Chapter 31
Gabe
“You made it!” Evan yells as I walk up to his front door, saving me the embarrassment of not knowing if I should let myself in like I always used to or if I’m back to the knock stage. It’s weird losing and regaining a friend. Sure, I’ve reconnected with people. High school buddies when I returned to Minnesota after college, teammates from Iowa who I met again in the pros. Hell, we even had one guy, Peltham, who was with us on the Colts, got traded to the Packers my second year, and ended up with the Jugs this year.
Evan’s always been right here, a couple blocks down from the intersection I drive through every time I go to Camden Square. I was seeing him six days a week all season. So I don’t know.
It feels like I just saw Shelby yesterday, but it’s been half a year. Crazy how time flies.
Time wouldn’t have flown for her. Six months is a blink of an eye when I’ve got about thirty more years behind me. For Shelby, I’ve missed out on half of her life.
But Evan opens that door for me, hugs me like he hasn’t seen me in a decade, and says, “We’re about to beat the crap out of each other in Mortal Kombat. You want in?”
It’s an easy out. Just drop down on his sofa, take a controller, piss away the afternoon mashing buttons. Ease myself back in and slip away from my thoughts.
But I need to get stuff handled. And in the absence of handling the stuff I truly do need to handle — specifically, Joss and my career — I’m going to get this fixed.
I luck out that Dom and Lin are in the kitchen while Keira, Cadence, and Wren are elsewhere. Seeing the chicken nuggie, mac and cheese, and applesauce explosion Dom’s handling while Lin’s got baby Isaiah and a bottle in one hand, dumping a can of Coke into a pressure cooker with the other, I’m guessing the ladies are dealing with bath time. Dom’s baby, Valeria, and Shelby are about the same age, both born last season, so they’re food bombs.
I turn the oven on and toss my tater tot hot dish in to warm it up, scoop the baby and bottle out of Lin’s arm, and hazard a glance into the cooker to see what sort of dessert Lin’s cooking up.
Chicken wings.
Huh.
“It’s Coca Cola wings,” Lin says defensively even though I haven’t said anything. “They’re huge in China.”
“I love Chinese food,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but that’s not real Chinese food. This is real Chinese food.”
I have to hide my smirk and look him dead in the eye to keep from looking like I’m ridiculing the ancient Chinese secret of . . . Coke. Some of the Jugs can be dicks to Lin. And they will absolutely go for low-hanging fruit like Lin’s rice-heavy diet.
Merrick eats at least a cup of rice a day, usually with dry chicken and a steamed vegetable. It doesn’t make any sense to criticize Lin when his fried rice is life-changing. My friends are dicks.
“I like real Chinese food, too. Really, I just wanted this baby.”
He is a fucking chunk of a baby, too. Fat rolls for days. Looks like he’d fight me if I took the bottle away, and he’d probably shriek loudly enough he’d win. I want to gobble him up.
That has Dom, Lin, and Evan exchanging nods like they’re on to me. I roll my eyes. “Pfft, you knew this was happening. Don’t act like you didn’t. Come on, Isaiah, you’re mine now.” Before the guys have the chance to razz me, I steal Isaiah off down the hall, following the sounds of squealing toddlers.
As predicted, bath time is in full swing in Evan and Keira’s master bath, where they’ve half-filled the garden tub and thrown a mountain of toys in for Shelby and Valeria to splash around in. I hesitate in the doorway, watching Keira, Cadence, and Wren as they crowd around the tub, entertaining the kids while they scrub them. Maybe I shouldn’t have come down here. I don’t want Shelby to not recognize me. If I went straight from the kitchen to Mortal Kombat, Shelby would have eventually figured out who I was in her own time. That sounds way better.
I’m seriously considering backing out and wandering through the quieter hallways, using Isaiah as an excuse, when Shelby suddenly sees me and lunges for the wall of the tub to climb out. “Un Kay Kay!” she shrieks. “Un Kay Kay!”
Keira doesn’t bother to fight her. She dumps one last cup of water on Shelby’s head to rinse out any lingering wash and scoops the wriggling toddler up into a big towel.
“Is she talking now? What’s she saying?” I ask as Wren plucks Isaiah out of my arms and sets to work burping him.
I could have done that, but fine.
“She’s not saying a lot yet, but she’s already mastered no and dada,” Keira says with a self-deprecating shrug.
