Chapter 2

Jett

As I get ready for bed, I replay the rest of the evening at Ike’s. Dancing with Sunday was a fucking dream come true. Since neither of us knew the newer line dances, we stuck to the slower songs. Having her in my arms, and breathing in her light, floral scent, I knew I had to push through my baggage in an effort to be the kind of man she’d be proud to call hers.

Once I’m in my flannel lounge pants, and have brushed my teeth, I head to Dusty’s room. Walking inside, I again wonder how a mother could walk away from her child. I grin seeing him in his bed. It’s shaped like a race car, complete with racing stripes down the side, and working headlights which let off a soft glow in his room. I asked him recently if he wanted to change it up since he’s getting ready to be a preteen, but he declined since his second love is NASCAR.

“C’mon, little man, that can’t be comfortable,” I murmur, gently repositioning him on his bed, and straightening his covers. Leaning in, I lightly tussle his hair and kiss his forehead. “Love you, Dusty. Gonna keep being the best dad I know how to be for you.”

He doesn’t wake up, but I hear a slight snore come from him as he settles into his pillow.

“See you in the morning, son.”

After grabbing a bottle of water, I head back into my bedroom, and flop down onto my bed, grabbing the remote. Finding a movie that will eventually lull me to sleep, I set my alarm, then put my thoughts to Sunday.

Her years in the military have changed her, which is to be expected, of course, but it’s more than that. She’s more watchful, observing everything around her, and while she still smiles easily, it doesn’t always seem to reach her eyes.

“She’s got her own demons, apparently,” I murmur to the television, “just like I do. The question is, can we slay them together, or will I never know how my lips feel against hers?”

Shaking my head at where my thoughts have veered, I decide to focus on myself first. If Sunday and I are meant to cross paths, as more than high school acquaintances, I need to eradicate the shit that Stacey spewed. Now, that’s one woman who could be the poster child for what not to do in a relationship, that’s for sure.

“You were young, dumb, and full of come, asshole,” I grumble. “Head cheerleader and starting quarterback, you fell into all those stupid fucking cliched romances, that’s for damn sure.” I may be repeating myself but, in my mind, it definitely bears repeating. Something for me to make sure Dusty knows about when it comes to girls. Don’t let the small head do the thinking; look at the whole picture.

Grabbing the notebook, I started using as a journal of sorts, something the therapist I saw right after she left so I could get my shit straight, in order to raise Dusty suggested I do, I read over some of my ‘stinking thinking’ as it’s called.

“You’ll always be a has-been, Jett. I need more excitement in my life than you can give me. You owe it to me, dammit!”

“You could’ve been a coach for the NFL, Jett. Why did you turn it down, and take on teaching kids?”

“Look what having that brat did to my body! No one is ever going to want me like this!”

Yeah, I was offered the chance to move up the ranks as a coach once my own career ended thanks to a crippling knee injury, but my heart wasn’t in it, so when I was offered the opportunity to take over the head coach role at my old high school, I jumped at the chance, wanting to follow in my dad’s footsteps.

He was my first coach, teaching me from the time I could hold a ball how important sportsmanship was, how learning the fundamentals and practicing them over and over again would give me muscle memory when needed. I owe my own career to him, and being able to teach my team what he gave me might not get them to the pros, but it’ll hopefully give them the life skills and tools they need to achieve their own personal goals. I just wish Dusty could’ve known him better before he passed away, but it wasn’t meant to be. Thankfully, I’ve got a ton of videos of the two of them out on the football field, my son toddling around in his football uniform as my dad’s team ‘taught’ him how to play. They’re fucking priceless, and I’m glad I have them.

“You’re not a has-been, what you do has value and worth,” I say out loud while jotting it down. “As far as what having Dusty did to that bitch’s body, well, I honestly thought it showed how much of a warrior she was, carrying our child and keeping him safe until he was born. Stretch marks are a badge of courage as far as I’m concerned. I’m sure she wouldn’t be able to handle the scars I know Sunday has, she’d probably think she would be better off dead or something.”

For the next hour, as the movie drones on in the background, I write, pouring out my fears and frustrations. I worry that Dusty not having any real maternal involvement in his life will hurt him somehow, since my mom is gone as well, and Stacey’s parents cut off contact once she split and we divorced. He gets some from my sister, who loves on him as though he was her own, but it’s not the same. I dread the day he asks me why he wasn’t enough for his mother to stay, and pray it doesn’t happen for a few more years at least.

What the hell can I possibly tell him? I guess, depending on how old he is at the time, it’ll be the truth, or as much of it as I think he’s able to handle.

Tiredness begins to seep in, so I put everything away, get up and take a piss, then check to make sure the house is locked up for the night before I peer in on Dusty one more time.

