Page 54 of Bae

Did I think all her effort to be close to my wife was for that reason? No. But it sure as hell didn’t hurt.

When Rimmel miscarried, I was nervous, even suspicious Mom might back away from her like she had the first time they’d been close. She didn’t. If anything, she seemed more determined to make their relationship right.

Maybe Rimmel accepting the invite to sit in the box was her way of taking the extended olive branch.

“All right, listen up, meatheads!” the coach roared, and everyone went silent.

All thoughts of Rimmel and my mother went away as I focused on the game.

The team rushed the field, the crowd went nuts, and the game got underway. A few times, I glanced up at the box I knew my parents sat in, even though I couldn’t see through the glass.

I hoped the press wasn’t too vicious when they entered the stadium. I hoped Rim was having a good time.

I played hard, wanting to impress the fans and make our first home game this season pretty epic. It also helped my mojo that my wife was so close. I’d forgotten how much it meant to me when she was at my games, what kind of mental high-five it was knowing she was close, and the reward at the end of a go-hard game was a rubdown from Rim.

Braeden was on fire tonight. Hell, the whole team was. We started kicking ass right out of the gate and hadn’t stopped when halftime rolled around.

I thought briefly of rushing up to the box to claim a kiss but knew I’d get mobbed and it would turn into a circus.

Back in the locker room, spirits were high, the coach was fucking thrilled, and the team didn’t have to endure a lecture about our pansy asses sucking.

Coach and his assistants disappeared into his office to analyze the first half and make adjustments where needed, and the team got a much-needed piece of downtime.

A few of the guys actually headed for the showers. We had one player we dubbed Dirt because, ironically, the dude hated to get dirty. He showered every halftime. He always said a clean body was more efficient.

Dude had issues.

“Don’t forget your body wash, Dirt!” B yelled, and I laughed.

I grabbed a Gatorade out of the fridge and then tossed one to B before uncapping it and swallow some. Next, I pulled off my jersey and equipment from the waist up. It felt good to breathe a little.

Braeden was already sitting by our lockers with his feet up, so I palmed my phone and joined him. I tuned out the loud players around me and Dirt singing at the top of his lungs in the shower (Seriously. That dude shouldnotsing Brittney in the shower. Just wrong.) and checked my phone.

So proud of you!Rimmel texted.Killin’ it out there!

I smiled as my fingers flew over the screen.2 quarters left. Then you’re all mine.

I tossed my phone in my lap and leaned my head against the cold metal of the lockers.

B stared down at his phone, shaking his head. I smacked his arm. “What?”

He glanced up, his mouth in a thin line. “Nothing,” he muttered and tossed the phone onto his legs.

“You see that shit Drumbo pulled out on the field?” he said about a player on the opposing team. “That dude is asking to meet my fist.”

“That guy ain’t even worth your time,” I said, acting like I was totally distracted by his talk. “He’s such a douche. I give him four games before he’s out with an injury the rest of the season.”

Braeden made a rude sound. “Ass munch.”

I laughed but reached out and snagged the phone off his lap. He dove sideways to yank it back, but he missed. “Gotta be quicker than that,” I said and lit up the screen.

A couple screens were pulled up, one of them being coverage of the game. Sometimes we checked the sports channels to see what they were saying about us or even the opposing team. Every once in a while, we got lucky and pulled some info that we used to our advantage on the field.

Only today’s coverage was less about the actual game and more about who was in attendance. Rimmel was in the house, and everyone damn sure knew it.

I seriously would never understand why the press was so freaking fascinated by my wife. She was mine. Everyone else needed to mind their own damn business.

Ass munches.

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