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“Thank you,” Eight said and, remarkably, felt real gratitude. Several times this morning, Marcella could have struck blood, but she’d passed on every opportunity.
That was something like progress.
~oOo~
Ajax was all in on the pizza idea, and they went to Hideaway, which he declared the best pizza in Tulsa.
As they sat with their drinks, waiting for their pie, Ajax chattered about the game. Eight noticed that he didn’t talk much about his accomplishments—he’d scored three of the four goals and assisted on the fourth—but had seemingly endless things to say about the game as a whole and pointed out several mistakes he’d made.
Eight and Marcella were mere observers of his color commentary; he needed no help from them to talk.
Then their pizza arrived, and Marcella took it upon herself to serve it. Eight sipped at his water and wished it were a beer. He hated the sugary goo of pop. But it felt wrong to drink in front of the kid.
No reason it should—he drank in front of club kids all the fucking time and nobody had heartburn about it. But in this situation, Eight felt like a naughty kid sitting in church, trying to rein in all his unseemly impulses.
It was a shitty analogy, frankly. Too on the nose. He’d been that naughty kid sitting in church every fucking Sunday of his childhood.
“Do you like soccer, Eight?” Ajax asked around a mouthful of pepperoni and sausage pizza.
Marcella shot him a look that was high-octane Disappointed Mama. “Ajax. Chew your food. Then talk.”
He chewed dramatically, swallowed, and said, “Sorry, Mom.” Turning to Eight, he repeated, “Do you like soccer?”
Eight cleared his throat and formed what he hoped was the right answer. “I don’t know much about it. I liked watching you play.”
Ajax grinned and took another bite.
Trying to get a conversation going, Eight asked, “Your mom says you like it better than other sports. How come?”
While he finished chewing, Ajax shrugged. After he swallowed, he answered, “I don’t know. I never thought about that.” He looked up at the ceiling as he thought now. “I guess … I guess I like the speed of it. Uncle Chase says watching soccer is like watching grass grow, but—what?”
A short laugh had escaped Eight’s throat. “Sorry. That’s kinda how I think about soccer, too.”
Ajax gave that a thoughtful nod, and suddenly he looked fully grown and smart as hell. “I guess if you don’t play, I could see how it’s not so exciting. A really good game doesn’t have a lot of scoring. You have to be excited about the playing, not the points. But on the field, everything is moving fast. When I watch a game, I see all that. Especially the pro games. Those areamazing.”
“Do you have a favorite player?”
“MEGAN RAPINOE!” Ajax said with such loud cheer other diners looked over. Marcella laughed softly at her son’s enthusiasm, and he gave her a grin.
“A woman’s your favorite?”
Both Marcella and Ajax looked at him like he’d just said he eats puppies for breakfast.
“Why wouldn’t a woman be his favorite?” Marcella asked in a voice so cold each word practically had icicles hanging from it. Ajax stared at him as if his answer would determine the course of the future.
Okay. Marcella was raising a dude feminazi. Got it. Lesson learned. And not for the first time—the clubhouse was full to the brim with woman-power chicks. His brothers all seemed to get off on mouthy bitches who wouldn’t do what they were fucking told. Every damn one of them had gotten up in his grille at least once.
And here he was, all but bent over and grabbing his ankles for just such a woman.
He put up his hands, warding off trouble. “No reason. It just surprised me, is all. Sorry. I guess this Megan is probably great.”
“Sheisgreat,” Ajax said. “She’s a striker like me. Mom, can I borrow your phone?”
As Marcella dug in her bag for her phone, Eight wondered why the kid didn’t have one of his own. But he was, thankfully, smart enough not to ask.
Marcella handed Ajax her phone and then shot Eight a wry look. Not accusatory. Almost like she was enjoying this little bramble thicket he’d wandered into, but not in a vindictive way. He couldn’t quite get his hands on what she was thinking.
No big surprise there. Eight wasn’t bad at getting in people’s heads, overall, but with Marcella, landmines were buried in every fucking direction.