“Night, little man. Your dad loves you more than all the stars in the sky.”

* * *

Bouncing against my full kidneys has me opening one eye to see my boy grinning down at me. “Wake up, Dad!” he squeals. “You said we”re going to the park today, remember?”

“Let your old man up, son,” I mumble. Once he’s moved off of me, I roll out of bed and stretch to get all the kinks out. I may not be all that old, but the years of punishment I took on the field mean that every morning I snap, crackle, and pop as though I’m nearing my geriatric years.

“I”m ready for breakfast,” Dusty says. “Want me to get it started or what?”

“Give me a few, little man, okay?” I ask, moving to my bathroom. “I’ll be out in a few minutes, go ahead and head into the kitchen.” Hell, he’s no longer a toddler, but my habit of calling him little man persists. I expect it’ll be his nickname, or one of them, at least, until the day I draw my last breath.

I waste no time going through my morning routine, tossing on clean jeans, a t-shirt, and my socks before I make my way to my son. He already has our bowls and spoons out, so I hit the button on my coffee pot, then head to the pantry to pull out a box of cereal. “How about a banana this morning to go with your cereal?” I ask, handing him the box once I’ve filled my bowl.

“I’d rather have strawberries, please,” he replies, bouncing in his seat, a byproduct of his ADHD. Ruffling his hair, I grab the milk and juice from the fridge, set it on the table so he can start eating, then set about cutting up some strawberries. Once he’s taken care of, I pour myself a cup of joe, then quickly fry up a couple of eggs, and make some toast to go along with my cereal.

“We’ve got to do our chores before we head to the park, Dusty,” I remind him once I’m seated at the table. “Then, after the park, we’ll grab some pizza, how does that sound?”

“I like pizza,” he says, grinning at me.

“So do I, little man, so do I. Should we get wings tonight too? There’s a game on.”

“Football!” he exclaims, now bouncing in his seat.

“Yeah, bud. Are you ready?” I tease, playing off the old commercial, even though he’s far too young to catch the reference.

“Yes! I’m done, Dad. What now?”

“Go ahead and put your stuff in the sink, then you can get dressed.”

He tries so hard to be independent, which is fine, but he still needs direction from time to time. Time is flying by so damn quickly; it seems like only yesterday he was dependent on me for everything, and now, for the most part at least, he’s handling things on his own with some oversight from me. Sighing, I finish up my own breakfast, then make short work of cleaning the kitchen.

Finally satisfied that everything is spic and span once again, I start the dishwasher, then walk to Dusty’s room to see how much progress he’s made. Typically, he gets sidetracked by one of his games or a book, but today, I’m pleasantly surprised to see he’s dressed and is picking up his room. He’s already got his clothes hamper out of his closet, his books are back on their shelf, and even though it’s crooked as hell, he’s made his bed.

“Great job, Dusty,” I praise as I grab an errant sock from underneath the bed. “You get better at this all the time, don’t you?”

“From watching you, Dad,” he replies, grinning at me. He already looks like he’s going to be as tall as me, and it’s honestly like looking in a mirror sometimes.

His words nearly send me to my knees, a reminder that everything I do or say is being monitored by my kid. We’ve already had to have a talk about some of the words he’s used, thanks to my own inability to stop swearing. I chuckle when I remember that first one happening, the second day of kindergarten. Damn, does time fly.

“Well, you’re doing a fantastic job.”

* * *

Seeing my boy running around the park, without a care in the world, loosens something inside. He’s got such a pure, gentle heart, which guts me when I realize his own mother didn’t want him. I don’t understand why, either. I mean, even though I ended up having to retire from playing pro football, I made enough while still an active player to lead a good, financially stable life. The only reason I took a coaching job at my old high school was because there was no way I could sit on my ass the rest of my life while doing nothing. No more, and no less. Well, health insurance, too, of course, because I had to make sure I could get Dusty seen by his physician if he got sick. It’s also one of the reasons I changed my career path from what I had planned to do; become a paramedic. Working as a teacher and coach gives me the ability to be with my son at night, whereas, if I had gone into that field, I’d work day-long shifts. I wasn’t willing to miss that much of his life, so pushed that dream to the back of my mind, and focused on being the best dad and teacher possible instead.

We’ve already tossed the ball around, and now, I’m sitting on the bench as he burns off more energy. Even with the medicine he takes to help him focus, he’s still like a live wire most of the time. I figure age and maturity will tame that a little bit, and as long as he knows how to treat other people, I don’t care if he jabbers a mile a minute in my ear.

“You ready to order some pizza and wings?” I call out.

He stops what he was doing, and jogs over to me. “Yeah. Can we get some ice cream for sundaes after the game?”

“Why else do you think we have the chest freezer?” I tease.

“For the meals Aunt Cissy makes for us during football season,” he retorts, grinning at me.

