Page 24 of Kiss Me Tonight

Back to football.

Finding that perfect blend has always been my biggest struggle.

So, I knock my fingers on the top of Timmy’s helmet, once, twice, and then angle him to face Topher, who is currently squirting water from his bottle all over his face.

“See that kid?” I ask.

Timmy nods. “Yeah.”

I drop my hand to my hip. “He knows what it’s like to have a father not be around.” I don’t think there was a day in my fourteen-year marriage that Rick remained faithful to me. He enjoyed the chase, and once he caught me, it was as though he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want me but neither would he free me—and because of that, Topher’s relationship with his father might as well be the retractable string on a yo-yo.

Whenever I tried to leave, Rick made things difficult for Topher. When I retreated into myself and stopped struggling, suddenly Rick was the perfect father figure to our son. By the time we finally divorced, I’d already seen beneath my ex-husband’s polished façade to the cracked and angry interior. He never asked for more than holidays with Topher, and his phone calls to our only son over the last year have been sporadic at best and nonexistent at worst.

I may have suffered years of living under Rick’s thumb, but it was Topher who suffered the minute we signed the divorce papers. The last words out of Rick’s mouth, when he called Topher on our last day in Pittsburgh, were,See you when I see you.

That’s it.

No promises to visit.

No mentions ofI love youorbe good for your mom now.

Justsee you when I see you.

Topher cried the first leg of the journey, though he did his best to keep his sniffles to himself. With each mile marker we passed, my rage burned a little hotter. And each time my baby boy voiced the question, “Why doesn’t Dad care anymore?” I heard what he was really asking:Why doesn’t Dad care aboutmeanymore?

Because snakes don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but themselves. Because you can give them loyalty and love and, soon enough, their skin will always peel and reveal their true colors.

Rick Clarke’s colors are nothing but narcissistic tendencies and abusive behavior.

He left me to pick up the tattered pieces of our family, to glue the fragments back together again, and show Topher thatweare a team. Me and him. Always and forever.

Blinking away the memories, I nudge Timmy in the shoulder. “Trust me, I think you two would be good friends.”

In a tone weighted with hesitation, Timmy whispers, “He’s a sophomore,” like it’s the biggest obstacle in the world.

Oh, to be fourteen again.

“Yup.” I nod, not bothering to refute that fact. “But if you keep playing like you did today, varsity might not be out of reach for you come the end of the summer. By then, age won’t matter so long as you bleed red and white.”

The kid’s smile makes me feel like I’ve hung the moon, all the planets, and the damn sun, too, for good measure. “I’m gonna bleed red and white, Coach. Just you wait.”

“See that you do, Timmy.”

He thumps a hand over his helmet in excitement. “Oh! There’s my mom.”

I turn, clipboard tucked under one armpit.

And nearly cramp a muscle from smiling so freaking hard.

Timmy’s mom has brought the brigade.

Women flank her on either side, like geese trailing their leader. Ten in total. I hear their laughter from here, and yeah, maybe it makes me alittlebit evil to know Dominic’s afternoon is on the verge of being disrupted by Chanel perfume, kitten heels—bad idea on grass, that’s for sure—and a group of women determined to cozy up to him.

Leavingmeto take control over the last thirty minutes of practice.

Bull’s-eye.

Mission in place, I pat Timmy on the shoulder and swoop forward to meet the moms halfway.

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