#Fam: A Ten Years Later Novella (Hashtag #9)

Chapter 4

4

Romeo

The sky was bright and blue, but the ground was slightly squishy from the rainstorm the day before. The air was crisp, edging to cold when the wind blew. All six kids hopped around on the grass, not one of them standing still.

The only one not out here was my daughter who seemed to care as much about football and playing in the mud as her mother—which was not at all.

Nova had no interest in playing either, but she did like to stand along the sidelines and shake the purple and gold pompoms Braeden had swiped from one of the Knights cheerleaders.

Swiped = charmed her into handing them over.

He probably would have brought home a uniform too if it wouldn’t have been too big on his ten-year-old daughter. Amen for that. My niece didn’t need to be running around here in a tiny skirt.

Thank God London stayed inside. With pants on.

“Throw it to me, Uncle Romeo!” Andi called, jumping around and waving her arms. The football was practically the same size as her. But she was too cute to deny.

“Hold your arms out,” I told her. “Get ready.”

She planted her little feet into the grass, mud splashing on her ankles. Gently, I tossed the ball, and she squealed as it came at her.

It hit her arms and bounced out, but she chased after it, scooping it back up against her chest. “I got it!”

“And I got you!” Braeden roared, rushing up behind her and lifting her into the air.

She shrieked and giggled.

Braeden tucked her and the football under his arm and ran with her. “Touchdown!” he hollered, plunking her down on the ground.

Nova cheered, and Andi tossed the ball down, a peanut’s version of a spike. “Daddy, I scored!”

Trent and Drew both clapped and whistled.

Andi started forward, but her foot was stuck in the mud. I watched her tug it out, a loud sucking sound swallowing her sneaker. “I’m stuck!” she yelled, trying to lift her leg again.

“Daddy!” she wailed.

Travis appeared and lifted her off her feet. She wrapped her muddy legs around him, smearing him with dirt. “Sisters,” he muttered, hauling her over to the side by Nova.

She busied herself with Nova and the pompoms while the four boys spread out in the grass with me, Braeden, Trent, and Drew.

We tossed the ball around a bit, letting each boy catch a few passes and run a few. Blue hung back a little more than usual, and it confirmed for me that something was definitely up.

I caught a pass from Trent and turned to my oldest son. “How about you toss me a few? Let’s get your arm warmed up for later.”

We never expected the boys to play football. Sure, I hoped they would. With me and B in the NFL and Trent who played through college, sharing our love for the sport with our kids was something we all looked forward to.

Still, if any of them had shown no interest, we wouldn’t have pushed it on them. We wanted our kids to be who they wanted to be and not who we wanted.

All four boys took a liking to it. I suspected Asher wanted to be like his big brothers, Blue and Jax, but he seemed to have fun when playing. For Trav, it was a good energy outlet and good for team building (sometimes he was a bit of a loner).

Blue nodded and rubbed a hand over his messy blond hair as he took the ball and walked away. I glanced at B, wondering if he also thought Blue seemed a little apprehensive. Braeden gestured at me with his chin, an acknowledgment that he sensed it too.

Trent jogged toward Blue, a basket of footballs in his hands, and set them at his side. He said something I couldn’t hear that got a small smile from my son, and then he gave his shoulder a pat and jogged toward the rest of us so he could catch a pass.

“Go, Blue-Jay!” Nova cheered from the side, with Andi echoing her words.

Blue palmed the ball, lining his fingers along the laces just like I taught him. His first pass was a little wobbly but made it into Jax’s hands.

Then he tossed to Asher.

“Right here,” I called, holding out my hands.

He hesitated, then pulled back and launched the ball. It fell a little short, and I lunged forward to catch it with the tips of my fingers.

“Good throw,” I said, straightening up. “Next time?—”

“I’ll never be as good as you!” Blue burst out. Then he grabbed another ball and spiked it into the dirt before taking off in the direction of the house.

A beat of shock rippled over me as I watched him haul ass away. “Blue!”

He kept running, not even looking back.

“Is eight years old too young for imposter syndrome?” Braeden wondered, stepping up beside me.

The breath whooshed out of him when I slammed the football into his middle. “I’m going.”

“Was just a theory,” B wheezed as I jogged after my son.

As loath as I was to admit it, B’s theory had some weight to it.

And that pissed me off.

Blue was halfway up the stairs when I rounded the corner. I called out for him, but he just kept going.

Upstairs, Rimmel was in the hallway, brown eyes wide and concerned behind her glasses. “What’s wrong?”

“Let me,” I said, frustration and maybe even a little shame tightening my chest.

“Go,” she said, stepping back so I could follow our son.

Her confidence and infallible trust in me and my ability as a father shone in her eyes, and I reached for it and held on. I might be an alpha. I might be the backbone of this family… but being a parent was hard. I wasn’t so cocky that I thought I knew how to fix everything. Especially when I was the one who likely caused the problem.

But Rim loved me anyway. “Love you, smalls,” I told her, the words unable to express everything I felt for her.

Her smile was encouraging, the sheen in her eyes holding a note of understanding. I couldn’t do life without her.