Cadence scoffs while she works ketchup out of Valeria’s white blonde hair. “She likes the tongue sounds better than the lip sounds. At least for now you can just chuck her at Evan.”
Valeria, meanwhile, is emitting a steady stream of, “Mamamamamamamama.”
It’s so fucking cute. I bet Dom happily answers to that. Valeria’s technically his step-daughter, but you’d never know it other than the fact that that she looks nothing like him or his other two kids.
“Well, now she’s saying Uncle Gabe more than mama.”
“That’s what Un Kay Kay means?” I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry, but jeez. I was bracing myself for rejection all day, not for getting a new awesome name.
“We’ve been trying for something closer to Gabe all day, but you take what you can get.” Keira attempts to sit Shelby on the counter to brush her hair, but Shelby isn’t having any of it and starts practicing that no that yeah, she’s doing a really good job of.
I pick her up, and she throws her arms around my neck, no doubt trying to strangle me as well as any 16-month-old can. “I missed you, Shel-baby.” I feel guilty about being gone the last few months, but I don’t have any room to regret it. I can’t regret anything I’ve done. The best I can do is make amends, and I do that by showing up.
“We missed you, too,” Keira says, and I can tell she means the whole family. She lowers her voice. “I’ve apologized to Joss. And I meant it. It wasn’t to fix you and me. It was to fix me and her. I . . . Gabe, I had no idea that she lost her baby, and I—”
“Are you talking about Aiden James? Because it doesn’t matter whether she lost him or not. She was destroyed by what her husband did. She was destroyed by Wilmington. And you were a b—” I choose to cut myself off, same as I cut her off. I can’t let myself get worked up. If Keira’s making friends with Joss, I shouldn’t get in the way of it. Not as long as Joss wants it.
My silence gives Keira the opportunity to say, “No, you’re right. It doesn’t matter. It was just what I needed for it to click that she was a victim, too, and I should have been supporting her. I really like her. You need to fix this.”
“I am, but baby steps.”
Except I’m not a baby stepper. I wear size 14 sneakers. I don’t know how to do anything small. So once Shelby and I are settled on the sofa, I fire off a quick text to Joss.
Gabe
keira said she talked to you. are you ok w that?
Joss
Why are you asking?
Gabe
just checking. don’t want you uncomfortable if you don’t want her around but you don’t want to be rude to her
Joss
I can tell her off myself if I want to. I’m a big girl.
And prickly, I see. I’m going to ask these questions and offer to fight these battles for her, but she is an adult. She’s not afraid to go for what she wants. She’s just creative about it.
There’s a whole chain of texts here showing her creativity. Like the day she needed boxes brought down from the attic, but then she pulled my pants down when I reached up to the attic pull. Or the time I was tying up some cords in her studio and she bent over a table to get something, only to hike up her skirt and show off her lack of panties.
The biggest struggle is making sure I leave before she kicks me out. She’s made it clear this is all she wants from me for now, and that hurts, but I think it would hurt worse if I gave her the opportunity to kick me out every time.
I’m starting to think she’s copping extra attitude in her texts to prove something to herself. She knows I’m going to win, but she’s refusing to lose gracefully.
Joss
I’m out of milk. Are you coming by today at all?
I question how soon I can leave without offending everyone, but I’m not going to tell her that.
Gabe
Sorry, i’m at evan and keira’s today. you could come over though if you want
Joss
I’m not hanging out with you.
Gabe
ok
Joss
can you bring me milk on the way home?
Gabe
it’s gonna be late. we’re having a potluck. i brought tater tot hotdish. huang is pressure-cooking coca cola wings. you should come over.
Joss
I SAID NO
Joss
Just bring me milk on your way home
Joss
And some of those wings
Gabe
ok but will you actually drink the milk? we can fuck either way, but i don’t want to go to the store if i don’t have to.
Joss
WE’RE NOT FUCKING I JUST NEED MILK OMG
Gabe
::wink::
The one nice thing I can say about spending Super Bowl Sunday on the oversized lounger in the theater of the Jugs House is we never expected to make it to the Super Bowl anyway.
Sure, we thought a miracle was happening as the season went on and our record stayed strong, but it would have been a miracle. Just making the play-offs our second year was impressive. The only expansion team in modern history to have done any better was the Panthers, and only by a single game before losing the Division championship. It was almost a decade before they got to the playoffs again, so we have a lot of time to best them.
