Chapter 4 Grey
GREY
I’d bet good money that not one of the other Boston Bruiser players loses sleep over the mooning incident as the actual full moon hangs high in the sky over the city.
Can’t say the same for myself. While the press rolls out headlines about moon-gate and social media chatters about #BruiserButt, my mind churns, trying to figure out what my ex was thinking. If it’s true or if someone is trying to extort me.
Most of all, I want to make sure that my kid is safe and the best place for that to happen would be with me. The whole situation gnaws on what’s left of my hide, chewing me up.
My ex is deplorable, but instead of making her pay for abandoning our son and not having the decency to leave him with me, I just want to make sure he’s okay.
The faint ringing in my ears from earlier continues.
Unable to sleep, I pace in the condo where I stay when in Boston.
The leather sofa, entertainment unit, wet bar, and houseplants take on a surreal quality as the original conversation with Ted Brown comes back.
I’d asked if he was sure my ex went AWOL and that she renounced custody.
That I had the chance to do the right thing after thinking my son was better off with his mother when we couldn’t find a way to get along and I got lost after everything with my brother.
It didn’t help that she cheated on me, either.
Ted knows everything, but said the case isn’t iron-clad. That there were holes. But he gave me hope that we’ll be the ones to fill them by exposing a great deception.
I just want my kid back. He’s too young to be going through this, to be without parents who love him.
And according to Nancy, by law, I have to be married unless Ted can find a way for me to wiggle out of that.
However, what he doesn’t know is that I am married.
But I’d prefer to keep that to myself because, in a fit of grief, I said yes to my brother’s best friend’s sister’s best friend, who needed health insurance.
The web is as tangled as it sounds.
I scrub my hand through my shoulder-length hair, which is also tangled. My mother would be appalled if she saw the current state of my grooming habits.
So would the woman I married. Probably. Actually, I don’t know a thing about her other than she grew up with Heidi and Jimmy in northern Michigan, like me.
It’s not surprising that our paths didn’t cross since she’s quite a bit younger than me.
Let’s see. Jimmy was Bran’s age and his little sister must be about seven or eight years younger than he is because there are at least two other Weaver siblings between them.
I’ll admit it’s weird being married but only knowing that my wife has brown wavy hair, a summer tan, and is on the shorter side, at least compared to my six-plus feet.
Then again, I’ll never, not even if I got concussed, forget our kiss. It was the closest I felt to being alive since I learned about Bran’s status. Since I lost hope that he was still alive.
They found the wreckage. No body. No way he survived it.
Her lips on mine were the stuff of shock and awe.
Like seeing fighter pilots overhead for the first time.
A football game where giants battled it out on the field.
Only, everything about her was soft and sunny, nothing aggressive or fierce about her.
Human sunshine. Pure beauty. The exact opposite of me, but a complement in every way.
The kiss reminded me that I’m still alive. But all too soon, it was over.
I’m guessing whenever she no longer needs the insurance, I’ll receive divorce papers. That means I’ll have to tell my lawyer, which could complicate this custody issue, unless he finds a loophole in the interstate laws Nancy mentioned.
Whereas most people would feel dread, guilt, or something, I’ve got nothing other than a dull sense that I should have an emotional response to all of this rather than detached emptiness. Well, except for how I treated fatherhood. I’m well aware I failed there.
It’s only a matter of time before Coach pulls me aside and suggests I talk to someone, but that won’t happen unless I screw up on the field. Mercifully, that’s the one part of my life that’s still intact, where I haven’t faced failure or loss.
With a deep breath, I drop onto the couch and it’s only when my phone buzzes repeatedly that I realize I must’ve fallen asleep. Morning light paints patches on the wall opposite my bed.
Coach’s name scrolls across the screen and my last thoughts before I dozed off filter back. I grunt and answer.
An hour later, Declan, Wolf, Chase, and I shuffle into Hammer’s office. He’s on a phone call and flashes the one-minute signal with his pointer finger, along with the hairy eyeball.
I grumble, but we deserve it.
“Don’t you dare say, ‘I told you so,’” Wolf warns.
“Come on, we’ve done worse.” Declan shrugs.
“Guys, Elyse was there.” Chase refers to Starkowsky’s daughter, a grown woman who has certainly seen her share of football players in various stages of dress, having been around the team her entire life. She’s a reporter and spent a lot of time in the locker rooms pre- and post-game.
Declan and Wolf wear matching sneers because this early call interrupted their beauty sleep, or should I say their recovery sleep?
No strangers to late nights, they like to party.
Chase is fairly tame. I was once the wildest of the bunch, but those days are long behind me—the little lapse in judgment with my ex notwithstanding.
Chase adds, “It’s the principle. Would you want your daughter to see our backsides?”
“He has a point,” I say.
“We don’t have daughters,” Wolf says.
“You know what I mean,” Chase hisses.
Declan laughs as if any of us are anywhere close to settling down and having kids.
Little do they know about my surprise news.
I haven’t quite figured out the logistics of parenting and game season, but when I tell my mother, I can’t imagine a world in which she won’t help.
The woman lives for babies, kids, and small and large animals.
And I’ll hire a nanny. Problem solved. Not that the kid is a problem.
More like, I’m not going to say no to being a better father because of logistics.
Coach Hammer ends the call with an abrupt slam of the phone that I sense is directed at us rather than the person on the other line.
I prepare to apologize, but Hammer holds up his massive hand, indicating I save it.
I’ve seen this clip before. I know the drill, meaning I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. Can’t say the same for the rest of my teammates, but we’ll see how this goes.
Hammer gets to his feet and paces along the bank of windows overlooking the practice field.
“I understand the pranks are part of the game, the camaraderie, and the glue that holds the team together in some ways. But you went too far. I’ve had a lot of heat coming down from up high lately about your—” He spins his hand in a circle as if hoping to pull the right word out of the air. “About your antics.”
Wolf gives his patent lazy shrug. “Oh, come on, we were having fun. We thought it was just going to be Brandon, not the commish.”
“Elyse was mortified.”
“More like it mortified the commish,” Wolf says.
Hammer tilts his head at a shut up angle. “Connor.” All he needs to do is use Wolf’s given name to quiet him down. Wish I could say that worked for me. The guy is all lip.
Wolf steps back and clasps his right hand over left, standing at respectful attention. Coach Hammer is the only one who seems slightly capable of taming the wild in him.
“I need you to understand what is appropriate and what goes over the line,” Hammer says.
Chase nods.
“Filling someone’s car with balloons? Harmless. Coating the inside of a locker with molasses? Amusing. Stealing all the toilet paper rolls and removing them from the building?” Hammer winces. “Mooning the commissioner, his daughter, our newest player, and a bunch of officials?”
“Hilarious,” Wolf says, only loud enough so we hear.
“Boys, there are consequences.”
“A fine?” Wolf asks. “I’ll pay for it. Whatever.”
“Penalty?” Declan says.
“Community service?” Chase suggests.
I remain quiet because I’ve been in this office on numerous occasions when Coach has to give a token scolding for misbehavior. We’re the Bruisers, we’re known for our “antics,” but his tone and the drop to his shoulders are different from in the past. Whatever is coming is going to be bad.
“No, you’re going to finishing school,” Hammer says.
I tuck my head, not sure I heard correctly, while the other guys ask a flurry of confused questions. But I’ve known Richard Hammer for almost twenty years. I’ve seen his many moods and this is not a joke... not even a prank.