Page 5 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Gabriel, kids aren’t as fragile as you think.”

“How would I know?” I slump farther into the cushions and drop my head back.

“Brother, you’re going to figure it out. You’ve kept him alive, and if the food on both your shirts is any indication, you’re feeding him.”

“Thanks.” I close my eyes and sigh. I don’t have enough energy to laugh at his attempt at a joke.

These last ten weeks have been hell. I broke my knee during the last pre-season game on the first play. My wife just flew in from Florida and dropped our kid off, and then returned to her non-injured lover. The one she’d apparently started hooking up with when I was traded to Kansas City. She had said it would be better if our son stayed with her while we sold the house.

The house never sold, and I’ve barely seen either of them in close to two years. Every time I had a break, she had something planned and couldn’t fly in, or Gino was sick, and she didn’t want me to get his germs and miss a game. Yeah, I was stupid and fell for it. Or maybe I was relieved when I didn’t have to see her. But now, I don’t know my own kid and suck at being a dad.

“I’m sorry Sloane left you.”

I open one eye and smile. “No, you’re not.”

“Fine.” He laughs as Gino chases Angelo around the table. One of them is going to fall and bust their chins. If I had any energy left, I’d tell them to stop but I can’t get the words out of my mouth.

Marco says, “She was a snake in the grass who got knocked up by a player to ensure her life was easy.”

“Why didn’t you say that at the time?”

He shrugs. “Angelo, why don’t you grab your toolbox from my bag so you and Gino can fix the table.”

Fix the table? I close my eyes again. This isn’t going to turn out good, either.

Once Angelo drags the cloth box out of the diaper bag, he opens it and pulls out a fabric screwdriver. Thank God. They shouldn’t get into too much trouble with soft tools. The boys drop to the floor. Distraction. I should do more of that.

“You already knew it, but you were too responsible not to take care of your obligations, so there was no reason to kick you when you were down.”

“Responsible? That’s a joke. My responsibility was to not get drunk and have a condom malfunction, but I failed miserably at that mission.” Mr. Responsible. First to Succeed. Mr. All Work and No Play. I don’t make mistakes. Until I met Sloane.

“For some reason, I don’t believe that.”

“What?” I eye him in confusion.

“Ten to one odds are that she got pregnant on purpose.”

Fuck. He’s right. She’s just that conniving. Gino points at the hammer, showing Angelo how to use it. I might suck at being a parent, but I love the kid. Somehow, I’ve got to figure out how to raise him on my own because Sloane walked away, and I’m going to ensure she stays that way. I’ve already read countless parenting books, and surely one of them has the magic answer inside.

I glance over at the tree. “Is that the illegal tinsel?”

Marco frowns and squints as he studies the silver strands hanging from the fake tree. “No. They make a new type of tinsel now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dude….” He glares. “This place isn’t as backwoods as you think.”

“I wanted to make sure. The closest hospital is like twenty minutes away.”

“It’s not any farther than it would be in the city. The only difference is here, you see trees on your way, and in the city, you deal with bumper-to-bumper traffic.” He leans forward and clasps his hands together. “How was the flight?”

“We got stuck for three hours in Vegas and just got here about thirty minutes ago. When I got to the lodge, some irresponsible maid ran into me and knocked my knee into the luggage cart. It was hurting like a…. It was hurting.” I bend my leg and test my knee for twinges of pain, but nothing happens. “I think it was the scars that got struck.”

“Are you okay?” The worried expression on his face makes me feel like shit. I’m his older brother. The one he’s supposed to look up to, and here I am whining because my wife left me, I’m figuring out how to have a relationship with my son, and I got bumped into by a 120-pound girl.

You collide, for money, with 250-pound men every Sunday. Stop being a pussy.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

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