Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Bristol
Realizing I have feelings, real feelings, for Anson isn’t the only hit my heart takes tonight.
In the middle of the third quarter, Ford takes a brutal hit on the field from a kid who drives him into the turf.
He doesn’t get up right away. His limp body stays still on the field, and my heart starts thudding in my chest to the beat of the clock. Every second feels like an hour.
The kids take a knee. The coach and the trainers head out onto the field when they’re summoned by the ref. I’m up out of my seat and headed for the field before Anson grabs me by the wrist.
“Wait,” he urges me, but his eyes are on the field. Locked there and waiting on his son to get up. It takes a couple of minutes, far too long for my nerves, but he does finally get up and walk off the field with help from the trainers.
He looks woozy though. Like he’s not sure of his footing, and he wavers as he walks, holding on tight to the trainer on his right while the one on his left helps get him to the bench.
The butterflies in my stomach are replaced by the dull buzz of anxiety as I watch them go through concussion protocol.
“Can we go down now?” I ask Anson, putting my hand on his forearm because I need something to steady myself. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Ford. I can’t even think about what it would do to Anson.
“No. Not unless they take him back to one of the training rooms. They’ll let us know,” Anson answers me, reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, squeezing.
I can feel Marlowe’s eyes drift from the field to the two of us, but I don’t care if she can tell there’s more between us right now.
Or if anyone else on these bleachers can.
All I care about is Ford being okay and Anson knowing I’m here for him if he needs me.
Not that he ever does. Another glance in his direction, and I can see his usual calm, stoic demeanor.
Even the small knit of worry between his brows is relaxing now that he sees the trainers taking care of him.
“I hate seeing them get hit,” Marlowe interjects, trying to show support for us.
“Me too.” I nod.
“That’s football.” Anson shrugs. “I think he’s already a little bit more with it.” He nods toward the more coherent way Ford seems to be talking to the trainers as they check him. “Maybe just a little banged up. Hopefully it wasn’t a concussion.”
“And if it is?” Marlowe asks the same question I’m thinking.
“He’ll be out a few games. He’ll have to take it easy, and I’ll probably have to keep a closer eye on him. Gonna have one hell of a headache.”
“Did you have one back when you played?” I ask because once upon a time, a long time ago, Anson played football and Fannie cheered him on from the sidelines, pom-poms and all. I remember seeing the two of them flirting after the game, the perfect couple even then.
“I had one my senior year. It was pretty miserable…” Anson’s words fade out as we watch the trainers start to lead Ford off the field. Now that he’s up on his feet again, he still doesn’t seem quite right.
“Now?” I ask, risking a glance in Anson’s direction.
“We can see. They’ll beat us to the door, but they might let us in.”
“Can you watch my blanket and stuff?” I look at Marlowe. I don’t want to have to worry about gathering it all up right now when I just want to get to Ford.
“Of course.” Marlowe nods.
When we get to the training room doors, they wave Anson and me in.
“We suspect he has a concussion. We’re trying to ascertain if there’s anything else we should be worried about.”
“Like?” I ask before Anson can.
“Are you Ford’s mother?”
“His aunt.”
“We generally only allow immediate family back here for player privacy.” The trainer’s eyes dart to Anson’s for permission.
“She’s the closest thing he’s got to a mother.
” Anson’s tone brooks no argument, and I feel my chest tighten at the way he describes me.
It’s technically true. I fill some part of the shoes Fannie left behind.
Certainly not all of them. But I never knew Anson thought of me that way, and I’m not sure if I deserve it.
“All right.” The trainer nods. He launches into an explanation of the tests they’re running, and Anson asks questions about the potential outcomes for Ford.
Anything from us needing to get him to an ER immediately in case of a potential brain bleed, which they don’t think is likely, to just having to keep an eye on him for any additional symptoms. Seeing as he failed the initial exam, they think it’s likely he has at least a mild concussion.
“How long will he be out for?” Anson asks.
“Depends on how he progresses. We’ll keep evaluating as time goes on to assess how he’s progressing through recovery. It varies depending on the severity of the concussion and how fast the player’s body can heal. Ballpark, a few days to a few weeks.”
