Chapter 27 #2
I shake my head, glancing over my shoulder and gritting my teeth to keep from calling the bastard out.
Kyle looks back, his eyes hard as he mouths his son’s name and points Killian’s way. Like I need a fucking reminder.
We’ve only got a few minutes left in the fourth, but they seem to take forever.
The rest of the parents seem to unanimously decide that the best way to deal with Kyle is to drown him out, and they cheer loudly and encouragingly for every single action on the field.
I do the same, making sure that the boys only hear positive feedback about their gameplay.
But I can still hear that nasally voice cutting through the air, the current of his ugliness undermining the experience we’re trying to give these kids. When the scorekeeper blows her whistle, signaling the end of the game, we lose by six. So close but yet so far.
We do the line-up of high-fives between the teams and shake the other coach’s hand.
Lastly, the referee comes over. “Coach Meyers?” The boy can’t be more than sixteen, but he refereed the game fairly, cleanly.
Allyson turns to offer him a handshake too, but he hands her a piece of paper.
“I’m sorry to have to do this, Coach, but I’m required to review the league’s rules with you as a complaint was lodged. ”
He goes on to say that a parent from the Bulldogs complained about one of our spectators not following the positive-only rule.
I’m not surprised, and the boys do deserve that type of support.
I just wish there’d been a way for me to get fucking Kyle off the sideline from the start of the game.
But my way of handling it would’ve resulted in someone calling the cops.
I inhale deeply, blinking slowly as I listen to the kid. I’m trying my damnedest to not be intimidating, curling my shoulders in and hunching down to listen. He’s just doing his job and is honestly doing it very well. He’s a damn fine referee who made some tough calls today.
When he’s done with his spiel, I offer a hand. “Good job, man. Reffing is a hard gig and you did great today. You a player yourself?” I scan his body, used to sizing up opponents. “Wide receiver?”
“Yes, sir.” He nods, still shaking my hand.
“Max Womack. It’s an honor to meet you, Brutal.
I mean, Mr. Tannen.” I laugh at how the kid went from all self-assured confidence to bumbling over his own tongue.
“Uh, if it’s not too much trouble, would you sign a ball for me?
Well, actually, it’s for my coach at school. Maybe you know him? Coach Wilson?”
“Coach Wilson is still at the high school?” I ask in shock. “What’s he, like seventy now?” I take the ball and marker he hands me.
“Oh, if you don’t mind, can you sign it Brutal Tannen? You’re kind of a legend, an inspiration to us guys, I guess.” I chuckle. I’m nothing special, just a guy who used to be good at being an immovable force. My talent? Being a wall, I think wryly.
I hand the ball back, and he blows on the drying ink, saying between breaths, “It’s not the same Coach Wilson. It’s his son. Father-son legacy thing, you know?”
“Wow. I didn’t know that. Pretty cool, though. Maybe I’ll come by a game and watch you play, catch up with Coach.”
The kid looks like I offered him a winning lottery ticket.
The quick exchange ends abruptly when Kyle interrupts the conversation, pulling on my bicep to turn me around.
“What the fuck, Brutal? Killian barely got any ball time. That’s why we fucking lost.” He points back at the bench where the boys have stopped eating their post-game snack of Mama Louise’s zucchini bread and are instead watching with dropped jaws as Kyle curses loudly.
I reverse my posture from the unintimidating curve I adopted to not scare the ref, broadening my shoulders and bowing my chest out. “Mr. Bloomdale,” I say quietly, my voice more of a harsh hiss than anything else.
To his credit, the referee steps forward, obviously quoting from the referee handbook.
“Sir, as the referee for this game, I have to ask you to refrain from using vulgar language and also to lower your voice. As I was just explaining to Coach Meyers, a complaint was filed against the Wildcats because of your behavior. Further actions that go against the code of conduct will resort in a game suspension for the entire team. Also, spectators are not allowed on the field so I will have to ask you to step back.”
Ballsy kid. I like him already, but I don’t want him getting hurt. I turn, blocking the kid and putting myself in the line of fire. I’m who he wants, anyway.
“Kyle.”
His eyes are slow to leave Max, Kyle’s head turning before his eyes follow, but when he locks on me, they narrow. “Killian played. Everyone played. It was a good game, but you need to shut the fuck up.”