Some of the guys have picked sides. They’re watching the game, arguing plays. The usual. Blaise is next to me, nearly upside-down on his lounger, with a plate of Super Bowl snacks — except it’s literally just Vienna sausages for god knows what reason — on his stomach. One leg is kicked up over the back, the other over an armrest. I’m pretty sure his head started on the other armrest, but it’s since rolled down to the seat and half off. He’s combed his hair out but hasn’t gotten it trimmed yet, and gravity is doing wild things with the shaggy afro. One arm is flopped over his head, his limbs so long his knuckles and phone graze the carpet.
He’s got an earbud in. He’s definitely watching anime.
So I don’t feel guilty about the fact that I’m not even pretending to watch the game anymore. I threw a hundred bucks down on the betting pool. I made chili. My phone dinged to let me know Joss was streaming, and it’s good for her algorithm if I watch, so I let it play while I watched the game.
But then there was a dull stretch and Joss was making this funny raccoon pattern, so I started reading the captions to hear which story she was telling about Jerry. I kicked out the footrest on my lounger and anchored my feet there so I could set the phone in my lap and bury myself under the big quilt she made me for Christmas. I think it’s for my bed, but it’s made its home in my chair.
It was fine, but then she said something about making a sandwich — a quilt sandwich, surely — and it hit me that she’s said that to me recently. I scrolled through my texts, and there it was, three days ago.
Joss
Come make me a sandwich
I have a lot of these texts now.
Every stupid text from her is a flash of what we’ve been doing. I don’t need her to text me for me to think about her, but man, it helps.
I scroll through those messages, having stupid happy thoughts of all the times she’s touched my dick recently even if I ran off immediately after so she couldn’t kick me out. It’s better than watching the game, but everyone’s been on my case about not hanging out enough. Besides, I’m not the only one dicking around on my phone.
Which is why it’s super irritating when I get beaned in the head. If I had doubts about who’s throwing shit at me, it’s clear enough when the slimy little not-hot dog lands in my lap.
“Bruh,” Blaise says, more of an accented breath than an actual word. “Watch the game.”
“You’re not watching the game.”
“New season of Watashi no Chichi no Fakkusu-ki just dropped,” he says like that has any meaning to me. Nothing against anime, but he watches the weird stuff. I’m lucky he doesn’t launch into an explanation of it.
I flick the sausage back his way before yawning and pulling my blanket up to my neck. My eyes glaze over the moment they hit Merrick’s full-wall screen. “See, watching the game.”
He eyes me up skeptically. “If you go vanish to your room to whack it, I’ll tell everyone you got so hot and bothered seeing everyone else’s ass in their uniforms that you couldn’t keep your dick down.”
I slowly pan my head his way. “What the hell sense does that make?”
He shrugs, but he’s still mostly upside-down. It’s hard to translate the gesture. “I gotta look at your fat ass all the time. You owe me this.”
I lean over in my seat to get closer to him, lowering my voice to conspiratorial levels even though the game’s so loud we’ve been talking normal volume and no one’s heard us. “Do you struggle with keeping your dick down when you look at my ass?”
I get another Vienna sausage between the eyes. “Bruh, I’m a fucking pro.”
“Pro at checking out my fat ass.”
Blaise grins at that like he’s actually achieved something, which makes it even stranger to me that the next thing he says is, “You need to get laid.”
“I got laid yesterday.”
“Yeah, but by a real girl.”
“She was a real girl.”
He rolls over, but he’s still thrown all over the chair, so now he’s contorted in a pretzel pose. One leg remains propped up on the back of his chair, but it’s crooked at the knee, the foot dangling dangerously close to his head.
If he kicks himself in the head, I’m here for that.
“Yeah, but not to you. You’re putting too much energy into Joss.”
Crap. I did tell Joss I wasn’t going to mention this to anyone, and Blaise is a blabbermouth. “No, what? I’m not fucking Joss.”
“Yeah, you are. And you’re being a simp about it. She’s using you for that fat ass.”
She does, in fact, like my ass. But that’s not why she calls me over every day for sex. She said it herself: she can go get any guy. I’m not a simp. I’m rebuilding.
“You got something you wanna share with the class?” Merrick says from behind me. He puts his hand on my shoulder like he thinks I’m about to stand up and shouldn’t. I wasn’t going to stand up, but now I’m thinking I should.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Blaise says, which gets Merrick patting my shoulders casually. “She’s streaming right now. Made a whole thing about it like she’s saving women from Super Bowl Sunday. And before you get shitty, Gabe, I have the platinum subscription and I used my real name. I’m not stalking her.”
