Through a stroke of karmic good luck, it works for a while. I sit and watch the practice, my eyes jumping from Cooper to Bruce and back again. The team is running a few plays, and the other moms cheer for their boys when they catch the ball, but I keep my mouth closed, not wanting to draw any attention.
Luckily, Cooper looks over once and I give him a thumbs-up and a smile, and he seems happy with that. He’s so easygoing sometimes, has no idea that I’m freaking the fuck out, and he never will. I’ll protect him from that at any cost.
As the practice winds down, my luck runs out. The boys give Coach Mike and Bruce handshakes, which is admittedly adorable, and then the boys all get fist-sized peaches from Bruce. “Thanks, Coach B!” they all say graciously.
I’m already standing, my back to the wild gaggle of sweaty boys as I try to fold my chair and forcefully shove it into its handy carrying bag so that I can get the hell out of here. Usually, this is a task that’s quick and easy, but right now it’s ridiculously hard.
From right behind me, I hear a deep voice that sends shockwaves through my every nerve ending, making them buzz with memories. “Thanks again, everyone. Good hustle out there today.”
My shoulders climb to my ears and my cheeks heat as they stain pink. I know the other moms are looking at me, waiting for the show, but I’m determined to not give them one.
Choice one: play it cool, fake it until you make it, which is easier said than done. Choice two: make a controlled-pace run for it, which is crazy but preferable under the circumstances. If I toss back a breezy ‘gotta go’ over my shoulder, it’ll just seem like I’m a busy mom, which I am, but not so busy that I’m rude to the men volunteering to help my son.
Rock, meet hard place.
Hard place, fuck you very much.
Choice three and the one I most don’t want to pick: turn around like a damn adult and take my lumps, praying that he doesn’t hate, remember, or even care about me. That’s the best option, though the preferable outcome, I’m not sure which of those I’m hoping for.
I steel my features, willing my shoulders down and back like I’ve practiced. It’s the reverse of the bad habit I used to have. Instead of making myself invisible, I choose visibility, choose the image I want to project. Strong, confident, capable. And when I force power into my every cell, only then do I turn around.
“Hey, Bruce.” My voice doesn’t waver even one iota, and I’m strangely proud of that fact, given the way my knees are shaking.
His eyes follow the sound of his name on my lips, and I see the moment recognition lights his eyes before they go dark. So dark and deep . . . and empty. Like the ocean at midnight on a moonless night, pitch black and hard, a bit scary, even, but not in a way I’m used to.
His jaw clenches once, twice, three times before he takes an audible inhale. I almost think it’s in preparation to yell at me, but then he rumbles, “Allyson.”
It’s not a question or even a greeting, just a statement of fact, my name through his rough vocal cords, but it does something to me.
Something terrifying, something unwanted, something that makes my heart and my pussy clench. Because damn it all, after all these years, all the pain and the heartache and everything that’s happened because and not because of him . . . I want him.
“Small world, huh?” I’m stupid, as stupid as that saying, considering we live in what used to be a small town but has grown so much while I was gone. Grown enough that I didn’t even consider that this blast from my past would rise up at pee-wee football practice, of all places.
Bruce grunts, which I take as agreement. That I’m stupid? That it’s a small world?
I find my tongue, managing to speak normally. “Guess you’re the Coach B I’ve been hearing so much about all week? You and Mike are all Cooper has talked about.”
“Cooper your boy?” Bruce asks as he looks down to my side where my munchkin is happily slurping on a peach. If I’d given him that, he would’ve asked for candy peach rings instead, but Coach B gives it to him and he’s chowing down so fast his chin’s already dripping.
“Yeah, he’s mine.” There’s so much tied up in the simple statement. More than anyone even knows. But it’s the damned truth. Cooper is mine and no one else’s. Especially not his father’s. Never his.
Bruce’s lip tilts up as he talks to me but looks at Cooper. “He’s a good kid. Got a big mouth on him, but he’s a good egg.”