Page 38 of Forever After Fall

Because it would be obvious I’m crushing on the man.

Oh my god.

I can’t be, can I?

Am I crushing on him?

I feel like I’ve just touched a live wire with a thousand volts. I can’t think. I can’t even breathe.

I cannot be crushing on Anson Briggs. He’s not mine to crush on. Definitely not mine to keep. This was supposed to be short and sweet. Just a quick way to get over Chris and move on with life. Quell all the questions that came up thanks to our late-night wedding rendezvous in the dark. This was not supposed to, under any circumstances, turn into something more. It can’t.

SEVENTEEN

Bristol

Realizing I have feelings, real feelings, for Anson isn’t the only hit my heart takes tonight. In the middle of the third quarter, Ford takes a brutal hit on the field from a kid who drives him into the turf. He doesn’t get up right away. His limp body stays still on the field, and my heart starts thudding in my chest to the beat of the clock. Every second feels like an hour.

The kids take a knee. The coach and the trainers head out onto the field when they’re summoned by the ref. I’m up out of my seat and headed for the field before Anson grabs me by the wrist.

“Wait,” he urges me, but his eyes are on the field. Locked there and waiting on his son to get up. It takes a couple of minutes, far too long for my nerves, but he does finally get up and walk off the field with help from the trainers.

He looks woozy though. Like he’s not sure of his footing, and he wavers as he walks, holding on tight to the trainer on his right while the one on his left helps get him to the bench. The butterflies in my stomach are replaced by the dull buzz of anxiety as I watch them go through concussion protocol.

“Can we go down now?” I ask Anson, putting my hand on his forearm because I need something to steady myself. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Ford. I can’t even think about what it would do to Anson.

“No. Not unless they take him back to one of the training rooms. They’ll let us know,” Anson answers me, reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, squeezing. I can feel Marlowe’s eyes drift from the field to the two of us, but I don’t care if she can tell there’s more between us right now. Or if anyone else on these bleachers can. All I care about is Ford being okay and Anson knowing I’m here for him if he needs me. Not that he ever does. Another glance in his direction, and I can see his usual calm, stoic demeanor. Even the small knit of worry between his brows is relaxing now that he sees the trainers taking care of him.

“I hate seeing them get hit,” Marlowe interjects, trying to show support for us.

“Me too.” I nod.

“That’s football.” Anson shrugs. “I think he’s already a little bit more with it.” He nods toward the more coherent way Ford seems to be talking to the trainers as they check him. “Maybe just a little banged up. Hopefully it wasn’t a concussion.”

“And if it is?” Marlowe asks the same question I’m thinking.

“He’ll be out a few games. He’ll have to take it easy, and I’ll probably have to keep a closer eye on him. Gonna have one hell of a headache.”

“Did you have one back when you played?” I ask because once upon a time, a long time ago, Anson played football and Fannie cheered him on from the sidelines, pom-poms and all. I remember seeing the two of them flirting after the game, the perfect couple even then.

“I had one my senior year. It was pretty miserable…” Anson’s words fade out as we watch the trainers start to lead Ford off the field. Now that he’s up on his feet again, he still doesn’t seem quite right.

“Now?” I ask, risking a glance in Anson’s direction.

“We can see. They’ll beat us to the door, but they might let us in.”

“Can you watch my blanket and stuff?” I look at Marlowe. I don’t want to have to worry about gathering it all up right now when I just want to get to Ford.

“Of course.” Marlowe nods.

When we get to the training room doors, they wave Anson and me in.

“We suspect he has a concussion. We’re trying to ascertain if there’s anything else we should be worried about.”

“Like?” I ask before Anson can.

“Are you Ford’s mother?”

“His aunt.”