That still sounds like stalking. And this is feeling weirdly like an intervention, especially when several others casually make their way toward the snack table, conveniently next to me.
These assholes are blocking me in.
I know a fucking play when I see one.
“Listen, dicks, Joss is having my baby, and I love her. We’re going through a bad patch, but we’re getting past it.” Positive affirmations. I don’t know how to fix this. I’m not sure if continuing to do the same thing will get me there, and I’m not sure what else there is. But I haven’t given up yet. My NFL career may be over, but I’m not giving up on everything else. “And we’re going to get married, so you better not say shitty things about her.”
There’s a lot of silent communicating happening around me. I’ve been the one silently communicating enough times to know that Blaise has no idea how to do this. I smirk shamelessly when everyone’s eyes end up on Blaise, who’s either flagging a plane or relaying signals from the baseball coach to the pitcher.
No one moves, but Blaise ultimately nods and says, “Yes, this halftime show does suck and I do think we should go toss a ball around. Great idea, guys.”
The entire party, fourteen Jugs first-stringers, ends up on the front lawn. We tell ourselves this is going to be a gentle football game, hardly anything more than flag football, but come on. We only know one way to play this game.
The Super Bowl Halftime Show must be garbage because several of the neighbors watch from their porches. A couple wander toward us.
We don’t have a balanced team. There are no running backs here, just Merrick. We have our punter, Donnie Thompson, who’s brave enough to take over that role, and then we don’t have any of the defensive back field, just the line, but that makes Merrick happy. “Thank fuck Allore’s doing family shit with Morales,” he jokes, although he’s not laughing. He’s not a laugher.
Allore is batshit on the field. He’s a great safety for it, but the best thing about being on a team with Allore is he’s not on the other team. I’m not sure he wouldn’t accidentally wreck Merrick in the heat of the moment.
The game is simple: we see how long it takes to make a touchdown, the touchdown being the neighbor’s driveway. We figure that’ll be enough shenanigans to get through the halftime show, and it’ll burn off steam. Thompson and the defense — heavy for the first play, not that anyone’s counting — line up in the neighbor’s yard, Kai holds the ball, and Thompson kicks the crap out of it, sending it all the way to our driveway, narrowly missing Bodley’s Camaro.
“Shenanigans!” Blaise yells as he slides his ass right across the hood to retrieve the ball and make a run for it.
Chaos. Blaise doesn’t run balls, and now I’m seeing that this was a strategic move by a coach of eons past who likely didn’t recognize the value of his arm so much as the impossibility of his running. Instead of attempting to gain any yardage whatsoever, he darts in and out between the vehicles, leaving four of the D guys chasing after him as it turns into a game of protect-the-property-value. He gets blocked by Bodley and Thompson — the other Thompson, Rydell — on either side of Vedder’s lifted truck, so he drops down and crawls under it, popping up on the other side. He sprints across the lawns, hitting the neighboring driveway and spiking the ball before breaking into the Chicken Dance.
“Can we fine him for that?” Donnie Thompson asks with a chuckle.
“For what? The idiot didn’t score,” I point out.
“Get your ass back here!” Merrick yells.
From across the lawn, Blaise shouts, “We’re done! I won!”
“You literally had your entire body and the ball on the ground.”
Even at this distance, I can see his grimace. “Right, yeah. I guess Vedder’s truck’s the line of scrimmage.”
“No the fuck it isn’t!” Vedder yells, and we settle for the mailbox a couple feet up from the driveway, just to give us a bit of space to work. The second play goes far more cleanly, with Merrick catching the ball and Rydell herding him into the street, out of bounds, about twenty yards down the lawn.
The next play, Blaise passes it off to Donnie, but Vedder accidentally hits him hard enough he fumbles the ball. It hits the grass, and instincts take over. Everyone scrambles for the ball, and Rydell ultimately comes out of the pile with it.
I pivot to chase after him. Again, instinct. We didn’t think this game through clearly enough to know what will happen if he gets back to the driveway — or worse, if he doesn’t, and then defense is playing offense and we end in some Stranger Things nonsense — but I give chase.
My entire body turns.
Except one foot, snagged on a sprinkler.
Right as Vedder plows into me, a totally friendly hit if my knee wasn’t pivoted the wrong way.
I go down screaming.