Page 75 of Sideline Play

“Well, we do read,” Scarlet answers with that wicked gleam of hers.

“I don’t even want to know,” Colt announces, raising his hands up. “But Reeves, do me a favor: don’t say shit this weekend that’s going to get you put on injury reserve. Duke’ll be up my ass if my kid breaks you.”

“Take away all my fun, why don’t you, Daddy Colt.”

“REEVES!” the Jones siblings shout with Scarlet adding, “How many times do we have to tell you not call him that?” and Roman, “Can’t fucking take him anywhere.”

“Y’all are zero fun.” Then rubbing his stomach, he bemoans, “Jesus, I’m starvin’. How do you survive on this diet?”

“Come on,” Scarlet says, leading him and her dad into the house, Winnie happily trotting along at Dawson’s side, soaking in his pats to her head. “I’ll give you a peek behind the curtain at Remi’s one and only vice.”

“Ooo, kinky,” Dawson responds, getting slapped up the back of his head by Colt as he takes the door from his daughter and holds it open for her, calling out, “Strike one,” making Scarlet glare at Dawson as she warns, “I swear to God, you get us to three and I’m ripping out one of the rungs of your ladder, Reeves.”

“What happens at strike three?”

“You don’t want to know,” they all answer emphatically, Colt looking every bit as demonic as his daughter does when training.

About to follow my girl, Roman grabs my arm to stop me, his tattooed hand instantly letting me go the moment he has my attention. At his side, his fingers flex several times before he scrubs his palm over the side of his thigh. The action confirms what I’ve already suspected, that all the progress I made in penetrating his circle of trust over the last two years has vanished in light of falling for and going after Scar.

“Look, Remington,” he starts, jaw hard, posture a little too straight so that it borders on rigid, and arms crossing over his chest more in protection than intimidation, the ink on his hands stretching up both arms and disappearing under his t-shirt. “I know you’re all in touch with your feelings and about communication and shit, but let’s not make this a huge thing, yeah?

“I don’t like how fast things are moving between you and my sister; that you’re only nine years younger than our dad; that Scarlet has gone and gotten engaged to what is basically her first boyfriend ever; or that you’re a ball player because let’s face it, we’re all fucking oversexed, horny bastards who either sleep around or keep our women perpetually pregnant which would all but torpedo her career while basically leaving yours entirely unaffected. I also don’t like that no matter what, you’re gonna look like a god amongst players in the league for scoring the coach’s daughter while the entire sports world will see her as little more than a jersey chasing airhead. Especially when the reality is, you’re lucky and blessed beyond all conceivable possibility for having even turned her head, let alone having her fall in love with you and look at you the way she does.

“So while I don’t like any of that, I still like you for her and even though you don’t need or want it, I approve. Because for as fucking starry eyed as she’s always been when she looks at you and for as amplified as that moon and hearts expression is now that you’re together, it’s nothing compared to how you lookat her. It’s… I don’t even know, man. Just that if I ever met a woman who made me look at her with even half the adoration you so openly wear for Scarlet, I’d be wrapped around her little finger, begging to embed myself into every facet of her life just as fast as you, if not faster.”

Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, he heads for the front door, attempting to close our conversation before I have the chance to say anything. Undeterred, however, I call, “Roman?” causing him to stop though he doesn’t look back. “I may not need it, but I do want it. Scar idolizes you as much as y’all’s dad, and not having you on board would’ve crushed her. So thank you.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he shakes his head, “You got it wrong, Remington. It’s not her who idolizes me, it’smewho idolizesher. I may protect her, but it’s because she fucking saved me and loved me when there was no one left on this earth who cared enough to try beyond her and Colt.”

THIRTY-THREE

SCARLET

“Okay, here are the rules,”Reeves announces, plopping into one of the Adirondack chairs we have arranged around the firepit in the backyard. The gaping holes from where the sleeves used to be on his shirt expose most of his rich umber chest. Scratching at his beard, his full lips smile around his beer as he pulls a swig from it. Then rubbing the condensation into his hands, he explains, “It’s likeThe Newlywed Gameexcept instead of couples, everyone is playing as individuals. So when a question is asked, instead of answering for your partner, you’ll answer for everyone playing, giving you a possible total of forty points per question.

“There’s three rounds of questions with each round becoming more… intimate,” he giddily enunciates, holding up the corresponding number of fingers as my dad adds Remington’s name to the family scoreboard he and Roman brought out to the mountains. Spreading out his sweatpant covered legs, his body dwarfing the wooden chair, Reeves continues. “Round one, answers are worth ten points. Round two, fifty points. And three, one hundred points. At the end of each round, the player with the lowest score will be knocked out.If you choose, you can refuse to answer or hear an answer one time without incurring a penalty. Any more than that and you’ll be forced to take zero points for the question regardless of if you answered currently for the other players.

“At the end of the game, points translate to dollars with each losing player paying their portion of the winner’s score to the pot. So if I scored 300 points off of Colt?—”

“You wish,” I snort around the glass mouth of the beer Remi and I are sharing as I settle onto his lap, my bare legs stretching out from under his sweatshirt to drape over the chair’s armrest.

“Pssh, it could happen.”

“Yeah, and Dallas could win the World Series,” Roman quips, popping the top on a Dr. Pepper. “Just because something is possible, doesn’t make it probable.”

“Is Skip,” Remington starts to ask, quickly amending to Colt when my dad raises an unamused eyebrow at him. “Is Colt the reigning champion of Game Night or somethin’?”

“Better,” Dad says, sitting back in his own chair, stretching so his unzipped hoodie flutters open to show off the two lines of tattoos he has between his left ribs. The first is the date and time down to the second of when I was born. Underneath that is the second one, stylized to be a perfect match to the first but with two dates and times. One for when we met Roman and first brought him home with us and the second is when the courts officially declared our dad as his foster parent five months later. “No, I usually take the forfeit by the time round three comes up. Reeves is just that bad at this game.”

Vehemently shaking his head, Reeves declares, “Not tonight. There’s fresh meat at the table. I’m looking at a solid hold on fourth place.”

“Funny, that’s what you usually place when we play,” Dad laughs. Using his beer to point at Remington he offers, “As the aforementioned fresh meat, you get to pick from the bowl first.Pink slips are round one, blue two, and purple three. You’ll need to have your own answer written down as well as an answer for everyone else here before the timer goes off.”

“Wait, what about the pot?”

“It’s the ultimate prize and bragging rights for the next year,” Roman answers, popping a deviled egg into his mouth, somehow still hungry after the massive dinner Remington made for Thanksgiving.

“Each Game Night, all the points the winner earns translates to money. They get to keep 10% and the other 90 goes into an account. On New Year’s Eve, we do a massive marathon of all the games we’ve played through the year, which usually ends up doubling the pot by midnight. When the new year hits, whoever has the highest score, which we keep track of on the scoreboard,” I say, gesturing to the displayed chalkboard that now has my fiancé's name on it right below Reeves’s, “takes the entire thing.”

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