Page 9 of Illegal Formation
I was smirking when he took another step backward, pointing his finger at me and shaking his head.
But he was smiling, too.
“Trouble,” he repeated, backing farther away. “With a capital fucking T.”
“Guess that means we’re saving that ride for training camp?”
“No rides.”
“Ah, you want to be on top, then. Fine by me. I like it from behind. But trust me when I say you’re missing out on a glorious view of me bouncing on your lap with these tits.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I broke character and laughed out loud when he turned, likely to hide the fact that he was adjusting himself. But I saw it, along with the subtle shake of his head.
“Goodnight, Mr. Serious!” I called after him in a sing-song voice.
“Go home,” he replied.
I was still laughing to myself as I walked to the International District Link stop.
And I didn’t miss that Braden followed behind me.
Not in a creepy way, but in the way a big brother or good friend would — to make sure I made it okay, to ensure I was safe.
I debated waving at him through the window when I boarded, but decided to let him think I didn’t notice.
Braden Lock.
What a gentleman.
I wanted to lick him like the inside of an Oreo.
Braden
“Watch this, Uncle Braden!”
Sebastian waved his hands frantically until he was sure he had my attention, and then he was climbing up the yellow slide. Not the stairs thatledto the slide. No, the slide itself, going up the way he was supposed to come down.
His tongue jutted out in concentration as he used his feet and hands to wedge himself and slowly crawl. He grunted and giggled the higher he got, letting out a full-on belly laugh when he almost made it to the top before losing his footing and sliding back down. The kid landed in the wood chips at the bottom with athunkand another loud laugh.
“Wow, now that’s impressive,” I remarked, smirking at him as he hopped up and dusted off his jeans. “Bet you can’t make it across the monkey bars, though.”
“Can, too!” he argued, and then he sprinted off in their direction, climbing up the platform and leaping onto the first bar. He hung by both hands, swinging his little body until he had enough momentum to let go with his left hand and reach for the next wrung. I was glad he was content to play byhimself, because after just a half hour of chasing him around the playground, I was already beat.
Babysitting a seven-year-old was better stamina training than any offseason drills our staff could conjure up.
It was a perfect spring day in Seattle, the kind that could fool you into thinking summer was closer than it really was. The morning had been a crisp forty-five degrees, but now, it was sunny and seventy-two.
My best friend, Kyle Robbins, and his fiancée Madelyn had brought home their brand-new baby girl from the hospital a couple days ago. I didn’t have any kids of my own, but I knew from our other friends’ experiences how hard the first couple of weeks with a newborn could be, and how any help was appreciated.
So, I’d brought over a week full of pre-made meals, helped clean around the house, and offered to take their oldest, Sebastian, to the park.
Not that Kyle and Mads really needed that much help. Kyle’s rookie contract with the Seahawks had been a fat one compared to mine, and he had hired help to do everything around the house — clean, cook, mow the lawn, etc.
Still, I liked to help. It was how I showed I cared about that cocky bastard.
Besides, Sebastian was the easiest kid to watch over. In fact, he was more fun to hang out with than most of my teammates.