“And for ice cream. You gonna want me to get root beer?”

He plops down next to me, and looks over my shoulder at the grocery list.

“Yes, please. Can we get some beef jerky too? And I need more deodorant, can’t be smelling funky around the girls.”

“What girls?”

He grins at me, the freckles across the bridge of his nose the only thing different from me. “Dad,” he says, drawing out my name until it’s more than a single syllable. “Girls, Dad. They think I’m hot.”

“You’re too young to be hot. Maybe, just maybe, you’re lukewarm,” I tease.

“Well, eventually lukewarm turns to hot, so there,” he sasses.

Damn, I love this kid.

“Okay, let’s head to the grocery store and stock up. I’ll call for the pizza and wings when we’re almost done, so it’ll still be nice and hot by the time we get home.”

“Race ya!” he yells, jumping up from the bench toward my truck.

“I’ll let you have this one,” I call out. My knee’s been giving me fits, and I don’t want to spend the rest of the weekend doped up when he’s out of school. I’ll ice it once we’re home, and take something for the swelling before bed. Maybe it”s time to dig out my brace, since I’ve been spending a lot of time on the field, showing my players various moves.

* * *

“Okay, showers are done, let’s settle in and watch some football,” I decree, grabbing the pizza and wings in one hand. I’ve kept them warm in the oven while we both showered off the dust from and sweat from the park, and got dressed in more comfortable attire. “You grab the drinks, paper plates, and napkins.”

“Got them,” Dusty replies.

“Two games today, think we’ll do it? It’s going to be a late night,” I caution as we get situated in the family room.

My huge television is one of the few excesses I splurged on when I retired from playing, and I’m not even a little bit sorry. I reach into the pizza box, grab two slices, then add four wings before I sit back, and start eating while listening to the commentators announce their picks.

“Do you think you’ll stay single forever, Dad?” Dusty asks around a mouthful of pizza.

“What?” Where the hell is this coming from?

“Well, I mean, you’re still young, you could get married again, you know?” he casually replies, sucking down some of his root beer. I’m sure there’s a professional out there somewhere who would cringe if they saw our normal weekend fare which typically doesn’t include vegetables, but for the most part, we eat relatively healthy, a byproduct of my years in the pros. But when it’s time for a game, we eat pizza and wings. Sometimes, barbecue. But unless there are pickles involved with the sandwiches, no veggies are in sight.

“Maybe, I don’t know. I mean, I need to find someone who can put up with not only me, but my lukewarm son, after all,” I tease.

“Dad, in a few years I’ll be off to college, then probably moving out on my own. Are you saying you’d be okay living here all by yourself?”

A memory of Sunday from the night before flashes through my mind.

“First of all, you’re going on eleven, not eighteen, so I’ve got a good seven years or so before you head off into the wild world,” I reply. “Second, like I said, I’ve not really dated all that much, so if you’re hoping this is something that’s going to occur next week, sad to say, but you’re out of luck, son.”

“How can you meet anyone though if we’re always together?”

“I met someone last night when I went out,” I tell him.

“Really? Who? What does she look like? Is she pretty? Do you think she’d like me?” He tosses questions at me left and right, causing me to laugh.

“It’s a girl I went to high school with, Dusty. She’s a nurse now, but she served in the military until she got hurt. I think she’s very pretty, but just so you know, looks aren’t everything.”

I feel as though I have to remind him of that fact because his mother was the quintessential blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader. Pretty face, banging figure, but sour disposition and soul. She hid it rather well, though. I mean, I saw glimpses of it from time to time, but whenever I’d call her out on it, she would just say I was imagining things.

“Does she like football?” he questions.

“I think so. I mean, she used to come to the football games when we were in school.”

“Cool. Because you have to find someone who has the same interests.”

Jeez, this kid.

“Why?”

“So you have things in common. You should know this stuff, Dad, you’re older than me.”

“Been out of the game for a long time, Dusty,” I remind him. “Things might’ve changed.”

“Naw,” he confidently replies. “Aunt Cissy says couples who stay together do stuff together, but they also have things that they do on their own. Something about mystery. I don’t understand that part, though. Shouldn’t the person you’re spending your life with be your best friend or something?”

“I think so, yes,” I slowly state. “Although, couples should have their own interests as well, so they have other things to talk about, being able to share common likes is very important.”

“Good. So you need to find out if this woman likes football, then how she feels about pizza and wings, and if she likes kids or not.”

The laugh that bursts free at his comment has him glaring at me before he shrugs, and gets himself another slice of pizza.

“Suit yourself, Dad, but if you don’t, you’ll get stuck with someone like my mother again.”

Looks like he already knows what his mom is like, and we won’t have to have the conversation I’ve been dreading his whole life.