After pressing those feelings against her head with my lips, I knocked on our son’s bedroom door. “It’s Dad. Can I come in?”

“Go away!”

“You know I can’t do that,” I said and slipped into the room.

It didn’t seem that long ago when the room was just a nursery with a crib and rocking chair. But here I was, eight years later, and the room was completely different. There was a full-sized bed upholstered in dark-gray fabric with built-in LED lighting that lit up the headboard and footboard in neon blue. At the very top of the headboard was a charging station where he plugged in his iPad and handheld game. Our kids didn’t have phones yet. The press still loved my family, and while they weren’t as vicious as when he was born, they were still far too interested in using us as headlines. We all agreed we’d keep our kids off the internet for as long as we could.

On either side of the bed were nightstands, and beneath it was a rug that was thick and soft underfoot. There was large basket for toys, a small basketball hoop on the wall, and a bookshelf that held more Legos than books.

He wasn’t on the bed but across from it, hiding in a chair that was more of a swing suspended from the ceiling. The bottom of it was lined with more blue LED lights that made it look like some kind of floating pod.

It swung lightly from when he’d thrown himself inside, but I didn’t go over to it, just let him hide in the fabric making up the swing.

Leaning against the bedroom door, I tried to relax as I looked at the letters spelling his name across the far wall.

“Want to tell me what happened?” I asked.

Silence.

“Okay, I’ll guess,” I said conversationally.

“You’re nervous about starting today.”

Silence.

“You’re worried the mud was gonna eat your leg like it did Andi’s.”

A light giggle.

“You don’t want to play football anymore.”

Silence.

I sighed and pushed off the wall, going over to sit in front of the swing. From my position on my ass, I was slightly lower than him but could see into the wide opening. It was shadowed inside, so I couldn’t make out his face, which was also downturned to his lap.

“I’m sorry, son.”

His chin lifted, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

I nodded. “Maybe you feel like I expect you to play football because I do. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel pressured. If you don’t want to play, if it’s not fun and something you love, then you don’t have to do it. I won’t be mad. Mom won’t be mad. No one will be mad. We just want you to be happy.”

He didn’t say anything, and I felt like I was swallowing rocks. Like I was somehow failing him. I never wanted to be that dad, the kind who put weight on their kids’ shoulders to be people they weren’t. Even still…

I cleared my throat. “You definitely don’t have to play, but it’s important you go to today’s game. Finish out the season. You made a commitment to your team and told them you’d be there. A good person honors their commitments. If you don’t want to start, we can tell Coach and?—”

“They said I’m not good enough to start and the only reason I am is because of you!” Blue wailed, leaning forward to stick his blond head out of the swing.

The muscles in the back of my neck corded, and a gust of anger blew through me. “Who said that?”

“RJ and Lincoln.”

I told myself it was wrong to have bad thoughts about eight-year-old boys. Even if they did say asshole things to my kid. Weren’t they too young for this?

I blew out a breath. “When did they say this?”

“When Coach told us at practice that I was starting.” He paused. “RJ’s dad seemed mad.”

My eyes whipped up. “Did he say something to you?”

He shook his head.

My eyes narrowed. “To your mom?”

He shook his head again. “She was sitting with Uncle Trent.”

I made a sound and tried to calm the protective instincts stirring inside me. I was grateful to Trent and Drew for watching out for the fam when B and I were on the road, but it was hard sometimes. I wanted to be the one here.

“RJ started last game?” I asked, steering back to the conversation while trying to remember the video clips Rim had sent while I’d been on the road. Truth was I didn’t pay much attention to the kids that weren’t ours.

“He’s a year older than me,” Blue said as if an entire year seemed like such a big gap. “And he said I suck and throw like a girl.”

“You don’t say suck,” I intoned, practically hearing Rimmel gasp in the back of my head. “Teammates support each other, not break each other down. And you don’t throw like a girl. Even if you did, girls are cool.”

“I don’t throw as good as you.”

My chest constricted. Reaching into the swing, I tugged him out and into my lap. “I’ve had lots of years of practice. Lots of coaching and training. There were times when I wasn’t so good.”

“Really?” he asked, dipping his head back to look at me.

I nodded. “For sure. I didn’t always start. The first few years I played, I sat on the bench more than I was on the field.”

He giggled. “No you didn’t!”

I nodded sagely. “Ask Grandma. I used to hand out Gatorade to the players who got to play.”

He laughed again.

“You laughing at me?” I mused. When his giggles died away, I said, “And then in college, I fell and broke my arm. We didn’t even know if I’d be able to play again.”

“You broke your arm?”

I nodded. “It was scary. I couldn’t play for a long time. Almost missed my shot in the NFL.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I practiced even more. I went to therapy and taught myself to throw with my other arm.”

“Is that why they call you am-bed-ectris?”

“Ambidextrous,” I corrected. “How do you know they call me that?”

“I hear the announcers say it.”

“Right.” Sometimes I forgot just how spongelike kids were, learning and absorbing everything. “I wasn’t always the best,” I told him. “And I’m still not. I have bad games. Bad throws. But I keep trying.” Blue settled deeper into my lap, so I kept talking. “Some kids—some people,” I corrected, thinking of the parents. “They’re gonna be jealous and say bad shit.”

