Page 31 of Game On

“The cat threw up in your breakfast, okay?” his dad would tease. Or, “Your shoes, they have dog crap on them, okay?” Troy always laughed. But not today. Taking a last swipe at his eyes with his sleeve, he stood up. He didn’t want to stand around while his grandparents paraded him in front of the people who’d taken over his house. He just wanted everyone to get out. The sooner he got to bed, the sooner he could wake up from this rotten dream. Surely, it was all just a dream.

Consuelo’s eyes were pleading with him. Troy sighed, resigned to not let her down. She’d been taking care of their family since he was five. Right now, she was the only other person in the world who was truly sad his parents were dead. His grandparents didn’t seem too upset his dad was gone. According to his mom, they’d never forgiven her for marrying Dad because he used to do drugs and stuff. Mom told Troy that Dad needed her.

“It was the best thing I ever did,” she’d say. “Because then I had you! And you and Daddy are all my prayers answered.” It was how she ended their bedtime prayer every night, just before kissing Troy good night.

Gulping back a sob, he tried to summon up his best swagger, only to end up shuffling his feet in the direction of his grandmother holding court in the foyer. Following Consuelo across the room, he chanced a quick look out of the corner of his eye at his brother. No help there. Troy felt his shoulders slump a little more.

He wanted to pray to God for help, but he was kind of mad at Him right now. Nope, Troy was on his own now. Both God and his big brother had let him down. Troy resolutely let Consuelo steer him across the room.

Shane took a sip from his glass of iced tea as he watched the housekeeper lead the kid through the crowded room. He’d had been crying, Shane was sure of it. The kid had been fighting back tears all day. Earlier, at the funeral, the kid hadn’t shed a single tear. But when he thought no one was looking, the tears snuck out.

His palms began to sweat as his mind wandered back to another funeral and another little boy who didn’t dare cry; Shane hadn’t wanted to give his father the satisfaction. Memories of Bruce hovering in the back of his grandmother’s small living room played in Shane’s mind. No one bothered to go near Bruce, taking his red eyes and swollen nose as a sign of profound sadness over his wife’s death. But Shane had known the truth. His father didn’t give a damn about his mother’s death. Fooling them all, he’d stood bracing up the living room wall because he was stoned, the drugs and alcohol giving him the look of ravaged despondency. Bruce had been biding his time until all the guests left and he could raid his wife’s jewelry box to finance his next fix.

Ten years later, Bruce confessed this sin in his sanctimonious tell-all biography that topped the bestseller lists for six months. He’d written that his biggest regret of that day was hawking his Super Bowl ring. Shane stopped reading at that point, hurling the book off his balcony into the Pacific Ocean.

Shaking his head to clear the memories, he bit down on a piece of ice, glancing at the kid over the rim of his glass. Bruce’s son wasn’t what Shane had expected. Not that he was an expert on kids, but Shane was sure Bruce’s was small for his age. Unlike his Devlin brethren, he was light, with dirty blond hair and his mother’s beauty pageant green eyes. They’d never met before, but that hadn’t stopped the kid from flinging himself into Shane’s arms when he’d arrived yesterday morning. The unexpected display of affection caught Shane off guard and it had taken a moment to untangle from him. The housekeeper standing guard glared at Shane, her mouth set in a grim line. She’d quickly maneuvered the kid back against her chest, her eyes mulish and protective.

Her possessiveness was still evident today as she reluctantly let her hand drop from the kid’s shoulders, handing him off to his famous grandparents. The kid quickly shot her a despondent look before she shuffled off to the background once more.

“Something’s wrong with that picture,” Roscoe said from his perch on the stone fireplace hearth behind Shane.

“What makes you say that?” He took another swallow from his drink.

“I don’t know. I just figure kids shouldn’t look so uncomfortable around their grandparents.” Roscoe pulled his buzzing iPhone from the pocket of his suit jacket. “It just seems unnatural, that’s all.”

Shane watched as the kid stood, wary, between his imposing grandparents. The grandmother wasn’t your typical televangelist’s wife. She lacked the overdone makeup and the teased hair. Instead, she looked like a society matron with her petite figure and perfectly coiffed, champagne-colored hair. It was easy to see where her daughter got her beauty queen good looks. Today, she was dressed in a somber but elegant black dress, a brittle smile pasted on her face, as fake as the bloodred nails gripping her grandson’s shoulder.

“She doesn’t strike me as the type to chase the kid around with a wooden spoon,” Shane said, fondly recalling his skirmishes with his late grandmother.

“No,” Roscoe grunted as his fingers tapped out a message. “She’s more the broomstick type.”

Shane raised an eyebrow at his friend. His silence forced Roscoe to look up from his BlackBerry.

“Troy doesn’t seem to like them too much, that’s all. He seems nervous to be in the same room with them. A fact you might have picked up on had you spent more than thirty seconds conversing with him.” Roscoe pushed his glasses back up against his nose, a gesture that always made Shane think he was being flipped off.

“I’m not good with kids,” Shane said turning his attention back to the foyer. “You’ve got more experience. You’re a dad.”

Roscoe snorted and glanced back at the screen in his hand. “I hardly think being the father of eighteen-month-old twins qualifies me to console a boy who’s just lost his parents. It wouldn’t be a stretch for you to relate to how Troy is feeling,” he said.

“You know Roscoe, sometimes you really piss me off.”

“It’s in my job description.” Roscoe shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Before you go about firing me for the bazillionth time, I’m going to go track down Bruce’s attorney and find out if we need to be present for the reading of the will. I’d like to get home tonight if possible.” He strolled off before Shane could tell him to save his energy. He didn’t want anything of his father’s, even if he had left him something.

“Excuse me.”

Three hundred pounds of solid Samoan stood to Shane’s right. The lack of a neck and beefy forearms identified him as one of his father’s offensive lineman. Shane allowed himself to be impressed with Bruce’s recruiting efforts. If the tank played with any skill at all, he’d make one a heck of an NFL player someday. Running a mammoth hand through the stubble on his head, the guy seemed to be trying to get up the courage to speak to him. Shane had managed to avoid signing a single autograph the entire day. Apparently, no one had told Tank this was a funeral.

“We were wondering what’s gonna happen to Troy?” Shane wasn’t sure what stunned him more: Tank’s question or the Mickey Mouse voice he’d used to ask it. It was a good thing the guy was big, because otherwise that voice would bring on a host of problems in a locker room.

“What Tiny’s askin’, man, is, are you gonna take care of Troy now?”

Tiny was obviously nicknamed for his voice, not his size. Shane looked past Tiny to the mouthy black kid who stood next to him. Definitely a ball handler. Shane had been around the game long enough to recognize a running back’s demeanor. The two-carat diamond studs in each ear only solidified Shane’s perception.

Who was going to take care of Troy? Heck if he knew. Shane hadn’t given the matter much thought. Truthfully, he hadn’t given the matter any thought. He assumed that Troy would live with this grandparent now. After all, that’s what Shane had done.

“I suppose his grandparents will take him in,” Shane said.

“But dude! You’re his brother!” Shane turned to find a third player, the team’s pretty boy, standing in the shadow of Tiny’s other shoulder. Pretty Boy stuck out his hand and grinned.

---