Grid Iron Bad Boy: A Football Romance (26 page)

I
pull
into the school parking lot with my head buzzing like a beehive and my stomach filled with dread. This is the same elementary school that I went to when I was Chris’s age. This is the school where I met Mack Forrester. Now his son is walking the same halls, charming some of the same teachers and stirring the same shit up as his dad.

Even if Joel hadn’t died last year, Chris would still be a handful. It’s in his DNA as much as the almond skin tone he gets from me is, or the mischievous smile he gets from Mack.

Since the day he was born, Chris has always been a handful. I was blessed with the kid who climbed out of his crib and pulled the curtains down when he was one. The kid who decided the bathtub was an ideal place to put garden snakes when he was four. The boy who stole cardboard and other trash on garbage day for months so he could build a huge Evil Knievel style bike ramp across the street of our subdivision.

It was two days in the hospital getting his leg set and casted up for that one. And, of course, about a week after it was removed he built another ramp. This time it was sturdier and he landed the jump. He also got to spend almost an entire month in his room being proud of himself.

Even before Mack was all over the news, I never had a chance to forget him. Not when his son has been putting me through the paces, giving me no rest, and melting my heart with his father’s signature smile.

Once Joel passed away, Chris spiraled out of control. Simple pranks and adventures took a darker turn toward destruction. He dropped out of almost all of his activities, giving up everything except football for a group of boys that look like a gang in training. All they’re missing are little name tags. Hello My Name is: Thug.

Initially when Joel was killed in the accident, I took Chris to a psychologist who said that he’d stop acting out after six months or so. We just hit the anniversary of Joel’s passing a few months ago and, if anything, Chris has only stepped up his efforts. I feel like he’s an engine that’s picking up steam on whatever this track is that he’s decided to head down, and I’m left feebly standing at the end holding my arms out to try and stop him. But we both know he has the power to mow me down.

I make my way into the principal’s office. A path I wish I couldn’t sleep walk to. My son is sitting on a little plastic chair against the wall across from the school secretary, Miss Wilmot. I give him a look and as he tilts his head and peeks up at me from under the brim of his ball cap. He knows he’s in shit, the flash of fear in his eyes doesn’t escape me.

However, the older he gets, the more we’re both coming to realize that a mother only has so much power. I can yell until I lose my voice, I can take away every single thing that he enjoys and ground him, but I can’t seem to change this path he’s on. He won’t be happy until he watches his entire world go down in flames. He doesn’t know yet how difficult it is to build a life from ashes.

Miss Wilmot looks over her glasses at me with a look that instantly transforms me back into a ten-year-old. My gut twists up into a knot and when I reach the edge of her desk I’m surprised that I don’t have to stand on my tip-toes to look over at her. It’s strange how a place or a moment can make us all children again. Like decades of growth haven’t slid by us. Like our timelines shrivel down, depleting years of experiences with a single stare.

“Ms. Brickman, how nice to see you again. Too bad it’s never under different circumstances.” She looks over her wire-rimmed glasses and I stare down into my palms. How does she do that? I need to bring her to my house to give Chris that look when he’s acting up. I’d most certainly have a much different son.

“Mr. Vaughn is waiting for you in his office, you can go right in.” he continues.

“Thank you,” I mutter, my ears burning up and the skin on the back of my neck prickling as I watch my feet shuffle to the office door. Put my hair in twists and my feet in Mary Janes because somehow the last eighteen years of my life have disappeared. I’m a butterfly who lost her wings, crawling into the office.

The door is open and Mr. Vaughn doesn’t look up from the file folder he has under his nose when he waves me in. “Come in, come in. Sit down, sit down.” he repeats himself.

I sit across the desk from him and fold my hands in my lap, waiting for him to stop reading whatever the folder holds. It’s thick and tattered around the edges. Chris Brickman is written down the side tab. I swallow hard when I try to imagine how many offenses that folder must hold for it to be so thick.

“Ms. Brickman.” I jump in the worn office chair as the principal jolts me from my thoughts. “As you can see, your son has had another incident here that we need to discuss.” Mr. Vaughn carefully places the file folder on his desk and fans several sheets out across the top.

“What happened?” My mind races with possibilities. What have I already been in here for this year? Disrupting classes, fighting, skipping school, the list swirls through my mind as I wait for the next step in his delinquency to be reached.

“Christopher was found with explosives in the boy’s bathroom today, Ms. Brickman. I’m afraid that between our zero tolerance policy on weapons at school and the damages that he and his friends did in the restroom, he’s facing expulsion this time.” Mr. Vaughn squints his already beady eyes at me, waiting for me to close the gaping hole my dropped jaw has left in my face.

“Explosives? Are you sure? I mean, I know you’re sure, of course,” I raise my hands like I’m trying to clutch my words from the air before they reach his large, flat ears. “I have no idea where he’d get them, I mean. Did they make a pipe bomb? Or maltov cocktail? Or …” I wrack my brain.