I never said I was good with words. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve loudly and somewhat proudly said that I suck with words. But I’m trying. I don’t want to punch this asshole out in front of his kid, but the jump to fists over words is habitual.
The threat of impending violence must be coming through loud and clear, though, because Allyson bravely steps forward, thwarting the staredown Kyle and I are locked in.
For my part, I’m clear-eyed and thoughtful.
He’s red-eyed and blustery, smelling like cheap whiskey and trying to play tough.
I don’t need to play at it. I can simply send him to the hospital without flinching.
“Mr. Bloomdale, please calm down.” Allyson holds up a hand, palm toward Kyle, imploring him. In the history of histories, I don’t think anyone has ever calmed down from being told to do so and today is not an exception to that rule. “There are children watching.”
I can hear her reaching into her professional bag of tricks again, but Kyle’s not having it.
Somewhere in his brain, a switch is flipped and he turns redder.
His voice gets louder and his arm movements more erratic.
“Stop telling me to calm down! You did my son wrong and I won’t stand for it.
Killian’s the best fucking football player you’ve got, and if you can’t see that, then fuck you.
” He points at Max first, then me. “And fuck you.” Before sticking his finger in Allyson’s face. “And fuck you, bitch.”
It happens so quickly and subtly, but her facade crumbles and she flinches as Kyle’s finger gets too close. Her eyes slip shut and she turns away from his touch, like she’s preparing . . .
Red. I see actual, literal red in my vision.
Allyson said Jeremy didn’t treat her ‘nice’, but I see it now.
See the instinctive reflex to protect herself in Allyson’s movements.
My heart breaks at the same time hot fury rushes through me, bitter and acidic, making me want to rage that someone could treat anyone that way.
But most of all, disbelieving that anyone would treat her that way.
My Allyson is special, a sweet angel who deserves the best of everything life can offer.
This is what she’s holding back, the shadows that haunted her and weighed her down, making her question her own judgement and not trust anyone. I know it as sure as I know that I love her and she loves me.
But I can’t deal with it right now. I have to protect her from the actual threat right in front of us, not the one that lurks in her past.
“Get the fuck away from her,” I boom, stepping between Allyson and Kyle and slapping his hand out of the air. Yeah, I’m cussing in front of the kids too because they definitely heard that, but I can’t even care. Not when it’s Allyson at risk.
“You need to leave, go home or wherever the hell it is you hide. Rethink how you’re treating people with a sober head because you’re a loser and Killian deserves better. Thank God for his grandparents.”
I chance the quickest glance across the field to see them standing halfway across the field. It looks like they tried walking over but had to stop. Mr. Bloomdale is helping prop Mrs. Bloomdale up and she’s crying softly.
The split-second look away is a mistake on my part, a poor judgement when I’m known for being observant and aware. Kyle takes advantage of my quick distraction, throwing a messy right hook my way.
Instinctively, I duck and throw up a block.
He’s untrained and drunk, which make him unpredictable and sloppy, and as his right arm moves away from me, he tries to come back with a left hook.
It’s a wide swing, wild and uncontrolled, and instead of hitting the intended target of my jaw, it connects with Allyson’s cheek.
I see it happen in slow-motion, hear her cry of surprised shock and pain, and even feel her bump into me from the force of the hit.
My fist connects with Kyle’s gut before I even think to do it, the reflexive movement primal and instinctual.
He grunts, grinning like a fucking maniac, like we’re goofing off as he flails back, his punches bouncing off my arms like raindrops.
I follow up the first gut shot with one to his jaw, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
The crazy drunk fuck is somehow still conscious, laughing maniacally. “Good one, Brutal.” He seems okay. Alcohol can do that to you, dull the pain enough that you think everything’s fine until the buzz wears off and you feel the damage.
I spin to check on Allyson, scared to see the damage Kyle’s punch did to her. She’s soft and sober, and I’m afraid the violence will have done more than fuck up her face.
But she’s not behind me. Max, the kid’s eyes wide with shock, holds up his hands like I’m about to punch him too.
“Al?” I grunt.
Max points, and I follow the direction he’s indicating. Allyson is full-on sprinting across the field toward the boys. I have a moment of hope that her Mama Bear instincts are kicked in and she’s just protecting the team from the ugliness. “Allyson?” I call.