Rough Love (Tannen Boys 1)

I hear a couple more comments from the peanut gallery over the next three plays. When the kids set, I turn my back to the field, scanning the group of parents and watching for the offender. I even questioningly glance at Brody to see if he can point me in the right direction. From here, I can see that his jaw’s clenched, but that’s about it. No help from him or any of the other Bennetts or Tannens. They look as pissed as everyone else, but I can’t tell who’s smack talking.

“Throw to Killian! He’s open! Killian’s open!” It’s loud and aggressive, threaded with anger. I don’t have to turn around to know Anthony didn’t throw to Killian because I can suddenly see Kyle Bloomdale as he steps almost onto the field. He’s still mouthing but not yelling at least as he says, “Fucking useless QB. He should’ve thrown to Killer Killian. We would’ve gotten a TD if my kid had the ball. Yank number three and put in a quarterback who knows what the hell he’s doing.”

Parental eyes snap to me, silently asking me what I’m going to do.

I call a timeout and step closer to Kyle, my voice deep and scary. “Mr. Bloomdale.”

He looks to me, a smile growing on his too-skinny face. “Hey, Brutal! Get my kid some action, a’ight?” He makes it sound like we’re buddies and I’d be doing him a solid.

I don’t return the too-casual, friendly tone. “Cheer or shut up. No insulting my players.”

His brows knit together, but he holds up his hands in something resembling an apology.

I turn back around to see Allyson talking to the boys, who are all smiling. I tune in, listening to her tell them what a good job they’re doing. “Keep it up, guys. Post-game pizza if we win.”

It’s an incentive we’d decided on as a team, and she’s dangling it like a tantalizing carrot to keep them working hard. I rejoin the group. “Awesome work so far. That yardage was on point, Derek. All of you have been playing your hearts out. Make sure your moms save those videos for your varsity play reel.” I wink at them and they laugh at the compliment. “Keep it up, Wildcats.”

The kids hustle back out and play resumes.

We’re doing pretty well, even make that other touchdown we need to tie up the game. But there’s a cloud hanging over the excitement. The cloud’s name is Kyle Bloomdale.

He’s still mouthing, though quieter and not as obnoxiously. But now that I’m tuned in to him, I can’t not hear him. The other parents are rolling their eyes, and I even hear a few tell him to hush. To their credit, my family doesn’t interfere, letting me handle my own shit for a change. I know how hard that must be for them.

Kyle disappears for several minutes, missing a chunk of the third quarter, and a relieved sigh runs through the entire group. I try to stay focused on the team and the good effort they’re putting forth. I’m damn proud of these boys and how far they’ve come.

Even with their hard work, the other team makes headway, scoring a touchdown and then, on a messed-up play, we basically hand them another. That puts the Bulldogs solidly in the lead.

Which is when Kyle returns, hot and red-faced. “What the fuck?” he yells. “I leave for five minutes and they’re just giving the game away.” He’s gesturing wildly toward the scorekeeper’s plastic number display.

I turn to head over there again, but Allyson puts a staying hand on my arm. “Let me,” she says quietly. The absolute last fucking thing I want is her anywhere near this asshole, but there’s something in the set of her shoulders that says she needs to do this. I don’t understand it, but I dip my chin, letting her do what she thinks is best.

Still, my attention is torn between the boys on the field I’ve make a commitment to and Allyson going over to the stupid redneck who’s still mouthing. His parents, Killian’s grandparents who are so kind and caring, look embarrassed but unable to do anything about their son’s ridiculous behavior.

I can hear Allyson, her voice calm and steady like she’s talking to a rabid dog. She sounds submissive, non-threatening, which is definitely not the tact I would’ve taken with the asshole.

It’s her professional voice, I realize. I can almost hear her mental reminders, the ones she told me play on repeat in her head at work. Mediate, mitigate, deescalate. None of those are my specialty. I’m more in the fuck shit up and figure it out later camp, but maybe she’s got a point given the audience we have now.

“Mr. Bloomdale, please lower your voice. There are rules, and we really need to remember that they’re kids and it’s just a game. The point is for them to have fun and learn, not the numbers on the board.” She’s reasonable, rational, and I can hear her hope that this can all be settled easily. My thudding heart isn’t so sure.