“Cherry bombs.” Mr. Vaughn answers me matter-of-factly.

“Cherry bombs?” I parrot his words, but they don’t match the pictures in my head. “That was the explosives?”

“Yes, Ms. Brickman. Christopher and a couple other students decided to drop a handful of lit cherry bombs into a student toilet this morning and blew it up.”

“Blew it up? It exploded?” I try to imagine the scene. Are cherry bombs that powerful?

“Well, it blew the lid off the seat, yes. And it also made a terrible mess. There was water everywhere.” His face flushes a deep maroon as he relives the horror.

“Cherry bombs.” I sit up straighter in my chair, suddenly feeling my butterfly wings return once more as I transform back into the twenty-eight-year-old I am.

“Yes.” Mr. Vaughn nods severely.

“Those were the explosives? So, Chris and his friends threw cherry bombs in a toilet and it blew water all over the floor?” The visions I had of shrapnel and smoldering tile laying in broken piles of the boy’s washroom are replaced with the kind of innocent foolishness that boys do so often, even Bart Simpson has been immortalized doing it on the Cartoon Network.

“That’s correct,” the principal snaps at me. He points down to the many forms he fanned out in front of his folder. “As you can see, I have plenty of witness statements, including one from your son admitting that he was the one who brought the explosives to school today and that he participated in the destruction of school property.” He taps his finger like he’s trying to communicate in Morse code against the sheets.

“Ok, so, Chris and his friends pulled a prank with some cherry bombs and now he’s getting expelled? Isn’t that a bit much? I mean, boys do this kind of thing all the time don’t they?”

“No, Ms. Brickman, boys don’t. In fact, with only three months left of the school year there has been exactly one incident with explosives in the school …”

“With cherry bombs, you mean?”

“Yes, with explosives. And it was Chris who incited it. If you’d like to take a look at his record, Ms. Brickman, you’ll see that Chris is often the ringleader in such cases. As I said, there’s a zero tolerance policy with weapons at this school.”

“Cherry bombs.” I repeat.

“Any weapons.” he answers firmly. “Unfortunately, I can’t extend Chris anymore chances. If his behavior wasn’t getting progressively worse with each incident, then I could think about suspension. However, it’s clear that he’s not getting the guidance he needs outside of school hours in order to modify his behavior.”

Well, that does it. “Listen, Mr. Vaughn. It’s one thing to drag me in here from work and try to make my kid sound like he’s a school shooter for throwing some cherry bombs in a toilet, ok? But, it’s quite another when you decide to insinuate that I’m not pulling my weight as a mother. If you bothered to look at that file, you’d see that a little over a year ago, when my husband died, I became a single mother. I don’t expect you to use that as an excuse for Chris, but it might explain his escalating behavior a bit. Maybe if you’d ever bothered to send him to the school counselor, you’d know that too. So, instead of sitting there judging my parenting skills, maybe you should be analyzing your supervising practices a bit.” I stand up, breathing in deep into my lungs. My transformation back to adulthood is complete and I’m ready to take my kid and go. Enough of this garbage. I turn on my heel and head toward the office door when Mr. Vaughn clears his throat.

“Ms. Brickman, before you go, we need to discuss the matter of financial compensation for the damages.”

So much for my dramatic exit.

“
I
t’s no big deal
, Mom.” Chris slumps into the passenger seat and buckles himself in. “Mr. Vaughn is such a dick. I mean, he’s had it in for me all year just cause he caught me kissing Hannah. He’s a total douche.”

I don’t disagree.

But that stays in my head. There’s zero chance I’m sharing that information with my son. What I personally think about his principal doesn’t change the fact that my kid is expelled from school and I have no where I can put him.

At nine, he’s much too old for daycare and too young to legally look after himself. With only a few months left in the school year, there’s no way I can just get him back on track in another school. We’re basically screwed. I’m screwed on child care; Chris is screwed on having any hope of passing the fourth grade. What a mess.

Fucking Vaughn is a douche.

“Listen, I don’t want to hear it. And don’t you dare talk about your principal that way.”

“Ex-principal,” Chris corrects me.

Lord, give me the strength to keep my hands on the wheel so I don’t smack my child. I know it’s been nine years and I’ve never hit him, but I swear, I’m losing my patience.

“Do you think this is funny, Chris? Do you have any idea how badly you’ve messed this up? You’re expelled, Christopher. That means I’ve got to try to figure out how I can get you back in school. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a job I need to go to every day so I can keep food in your mouth, but now I’ve got to use my breaks to call around so I can get you back in class. And if that doesn’t work, you can look forward to being the oldest kid in your fourth grade class next year!” The skin underneath my fingers pinch as I tighten my grip on the wheel.

