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I reverse my posture from the unintimidating curve I adopted to not scare the ref, broadening my shoulders and bowing my chest out. “Mr. Bloomdale,” I say quietly, my voice more of a harsh hiss than anything else.
To his credit, the referee steps forward, obviously quoting from the referee handbook. “Sir, as the referee for this game, I have to ask you to refrain from using vulgar language and also to lower your voice. As I was just explaining to Coach Meyers, a complaint was filed against the Wildcats because of your behavior. Further actions that go against the code of conduct will resort in a game suspension for the entire team. Also, spectators are not allowed on the field so I will have to ask you to step back.”
Ballsy kid. I like him already, but I don’t want him getting hurt. I turn, blocking the kid and putting myself in the line of fire. I’m who he wants, anyway.
“Kyle.”
His eyes are slow to leave Max, Kyle’s head turning before his eyes follow, but when he locks on me, they narrow. “Killian played. Everyone played. It was a good game, but you need to shut the fuck up.”
I never said I was good with words. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve loudly and somewhat proudly said that I suck with words. But I’m trying. I don’t want to punch this asshole out in front of his kid, but the jump to fists over words is habitual.
The threat of impending violence must be coming through loud and clear, though, because Allyson bravely steps forward, thwarting the staredown Kyle and I are locked in. For my part, I’m clear-eyed and thoughtful. He’s red-eyed and blustery, smelling like cheap whiskey and trying to playing tough. I don’t need to play at it. I can simply send him to the hospital without flinching.
“Mr. Bloomdale, please calm down.” Allyson holds up a hand, palm toward Kyle, imploring him. In the history of histories, I don’t think anyone has ever calmed down from being told to do so and today is not an exception to that rule. “There are children watching.”
I can hear her reaching into her professional bag of tricks again, but Kyle’s not having it.
Somewhere in his brain, a switch is flipped and he turns redder. His voice gets louder and his arm movements more erratic. “Stop telling me to calm down! You did my son wrong and I won’t stand for it. Killian’s the best fucking football player you’ve got, and if you can’t see that, then fuck you.” He points at Max first, then me. “And fuck you.” Before sticking his finger in Allyson’s face. “And fuck you, bitch.”
It happens so quickly and subtly, but her façade crumbles and she flinches as Kyle’s finger gets too close. Her eyes slip shut and she turns away from his touch, like she’s preparing . . .
Red. I see actual, literal red in my vision.
Allyson said Jeremy didn’t treat her ‘nice’, but I see it now. See the instinctive reflex to protect herself in Allyson’s movements. My heart breaks at the same time hot fury rushes through me, bitter and acidic, making me want to rage that someone could treat anyone that way. But most of all, disbelieving that anyone would treat her that way. My Allyson is special, a sweet angel who deserves the best of everything life can offer.
This is what she’s holding back, the shadows that haunted her and weighed her down, making her question her own judgement and not trust anyone. I know it as sure as I know that I love her and she loves me.
But I can’t deal with it right now. I have to protect her from the actual threat right in front of us, not the one that lurks in her past.
“Get the fuck away from her,” I boom, stepping between Allyson and Kyle and slapping his hand out of the air. Yeah, I’m cussing in front of the kids too because they definitely heard that, but I can’t even care. Not when it’s Allyson at risk.
“You need to leave, go home or wherever the hell it is you hide. Rethink how you’re treating people with a sober head because you’re a loser and Killian deserves better. Thank God for his grandparents.”
I chance the quickest glance across the field to see them standing halfway across the field. It looks like they tried walking over but had to stop. Mr. Bloomdale is helping prop Mrs. Bloomdale up and she’s crying softly.
The split-second look away is a mistake on my part, a poor judgement when I’m known for being observant and aware. Kyle takes advantage of my quick distraction, throwing a messy right hook my way.
Instinctively, I duck and throw up a block. He’s untrained and drunk, which make him unpredictable and sloppy, and as his right arm moves away from me, he tries to come back with a left hook. It’s a wide swing, wild and uncontrolled, and instead of hitting the intended target of my jaw, it connects with Allyson’s cheek.
