likes to wear her pads and uniform all the way home. I don’t even get why the need for pads considering they can’t actually tackle each other. Maybe it’s just for the sake of authenticity.
Carrie loves it.
When we get home, I send her upstairs to change and do her homework. I pre-heat the oven and drop onto the couch. I could use a beer. I haven’t been much of a drinker since David, but now and then, I feel like I could use a touch. Just something to take the edge off.
There’s a knock at my door
Resignation and panic clash in my head like waves meeting rocks. It’s either a door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness or it’s a reporter. I have very little tolerance for either. I go to the window and peel back the drapes to spy onto the porch before I open the door.
Standing on my porch are a pair of boys in uniform from Albie’s, the grocery store.
When the door opens, they hand me a list.
“Got your delivery, ma’am.”
“What?”
“Your delivery. Your husband called it in.”
“What husband?”
“Groceries. We’ll bring them inside, no trouble.”
I step back and gape at them as they haul load after load of bags into my kitchen. It takes them almost five minutes, and when they return to the door, they stand there. Expectantly. The taller one all but puts out his hand and coughs.
“I’ve got it,” Wright announces loudly, stepping onto my porch.
He pulls out a sheaf of bills and slaps one in both boys’ hands. They blink a few times, and the one almost opens his mouth before they realize that no, they are not dreaming and Broadside Wright just tipped them a hundred dollars, each. His look sends them scurrying.
He steps into my house.
“What are you doing?”
“It’d be rude to drop all this on your lap and not help you put it away.”
My mouth works, but I don’t manage to say anything before he walks right into my kitchen and starts organizing my groceries.
“Hey!” I yell as he takes a couple frozen dinners and pitches them in the garbage can. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t need this crap.”
“What? Yes, I do. What are we supposed to eat?” I pull open one of the bags of groceries he bought for me. “Artichokes?” I blurt out, holding one up.
“Yes,” he says,
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