I glance over at Chris, he’s emotionless and staring out the window. I want to shake him and hug him at the same time. I want to soothe him and tell him I know how hard it’s been for him since he lost his father.

Well, Joel wasn’t his biological Dad, but Chris didn’t know that. He was only two years old when Joel and I started dating. Joel had tried to pursue me before that, in his own awkward way. However, after spending the first year of my nursing program with a belly full of baby, I was in no hurry to find another man.

While the rest of the girls in my program were going out and getting drunk on the weekends, I was living with my Ma and big sister, studying from two types of books. Nursing text books and What to Expect in your pregnancy and beyond books.

The hard work and sacrifice paid off though, because I graduated the top of my class and had my little boy cheering me on at graduation.

When Joel and I both landed our first jobs fresh out of college at the same hospital, I started to see him in a different light. And I don’t mean the nasty fluorescents that line the hospital halls either. He wasn’t the most exciting guy, or the most handsome, but he was kind and respectful. He knew that Chris was Mack’s boy, but he never treated him like anything other than a son.

When Chris turned three, we had a small wedding. Joel adopted Chris and it all felt so perfect at the time. Of course, six years ago, I had no way of knowing that Joel would be killed in a car accident and that Mack would move back to Colorado.

Maybe Ma can look after Chris while I get this shit sorted out with his school? I cringe to think of asking my fifty-six-year-old mother to look after the child who exhausts me in my twenties. My sister is still living with her though, so it’s not like I’d be tossing her to the wolves. Besides, Chris could use the firm hand of guidance in his life that helped raise me.

Wait a minute.

“Who’s Hannah?” The name my son dropped earlier finally bubbles up through my swamp of thoughts.

Chris looks across the car at me with Mack’s signature smile pasted to his face. “She’s, uh, Mr. Vaughn’s daughter,” he admits looking up at me from under the brim of his cap again.

I swallow my smile, I don’t want to encourage him, but I know it’s too late. A laugh bursts from my throat as I shake my head. If I don’t laugh at this ridiculous hand I’ve been dealt, I’m gonna cry.

Like father, like son they say.

Lord, help me.

“
O
k
, so don’t forget you can’t just stand still on this, but I also don’t want you going into an all-out sprint right now either,” Lauren’s still lecturing me. She’s been pretending that there’s nothing between us except a nurse and patient relationship all morning.

What Ms. Professional doesn’t realize is I’ve noticed as her gaze has licked every inch of my body. I caught how her eyes hovered over the bulge in my shorts. She might be doing a good job fooling the staff with her little show, but I lost my leg, not my eyesight. She’ll have to do a lot better than that to pull the wool over these baby blues.

“Just a jog, I’ve got it.” I interrupt and she gives me a sharp look. I know she hates me brushing her off like that, but I’ve been waiting a long damned time to get this carbon-fibre blade and I don’t want to sit on the sidelines of the track listening to instructions on how to run.

I
know
how to run.

“Yes, just a jog.” She answers sternly, double knotting the bright blue laces in her sneakers. “And I’ll do this first lap with you, so you can tell me if you have any problems, ok?”

I hop off the bench and am surprised by the springy response of the blade. In that small movement, I already feel lighter and faster, and I haven’t walked a step yet. “You got it.” I throw three fingers up to my brow in a sloppy salute and her nose gets these cute little crinkles on it as she frowns at me. Her gloss covered bottom lip sticks out just a little in a tiny pout.

God, how I want to just pull that lip in between my teeth and give it a little nip. I want to feel the heat of her breath on my skin as I make her cry out my name. Somehow I manage to direct my gaze back to the track and decide I’ll put this pent up energy into our little run instead of thinking about Lauren’s sexy round ass that she’s purposely showing off in a pair of skin tight yoga pants. Or her full, perky tits barely contained by her low cut tank top.

Like I said, she’s not fooling me with her little act.

Even though I’m eager to get out for the first run on my blade, I fall behind Lauren, just a bit. I mean, there’s no point in letting that sweet view go to waste now is there? When I left for the military, she was only a few months into adulthood. I remember her at eighteen, she was undeniably beautiful even if her body was still a bit lanky and a little awkward.

Now, at twenty-eight, she’s a goddess. Her frame has filled out with curves that would make a priest snap his neck taking a second look. It makes it hard to concentrate when all I can think of is how much better we’d both be in bed now that we’ve got some experience behind us.

As we stand side-by-side on the track, Lauren twists her arms out behind her in the world’s most unnecessary stretch. You know, you’ve really gotta limber up those shoulder muscles for a light jog. What’s next? Some downward dog yoga poses? That’s probably the most practical way to stretch her legs out, right? Regardless, I soak in the show she’s putting on for me with her tits pushed out toward me as her back arches.

