Page 14 of Tight End

She gives me a look, one that clearly says I’m full of shit, and points her cane in my direction. I immediately take a step toward her as she wobbles on her feet, but her look morphs into irritation. “Don’t you dare. Just because I need this cane doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself. My legs are just tired, not useless.”

“Mom.”

“I’m perfectly fine. You’ve done enough for me over the years. Now come on. I didn’t get up to watch you stand on the porch all night.”

Without waiting for a response, she turns and leads the way to the kitchen. Her steps are slow, and the cane tells me she’s feeling more fatigue in her legs than usual. I can only hope this is a small flare-up with her MS and not something that’s going to turn into a longer-lasting episode.

Unfortunately, with relapsing-remitting MS, symptoms can worsen for days or months before getting better. Between her avid cycling and the personal trainer I’ve hired for her, she stays active most days, and so far we’ve managed to hold off progression of the disease. Doesn’t keep me from worrying, though.

MS is scary and can quickly take a bad turn, one that she may not recover from.

And here I am worrying about how I’m going to balance football with being a dad. My problems are trivial compared to the shit she’s facing, and here I am burdening her even more.

I should go. I really should.

“Sit down, Ryan.”

Almost immediately I’m ass in chair. I know better than to protest when she uses her mom tone. I spent a lot of my teenage years finding out exactly what happened when I crossed her, and it was never in my favor. While she may not be able to take away my phone or ground me for weeks at a time, she can still be disappointed, and we all know that’s so much worse.

She slides two pieces of her homemade brownie pie, each with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream, across the island and takes a seat next to me. Her cane splits the distance between us, and I can’t help but stare at it for several seconds.

“How bad is it today?” I shove a large bite of pie in my mouth and can’t help the loud moan it elicits. I’m not sure what she puts in this thing, but it’s hands-down the best pie I’ve ever had. She says it’s love, but I’m pretty sure the correct answer is drugs.

She takes a bite of her own, letting the silence build between us. Luke Combs’s “Hurricane” plays on the radio. The volume is low, but I can still make out every word, andthey resonate deep in my chest. My whole world is about to change, and I’m powerless to stop it.

“My right leg is a little weak today, but nothing compared to a real bad day. I know you worry about me, but I’m fine.” She turns my way, raising a brow, and points her fork right at me. “What’s bothering you? And don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing. I may be old, but I’m not stupid. We just had dinner last night. You came here for a reason, and I don’t think it was for another piece of pie.”

With a nod, I sigh, sinking down in my chair. I should’ve planned a speech or something. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. “I, uh ... I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

She places a gentle hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“I, uh ... there’s a good chance I have a son.”

Her gasp is sharp, her gaze questioning. She doesn’t say anything, at least not at first. My words hang heavy around us, and I’m sure it’s as much of a shock to her as it was to me. She takes her time, letting it sink in, letting it process. Or at least I’m assuming.

Hell, I’m not sure I’ve fully processed yet.I have a son.

Mom clears her throat, opens her mouth, but swiftly closes it. She stares at me, blinking a few times before she takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “I’m going to need you to explain.”

I huff a laugh, running my fingers through my hair and gripping the back of my neck. “Well, you see, when a man and a woman?—”

“Don’t you dare give me the birds-and-the-bees talk, Ryan Alexander Devlin. You better start talking and make it fast.”

“No judgment?”

“No guarantee.”

I give her another nod, clasping my hands together on top of the cool granite. “There was a girl, her name is June, and we met about four years ago. We were at a bar and, you know, one thing led to another.”

She holds up a hand. “I don’t need those kinds of details.”

“Well, I hadn’t seen her since and ran into her outside the stadium today, and she was carrying a three-year-old boy. You should have seen him, Mom. He looks just like me as a toddler.”

“How can you be sure he’s yours? No offense, but if she was sniffing outside the stadium, he could belong to anyone. And why didn’t she reach out to you before? Why now? Why not when she found out she was pregnant?”

“Well ... I ...” Heat crawls up my neck and I tug at my collar. “She might have had no idea who I was and had no way of contacting me. She wasn’t at the stadium looking for me; she was there to deliver Brooks’s divorce papers. She was as surprised to see me as I was her.”

She clucks her tongue, pursing her lips while she assesses me. “You slept with her but didn’t think she should know your name? Good Lord Almighty, Ryan. I thought I raised you better than that.”

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