The tears spill over, freely running down my face in relief and even happiness, and Bruce sweetly shushes me as he wipes at them reassuringly, for once not understanding the emotional journey the tears represent. “Hey, hey . . . what’s wrong, baby? We can go slow. That’s fine. As long as you’re mine, everything else will work itself out.”
Why doesn’t that set off alarm bells? It should. His possessiveness, his demanding bossiness, his rough brand of love should scare the absolute bejesus out of me. I should fall in love with a nice accountant who likes puzzles and board games and missionary sex once a week with the lights off. That’s the smart thing to do.
But that’s not what I want. I want Bruce.
“I love you,” I repeat again.
He snuggles me into his chest, patting my back soothingly. “I love you too, Allyson.”
It’s not the roses and rainbows most people get when they profess their love. It’s not even the hot sex that often follows the declaration.
It’s quietly profound, it’s gut-deep, it’s soul-baring. It’s us in love. Again, or maybe still.
Chapter 27
Bruce
This first game is not going well. I meant it when I told the boys that we’re winners before we even step foot on the field. But I think we all expected the actual game to be a little more evenly matched.
The other team is the same size but experienced, having been together for the past two years in the younger division. At this stage, that makes all the difference.
We’re two touchdowns down, which for pee-wee ain’t a big deal, but it’s the level of mastery on the field that’s most drastically different. Both teams are running plays, but the Wildcats look sloppy compared to the Bulldogs’ crisp cleanliness on the field.
I’ll admit to myself that I wanted a better showing for them. They’ve worked so damn hard, and I want them to feel the joy of success from that. And selfishly, I wanted to show off my own coaching prowess a bit too. The Tannens and Bennetts, each and every one of the loud and crazies, are standing on the sidelines, cheering for my guys. They’re cheering for me.
Even Bobby. We might not have our shit straightened out about Allyson, but he supports my coaching, at least.
“Go, Derek, go!” I yell from the sidelines. Derek’s giving it his all, legs pumping and elbows flying high as he beelines toward the endzone. At the five, though, he’s tackled hard, going down in a tumble of limbs. I know a moment of real fear, one I never felt when it was me on the field getting beat up, but the knot releases in relief an instant later when Derek pops up. He even fist-bumps the player who tackled him.
He’s showing good sportsmanship and will be a great player one day if he wants to be. He’s got the skills, even at this early age, and most importantly, he’s willing to take coaching and work hard.
We reset, and Anthony looks up and down the line. I can’t read his face from this angle, but he’s up to something. I scan too, and it hits me.
It’s so fast I don’t think anyone else even realizes what’s happening until it’s over. Anthony just ran in a quarterback sneak, rushing across the line into the end zone himself. Everyone cheers loudly, more for the boldness than anything else. A sneak is rare and virtually unheard of at this level. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s legal, but I don’t give a fuck. That was some solid football playing.
“Woo-hoo! Way to go, Anthony!” Allyson cheers. When I look over, her cheeks are flushed pink and she’s waving her fists around like she’s got pompoms. Old habits die hard, I guess. “We get to kick now, right?”
I nod in answer, and she looks over to the teenaged scorekeeper on the sideline. “One more touchdown and we’ll tie.”
She’s getting better. I imagine us sitting around watching Monday night football, the three of us with mouths full of burgers as we cheer the teams on television. Or maybe I’ll take Allyson and Cooper to a game? We could start with the local high school game, then progress up to the state college level, and if we want, try a pro game. I like the idea of it being ‘our thing’.
We make the extra point, and there’s a renewed energy on the field. Anthony’s ballsy move makes him a fresh target, and he gets hit a couple of times, barely tossing the ball away before he hits grass.
“Uh! C’mon, kid.” I hear a male voice from the stands behind me call out in exasperation. I turn to see who’s mouthing off at my team, scanning the tiny foldable bleachers for the culprit.
But I can’t tell for sure. There are a couple of dads I haven’t met, and all eyes are on the field, watching the next play.