“Ahh, you said sh?—”

“Don’t repeat that. And don’t tell your mother,” I interrupted. “Some people are gonna say things that hurt, but just because they hurt, it doesn’t mean they’re true.”

“But my throws out there were bad.”

“They weren’t bad. You’re a good player. You have good instincts, and you’re a natural leader.”

“I am?”

“Definitely. That’s why Coach wants to try you out in the starter position. And maybe next week, he’ll give someone else a shot, and that’s okay. You’re young, play all the positions. See what you like best. Have fun.”

He nodded.

“And if you decide playing football isn’t fun, then you don’t have to play. I’m proud of you no matter what.”

“I want to play,” he told me.

“You sure?” I eyed him. “Maybe you want to drag home dogs like your mom.”

Blue laughed.

“Or maybe you want to do math, read books, or be a cheerleader.”

“A cheerleader?” he questioned.

“Nova seems to like those pompoms. Maybe you would too.”

“Daaad,” he groaned.

“I’m just saying,” I teased. “Whatever you like is okay with me.”

“I like football. I want to be like you.”

Pride swelled in my chest. It took a moment for me to find my voice. Rubbing my hand over his hair, I said, “Just be yourself, Blue-Jay.”

“Can we go play now?” he asked.

Another thing I often forgot about with kids. They bounced back faster than a rubber band. “Sure.”

He scrambled up, but I grabbed him around the waist and pulled him back down, hugging him tight. “I love you, son.”

“Love you too, dad.”

“The next time someone gives you a hard time, tell me. Even if I’m not home, you can call. And if you don’t want to talk to me, you have a whole house full of people who love you and want to listen.”

“Okay.”

“Except Ralph. Pretty sure he’s hard of hearing. He never listens to a word I say.”

“He listens to Mom!”

“Well, your mother is prettier than me.”

“Come on. Let’s go play!” He raced from the room as fast as he’d raced into it.

I got to my feet and blew out a breath.

Rimmel appeared in the doorway, a soft smile on her lips.

“You eavesdropping on my talk with our son, smalls?”

“I’m so thankful the dean forced me to tutor you all those years ago,” she mused.

I laughed and caught her around the waist, pulling her close. “Guess it’s a good thing I was failing.”

“You were good with him.”

I buried my face in her hair, inhaling her familiar scent. “I don’t want our kids to be hurt for my fame.”

“They won’t.”

I pulled back, searching her face. “You have. More than once.”

“That makes me an expert,” she said, pushing the glasses up her nose. “And I’m telling you having your love overshadows, outshines, and beats out any amount of hate thrown my way. It’s the same for our kids. We’re all so lucky to have you.”

“Haters gonna hate,” I quipped.

“Posers gonna pose,” she countered.

I grinned over her head. “Lovers gonna love.”

“Well, I definitely love you.”

I leaned down to capture her mouth.

“Dad! Come on!” Blue hollered from somewhere in the house.

I groaned, and Rimmel pulled away, laughing. “Better get going,” she said, going ahead of me from the room.

“Rim.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Rome.”

I muffled a grin. What a brat. “I don’t need to tell you to stay the hell away from that RJ’s dad, right?”

She pursed her lips. “I’m perfectly capable of handling?—”

“Rimmel Anderson.”

She sighed. “Well, I’m certainly not going to go to my son’s football game and start a fight.”

“Well, I will if you don’t keep away from the bastard.”

“I’ll stay away from him.” She promised, and I felt better.

For two seconds.

“Unless, of course, I see him near my children. If that happens, I make no promises.”

“Deal,” I said, knowing I’d never get her to agree to anything less. I’d have to warn Trent and Drew.

Another twinge of guilt—jealousy? wistfulness?—rolled through me at the thought of having my brothers watching out for my wife.

“Romeo?” Rimmel’s voice was soft just like the footsteps that brought her to my side. “What’s the matter?”

“Sometimes I wonder if playing ball costs too much.”

She gasped, surprise flashing across her features.

“Do you think I spend too much time away?”

She stretched onto her tiptoes to grab my face and pull it down. Holding it firmly, she stared into my eyes. “Football is a part of you. Playing makes you happy. I want you to be happy. You don’t have to choose. You can have it all.”

I opened my mouth, but she squeezed my cheeks and kept going. “And when football doesn’t make you happy anymore, that’s when you walk away. But no matter what, I’m proud of you, Roman Anderson.”

“That’s what I told Blue.”

“I know. I was eavesdropping.”

I threw back my head and laughed. Reaching down, I lifted her off her feet, her legs winding around my waist.

“I’d like to try for a few more years,” I confessed. It was something I hadn’t ever said out loud before. “I always kinda thought fifteen years would be my sweet spot. Long enough to leave a legacy but short enough that I can go out at the top.”

Rimmel smiled, rubbing her palms over my unshaven jaw. “Sounds good to me.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

I pressed my forehead against hers. “You’re my favorite.”

“I know.”