Page 16 of How to Prevent a Fumble

“Easy there, you’re going to break your crayons,” I tell her gently.

Leo has been gearing up for training camp, which means meeting with his trainer a little more so he’s not totally in pain when he gets there, going on his pre-season diet, and going to meetings.

Like many teams, the Cobras practice at a college a couple of hours away. Some players have rooms in the dorms where they crash, but some players opt for a nearby hotel, like Leo. They don’t spend a whole lot of time in there. They don’t really come home until the end, when they practically get right into pre-season games.

His first year in the league, my brother told me he’s never in his life wanted to quit something as badly as he wanted to quit when at training camp. It’s early mornings followed by weight lifting and hours of multiple practices, some in just their helmets and some in their full pads.

They’re hurting, they’re sweaty, and they’re moody. They go back to their rooms exhausted and have to get up at five in the morning to be there at six the next day. And it goes on for weeks. I don’t fault him for wanting to quit.

There’s a reason not everyone makes it into the NFL. It’s not for the weak.

Me? I can admit I’m a weak little bitch compared to those guys. I’ll sit in my comfy seat my baby brother paid for at the stadium, enjoying the heat during the winter.

Thirty minutes later, dinner is served for Elara and I, the rest waiting in the fridge for Leo. We sit at the table to the right of the kitchen, talking about her day. Soon she’s going to be starting school, and I’m going to have to figure out childcare. When I was unemployed I could very well drive her to school and back every day, but there’s no way with Leo’s schedule I’ll be able to do that every day, and I don’t want to leave it to chance that Tony doesn’t realize this and take advantage of it.

“Are you looking forward to school?” I ask her, propping my foot on the chair. I rest my chin on it, bringing my arms around my shin.

“I guess so,” she shrugs, her cheeks full of pasta. Her fine blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a bun. The amount of times she’s gotten an entire plate of pasta sauce in her hair is something to be studied.

“It’s going to be great, I promise,” I assure her.

The sound of the front door unlocking has us turning our heads. “Mr. Leo’s home!” Elara exclaims, and before I can stop her, she’s out of her seat, rushing for the fridge. Whipping it open, she reaches for the plate of food in the middle of the fridge, yanking it out.

The second Leo’s tired face enters the room, he has a plate of cold food thrust into his face.

And I freeze.

This is where Tony would freak out. Where he’d scoff.

Where he’d yell profanities, knocking it out of my hands.

Leo is tired. He’s had a rough week and just the thought of what the coming week is going to be like has him ready to keel over already.

And yet all he does is smile.

A big smile.

One that stretches across his whole entire face, ear to ear.

Throwing the gym bag and backpack perched on one shoulder to the ground, he takes the plate from my daughter. “Thank you!” he tells her, and I’m surprised at how nice it is to hear someone talk to my daughter like a human, and not a small child without a brain. “This looks delicious. You must be a really good chef.”

Elara smiles a toothy grin before looking back at me. “Mymommade it, silly.”

“What?” he feigns shock. “I could have sworn you did.”

“Elara, why don’t you let him settle in and eat the rest of your pasta?” I ask, bringing my other leg up onto the seat of the chair, crossing my ankles.

She huffs for a second, but comes back without argument, plopping onto the plush seat of Leo’s black dining chairs.

Leo places the plate onto the island before lifting his already damp shirt to wipe the glistening sweat from his forehead, and I avert my eyes from his muscles. All of them. If I were to look, I don’t know where I’d start.

I’m just glad he’s not wearing his gray sweatpants he wore a couple days ago. Walking out into the kitchen in the morning was a surprise; one I almost didn’t recover quick enough from.

Two days ago.

Leo’s kitchen is certainly a lot different than my own, and I don’t think there’s been a batch of eggs I haven’t burned in the days that I’ve been here. It doesn’t help that Leo eats about ten eggs every morning, at a minimum. Ten eggs take a whole lot longer to cook, that’s for sure.

“Sometimes smells good,” Leo’s voice calls out from up the stairs before he loudly stumbles down them.

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