We’ve already tossed the ball around, and now, I’m sitting on the bench as he burns off more energy. Even with the medicine he takes to help him focus, he’s still like a live wire most of the time. I figure age and maturity will tame that a little bit, and as long as he knows how to treat other people, I don’t care if he jabbers a mile a minute in my ear.
“You ready to order some pizza and wings?” I call out.
He stops what he was doing, and jogs over to me. “Yeah. Can we get some ice cream for sundaes after the game?”
“Why else do you think we have the chest freezer?” I tease.
“For the meals Aunt Cissy makes for us during football season,” he retorts, grinning at me.
“And for ice cream. You gonna want me to get root beer?”
He plops down next to me, and looks over my shoulder at the grocery list.
“Yes, please. Can we get some beef jerky too? And I need more deodorant, can’t be smelling funky around the girls.”
“What girls?”
He grins at me, the freckles across the bridge of his nose the only thing different from me. “Dad,” he says, drawing out my name until it’s more than a single syllable. “Girls, Dad. They think I’m hot.”
“You’re too young to be hot. Maybe, just maybe, you’re lukewarm,” I tease.
“Well, eventually lukewarm turns to hot, so there,” he sasses.
Damn, I love this kid.
“Okay, let’s head to the grocery store and stock up. I’ll call for the pizza and wings when we’re almost done, so it’ll still be nice and hot by the time we get home.”
“Race ya!” he yells, jumping up from the bench toward my truck.
“I’ll let you have this one,” I call out. My knee’s been giving me fits, and I don’t want to spend the rest of the weekend doped up when he’s out of school. I’ll ice it once we’re home, and take something for the swelling before bed. Maybe it's time to dig out my brace, since I’ve been spending a lot of time on the field, showing my players various moves.
“Okay, showers are done, let’s settle in and watch some football,” I decree, grabbing the pizza and wings in one hand. I’ve kept them warm in the oven while we both showered off the dust from and sweat from the park, and got dressed in more comfortable attire. “You grab the drinks, paper plates, and napkins.”
“Got them,” Dusty replies.
“Two games today, think we’ll do it? It’s going to be a late night,” I caution as we get situated in the family room.
My huge television is one of the few excesses I splurged on when I retired from playing, and I’m not even a little bit sorry. I reach into the pizza box, grab two slices, then add four wings before I sit back, and start eating while listening to the commentators announce their picks.
“Do you think you’ll stay single forever, Dad?” Dusty asks around a mouthful of pizza.
“What?” Where the hell is this coming from?
“Well, I mean, you’re still young, you could get married again, you know?” he casually replies, sucking down some of his root beer. I’m sure there’s a professional out there somewhere who would cringe if they saw our normal weekend fare which typically doesn’t include vegetables, but for the most part, we eat relatively healthy, a byproduct of my years in the pros. But when it’s time for a game, we eat pizza and wings. Sometimes, barbecue. But unless there are pickles involved with the sandwiches, no veggies are in sight.
“Maybe, I don’t know. I mean, I need to find someone who can put up with not only me, but my lukewarm son, after all,” I tease.
“Dad, in a few years I’ll be off to college, then probably moving out on my own. Are you saying you’d be okay living here all by yourself?”
A memory of Sunday from the night before flashes through my mind.
“First of all, you’re going on eleven, not eighteen, so I’ve got a good seven years or so before you head off into the wild world,” I reply. “Second, like I said, I’ve not really dated all that much, so if you’re hoping this is something that’s going to occur next week, sad to say, but you’re out of luck, son.”
“How can you meet anyone though if we’re always together?”
“I met someone last night when I went out,” I tell him.
“Really? Who? What does she look like? Is she pretty? Do you think she’d like me?” He tosses questions at me left and right, causing me to laugh.
“It’s a girl I went to high school with, Dusty. She’s a nurse now, but she served in the military until she got hurt. I think she’s very pretty, but just so you know, looks aren’t everything.”
I feel as though I have to remind him of that fact because his mother was the quintessential blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader. Pretty face, banging figure, but sour disposition and soul. She hid it rather well, though. I mean, I saw glimpses of it from time to time, but whenever I’d call her out on it, she would just say I was imagining things.
“Does she like football?” he questions.
“I think so. I mean, she used to come to the football games when we were in school.”
“Cool. Because you have to find someone who has the same interests.”
Jeez, this kid.
“Why?”
“So you have things in common. You should know this stuff, Dad, you’re older than me.”
“Been out of the game for a long time, Dusty,” I remind him. “Things might’ve changed.”
“Naw,” he confidently replies. “Aunt Cissy says couples who stay together do stuff together, but they also have things that they do on their own. Something about mystery. I don’t understand that part, though. Shouldn’t the person you’re spending your life with be your best friend or something?”
“I think so, yes,” I slowly state. “Although, couples should have their own interests as well, so they have other things to talk about, being able to share common likes is very important.”
“Good. So you need to find out if this woman likes football, then how she feels about pizza and wings, and if she likes kids or not.”
The laugh that bursts free at his comment has him glaring at me before he shrugs, and gets himself another slice of pizza.
“Suit yourself, Dad, but if you don’t, you’ll get stuck with someone like my mother again.”
Looks like he already knows what his mom is like, and we won’t have to have the conversation I’ve been dreading his whole life.
Chapter Three
Sunday
“Are you blind, ref?” I yell at the television after my team gets another flag thrown at their play. “He was obviously not holding, for fuck’s sake!”
“Anyone listening to you would think life and death hinges on this game,” Bria teases, handing me a full glass of wine. “So, I saw you dancing a lot with Jett Blake.”
I can’t help the flush that rises, heating me from the inside out.
“He’s just as nice as he was in high school, Bria,” I quietly state, taking a sip of my drink.