By the time we leave, Ford’s been sent home with instructions to avoid screens, a thing that will be a massive struggle for him, given how much he loves texting and video games, and to take it easy at home.
No major exercise for a week or until he’s cleared for more activity.
They recommended he see his regular doctor and gave Anson the name of a concussion specialist in Colorado Springs in the event he needs it.
Ford and Anson get into Anson’s truck, and I agree to meet them back at their house as soon as I gather up my things.
We drove separately to the game as we always do.
I’m still too cautious about not starting local gossip to risk more, but right now, I hate that I’m not with them.
I want to be there when Ford gets home and be able to get him anything he needs.
“How is he?” Marlowe asks as she meets me in the parking lot to give me my things.
“He’s all right, but it sounds like he has a mild concussion. I’m going to head over there to check on them. I just want to be sure he has anything he needs. Get him set for bed. I want to see for myself that he’s really okay. You know?” I start to tear up, surprising even myself when I do it.
“Hey! Hey. Hey,” Marlowe murmurs softly as she leans in to hug me. “It’s gonna be okay. Ford’s gonna be all right. You know kids. They’re made of rubber. He’ll bounce right back and be back to normal in no time.”
“I know. It was just seeing him out there on that field. And then the trainer thought I was his mother, and I hate that when he goes through this stuff, he doesn’t have her. He should have her, you know?”
“I know.” Marlowe nods. “But he’s got you, and you love him so much, Bristol. He knows that.”
“I hope so.” I sniffle and try to recompose myself. “All right. I should get over there before I turn into a giant blubbering mess.
“You okay to drive? I could take you over to Anson’s.”
“No, I’m fine.”
It’s a lie. Not that I realize it. But on the way to Anson’s, I can’t shake the sadness I feel for Ford or stop thinking about all the ways I’m inadequate to be a mother figure to him.
I also can’t help but think of Fannie and what she would say if she were here now.
Watching me try to fill her shoes, taking care of Ford and her spot in Anson’s bed. Guilt washes over me.
It’s still there after we get Ford tucked in for the night, reminding him at least three times that he can call me if he needs anything. I want to stay over, but I can feel the tension rolling off Anson, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s having the same thoughts—the same guilt—that I am.
I finish making some snacks for Ford and getting breakfast ready for both of them for the morning, so they have one less thing to worry about. I spot Anson standing in the back sunroom staring out over the dark yard. I grab a couple of beers and wander out after him.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“More or less.” Anson takes the beer I offer, swigs it, and thanks me before he leans against the doorframe. “Just thinking about everything.”
“Me too.” I nod, leaning back against the wall and wondering how we got here. “I’m wondering if maybe we should slow things down.” I want to be the first one to suggest it so he doesn’t have to. After everything with Ford, I don’t want him to feel like he has to take on this too.
Anson doesn’t answer me. He’s silent as a still night in the forest. Unmoving. At least for a long minute that feels like an eternity.
“Why?”
“Tonight just reminded me of what things should have been like. You, Fannie, Ford. I think about what she would say. How Ford might feel if he knew we were anything other than friends.”
“What is it you think Fannie would say?”
“Nothing good. I loved my sister, but she wasn’t easy. Our relationship wasn’t always easy, you know?”
“I know you two fought quite a bit.”
“I hated living in her shadow. I wanted to be more and less like her at the same time. I thought maybe if I were more like her, my mom would like me a little better. The two of them are so much alike. She hated it when I tried to be like her growing up. But when I tried to be my own person our mother always asked why I couldn’t be more like her.
” I take a deep breath and another draw off my beer before I continue.
I can feel Anson’s eyes on me, studying every move I make.
“If she knew I was running a secret sex toy shop and fucking her husband… I imagine she’d have a lot of words for me. None of them good.”
“I’m not her husband anymore.” Anson’s tone is clipped.
“I know that, but if she hadn’t died, you would be. We’re only in this position because she’s gone, and I feel like I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me.”
“I wouldn’t be her husband today even if she hadn’t died. And you can’t take something from someone that doesn’t belong to them. I don’t belong to anyone, and neither does Ford. He wants you in his life, and so do I.”
“What do you mean you wouldn’t be her husband? How can you say that?” I’m shocked he’s so callous talking about her.