I’m not totally sure what her game is yet. It’s clear to me that she wants me to notice her. And, well, she can check off that little box on the list. Done and done! On the other hand, she’s been distant and cold with me. I can’t decide if she wants to enjoy the chase, or if she still needs some space after losing her husband last year.

Enough racking my brain over it. If she wants me running around in circles for her while she gets some kind of kicks out of it, then she can get a taste of her own medicine right here on this track. “On your mark, get set, go!” I yell out and burst into a stride.

“Mack! I said a jog!” She yells behind me, annoyance dripping from her words. I hear her feet hitting the track not far behind me as she tries to keep up.

I love the crackle of the pine needles spread out over the track beneath me. My foot and my blade pound against the pavement, competing with my heart to see which can beat harder. The sweet smell of nature’s decay reaches my nostrils, and I breathe it deep into my lungs. It reminds me that not all death is painful and horrible, sometimes it can be beautiful.

Suddenly Lauren pulls ahead of me, ripping me from my thoughts and giving me a new singular focus:
to win.

A
rms pumping at my sides
, the muscles in my thighs twitch and pulse as I push myself to catch up. The cool spring air clouds my breath around me like a locomotive picking up steam as I reach her heels. There's no way I'm going to let her get past me that easy.

I
’ve missed going
for runs. I love how my focus narrows to one mission. The war, my men, my leg ... it's all miles away as my attention lasers down to the simplest of goals: run. It reminds me of the many mornings that Lauren and I would race each other for the last hundred yards of our walk to elementary school when we were kids. Our backpacks thumping against our backs, mud splattering against our shoes, despite our mother's warnings to stay tidy. Simplicity was the fabric of my life back then, patterned with rich colors and textured with deep emotions that all seem to drain away as we age.

H
er spandex covered
ass jiggles a little each time her feet hit the ground. It’s hypnotic. I enjoy the view for a minute before pulling up beside her. She quickly looks over her shoulder at me and, I almost run out of breath. Not because I’m winded. But because, for the first time since I’ve seen her again, she’s smiling. Her smile is like a radiant beacon of hope guiding me from the darkness. How did I ever walk away from that smile? One thing is certain, I won’t be making that mistake again.

Lauren’s focus returns to the track and I concentrate on trying to pull out ahead of her. I pull deep breaths into my lungs and dig deep to propel myself forward even faster. We’re neck and neck, I can smell her on the wind.

“BOOM!”

The sound of an IED exploding fills the air and terror grips my heart. “Watch out!” Instinctively, I hurl myself at Lauren, tackling her to the ground and covering her with my body like a blanket.

“What the fuck!?” she screams as she thuds against the track.

I duck my head down beside hers, tucking my chin in against her shoulder and hold her tight. The track disappears and sand appears around me. I watch as metal fragments, dirt and body parts fly through the air around us as buzzing swarms my ears.

“Mack? Mack! MACK! What the hell are you doing?”

I blink slowly and the scene fades into the Colorado spring. The buzzing dies down and disappears, and instead I can hear birds chirping from the tree branches. Beneath me, Lauren looks like she can’t decide if she’s angry or scared. Her mouth is twisted up to the side but her eyes are open wide.

“Mack, what are you doing?” she asks again, but this time the fear is gone from her voice and instead there is a raspy tinge to her tone.

I realize that I’m lying on top of her, her legs are open around mine. Her tits are heaving against my chest. I can feel the heat from her pussy against my cock. Suddenly, Afghanistan feels like another lifetime.

“Sorry, I wiped out.” I lie. “I guess I’m not ready for an all out race on this thing yet,” I nod my head back toward my blade.

Lauren bites her lip and looks solemnly in my eyes, nodding slowly. I’m not sure if she buys my excuse, but right now I think she’s a bit preoccupied. I can feel her heart beating wildly in her ribcage. She looks over my face like she’s studying it, her eyes finally resting on my lips, like she’s willing them to kiss her.

“That’s ok,” she murmurs. I feel her roll her hips up against mine, the movement is small, but undeniable. My cock throbs as blood rushes into it. She still hasn’t made any effort to push me off of her or even to tell me to move.

I bring my face closer, hovering my lips over hers while I press my cock against her. She lets out a soft gasp and her eyes close. It’s too much for me. I press my mouth into hers, kissing her urgently. My tongue traces her bottom lip and quickly finds hers. They barely have a chance to reunite when from the waistband on her yoga pants, I can feel a buzzing against my abs.

I pull back and glance down. Her phone. Fuck her phone. I want to pull her tank top down and lick her perfect tits until she quivers for me, begging me to make her mine. I want to fuck her tight little pussy again and push this stupid buzzing phone up against her clit until she comes.

“Mack, I’ve got to answer that. You’ve got to move.” Her words are unconvincing, like she’s asking me a question instead of making a demand.

“Are you sure?”