Page 96 of Kiss Me Tonight

He cranks open the car door, one foot already drifting out to freedom.

I grab his forearm before he can escape. Give him an encouraging smile that I hope alleviates the tension building within him. “How about you send him a picture of the field when you get down there, huh? Or even a video he can watch while he eats lunch at work.”

My baby boy gives a half-hearted shrug. “I guess I could.”

“You should. Maybe we can even make a team video today—something all the kids can show off to their parents. How does that sound?”

A little of Topher’s earlier enthusiasm comes frolicking back. “We should do a choreographed dance. Something that will trend online.”

I bop him playfully on the head. “What did I say about the internet?”

“No Buzzfeed. But this wouldn’t be Buzzfeed!”

Topher Levi Clarke is nothing if not persuasive. Waving him off, I tell him I’ll be right behind him.

I wait until he’s out of sight and cutting around the corner to where the football field is, and then promptly call Rick. I don’t make a habit of calling him often, unless it has something to do with Topher—and after this morning’s conversation, Topher is my only priority.

This is not a social call.

My ex-husband’s ringback sings in my ear, a four-string symphony soundtrack that I know he likes to use to make himself seem posh and elite. Truth is, Rick Clarke is a Detroit native who grew up with close to nothing and connived his way to the top of the sports management food chain. The man has more money than he could spend in a lifetime, women flinging themselves at him every hour of the day, even though he’s in his mid-fifties now, and owns four houses across the country. To say nothing of his beloved private jet that he purchased when he received his seven-figure bonus with the Steelers. And yet he still can’t find a single damn minute to call his son to say three simple words:I love you.

The violin takes on a solo run and I drum my fingers impatiently on my thigh.

It lurches back in with the rest of its orchestra family, only for unexpected knocking on my window to send my phone flying from my hands.

“Crap!”

I fumble for it midair, like I’m back in football, and catch it with a smooth one-handed grab.

“This is Rick Clarke, GM of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

Knowing its futile—Rick rarely returns my phone calls—I flick my gaze to the window, only to see a stranger standing there, waving at me like a lunatic. I hold up a finger, pointing to my phone for the man to give me a second.

“Rick, it’s me again. Aspen. I know you’re probably busy, but please give Topher a call at some point today. I mentioned this the last time I called but he . . . he really misses you, and I think he’d feel better if he heard your voice. Two minutes, that’s all he needs. All right, I’m gonna go. Please don’t forget to call. Thanks.”

With a placating smile to the gentleman, who’s yet to stop waving at me, I toss my phone into my duffel, yank it out from the backseat and then maneuver myself out of the car.

I give the man a swift onceover: neatly parted brown hair, white T-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Totally normal-looking.Maybe he’s a football dad?Leveraging my work duffel higher up on my shoulder, I spare him another scrutinizing glance, taking note of the drawstring bag he’s holding down by his side. “I’m so sorry, do we know each other?”

“Yes! Well, you don’t knowmeexactly.”

Because that’s not creepy at all. I shoot a quick look over to where the fields are located, debating how fast I can run if it comes down to it. “Are you one of the parents?”

“Parents?” His eyes go comically wide. “Oh, theparents. Of the kids. Oh, no. I’ve sworn off children forever. Little devils, honestly. Don’t you think?”

There have been multiple times in the last fifteen years that I’ve looked at my son and thought he might actually be the spawn of Satan—but coming from a stranger? That’s not going to fly with me.

I hold up my hands in silent warning. “Listen, it’s great to, uh, meet you, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Unless you’re a parent to one of my players or a journalist looking to write an article about the team, you can’t stay—”

“Oh, but Iama journalist!” Before I have the chance to turn away, or even process what’s happening, a flash goes off in my face. “See? Totally a journalist.” Another bright flash that causes little black dots to dance in my vision. “I read all about you in thatNESAarticle—the one Deegan Homer wrote? After that, I just knew I had to come and talk to the Wildcats myself. Anyway, I’d love to do a quick interview with Dominic DaSilva. Is he around?”

The man tries to sidestep me.

Not on my watch.

In my sneakers, I’m as tall as he is, something I use to my advantage when I head him off and stand in his way. “You can’t go down there.”

That jovial grin on his face slowly goes flat. “It’s public property. Sure I can.”

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