Page 78 of Her Redeemed Protector

“Well, you always said you wanted more adventure,” I banter.

“I’m half-expecting to spend my days playing tug-of-war with a yak who’s got a mind to test my ranching skills. Those critters can be as stubborn as a mule on a cold morning.”

I can’t help but laugh, imagining Savannah with her rancher’s grit.

She adds, “I won’t have to worry about you getting distracted with someone else?”

“I’ll only cheat on you with you, if that’s even possible,” I insist.

“You have my blessing! I’ll be imagining what you’ll be up to.” Her tone becomes seductive again, perhaps envisioning me pleasuring myself while thinking of her.

Then I hear Al calling her in the background.

“I’ve got to go,” she says.

“Go kick some yak butt, okay? And show those cowboys how it’s done!”

“Will do, Hux. Will do.” Her laughter rings out, clear and bright, and stays with me even after we hang up.

Sitting in silence for a moment, I gather my thoughts and log into my game console, spotting ‘RodeoRod’ already buzzing in our usual lobby. I dial his number, hoping to make our play session as lively as the ones before. “Hey champ, ready to play? What’s it gonna be tonight?”

“Overwatch or Rocket League?” Rodolfo’s voice pipes through, brimming with an eagerness that almost masks his newfound slice of maturity. His mother had taught him English since he was a young toddler, but now his skills have improved leaps and bounds, thanks to the private tuition he’s been enjoying.

“Your call, buddy,” I say, giving him the reins.

“Rocket League,” he responds. “And just so you know, I’m totally going to kick your ass today!”

His English is good for kids his age, though his grammar falters occasionally—understandably so. But the words he just said sounded like a rehearsed line. His tone is cheeky, and I can almost see the grin spreading across his face through the phone.

“Rodolfo!” I hide my laugh, but I need to nudge him about the language. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“Secret.”

I sigh. “Let’s try to keep it friendly, okay? No need for ass-kicking talk.”

He giggles. “You’re my friend, right? Friends can say anything to each other!”

“Yes, but remember, being friends also means respecting each other, and there are better words to choose,” I remind him.

“But you’re not my dad. I can still beat you in the game and say whatever I want!” His tone shifts, a touch of defiance threading through.

The change catches me off-guard. “Sure, you can beat me in the game,” I agree, trying to steer back to safer waters. “But part of being a good friend and a good gamer is about having fun, not just winning, right?”

We dive into the game, and for a while, everything just clicks like old times. Laughing, joking, celebrating ridiculous goals, and even more ridiculous misses. But then, as the game heats up, so does Rodolfo’s intensity.

“Take that, sucker!” he taunts.

“Whoa. Easy, tiger.” I’m not sure if the boy understands what I mean, but he should pick up on my tone, warning him to rein in his intimidation. I clarify, “That’s not a nice word. You’re doing great, but remember?—”

“You are not fun anymore!” He cuts me off. “You always want to teach me lessons. You are not my dad. You cannot tell me what to do!”

His words hit like a freight train, stopping me cold. “Rodolfo, I’m here to have a good time with you, but I’m also here to make sure we respect each other. I might not be your dad, but?—”

“You are not my dad! You will never be!” The words are sharp, slicing through the playful facade we’d built up around our games. He sobs, his voice cracking under the weight of emotions far too large for his age, and then silence falls as he hangs up.

Stunned, I sit back, the game console slipping from my hand. Despite the sting of his anger, I detect a deeper longing beneath his outburst. Isn’t it often so with children? They don masks of defiance while, internally, they’re falling apart.

Had Valentina, perhaps without meaning to, suggested to Rodolfo that I might step into the role of a father? Or had he, driven by his own longing for a steady paternal figure, constructed that expectation himself, fueled by my presence and his need for stability?

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