Page 48 of Fumble Into the End Zone

A hard knock came from the window, with Scott pointing toward the mic. The commercial zoomed by.

“It’s Mia and we’re asking you for the best QB of this season,” I said.

Scott raised the three, and I pushed the button.

“Mia, I need you to lock down Marcus Allen’s fine ass. Girl, what are you doing? Cut off this mic and go play step mommy,” the caller said, with audacity riding in her tone.

“Thank you, caller, but who is your QB?” I asked, to get the conversation back on track.

“What the hell is a QB? My man is listening to this show. But I looked up Marcus Allen, he’s fine and all you need to be worried about,” she said.

I sat my head in my hand before I hung up the phone. Scott reclined in his chair, laughing at the caller's response.

Without his guidance, I pressed a random call.

“Mia, I know you ain’t playing my boy, Marcus. Look, I need you to keep him happy. I’m betting on Houston for the Elite Bowl,” a caller said.

I hung up on the caller.

“Until the phones cool down, let’s check social media,” I said.

My phone had been on fire from the moment Marcus and I hung up. My newsfeed all vouched for him with women telling me to secure the bag. I rolled my eyes because I had the bag without Mr. Allen.

“Mom, I made it home safe,” I said and pushed in my security arm.

With the lights illuminating my house, the sight of the roses sent happiness flowing through me.

“Did you double check?” she said.

I tossed my purse on the couch and kicked off my shoes by the coffee table. A glass of wine screamed my name, and I was determined to answer.

“And who is Marcus Allen?” she asked.

Before I hit the threshold of the kitchen, I paused my steps. Of course, Trendy Robinson heard about the live today. It was trending on social media, and it had LA feuding with several Houston players.

“Mom, it’s good for ratings. And my podcast is climbing the charts,” I said, hoping it would be enough to satisfy my mother.

She paused for several minutes as I stood still, as if she could see me.

“Okay. Well, the girls from the country club called me talking about a man wanting to take you on a date. I told them, as he should, my daughter is beautiful. She has my genes.”

I held in the amused reaction I wanted to give and entered the kitchen.

“Mom, you did not say those words,” I coached her to keep talking as I put the phone on speaker.

“You bet I did. Mia, I love your full body. When I first met your daddy, the first thing he said was, ‘I need a woman with some meat on her bones.’”

I shook my head as her words echoed through the kitchen. Opening the wine fridge underneath my white, waterfall-marble island, I selected a red wine. My hand gripped the blue opening, and I pulled it toward me.

“Your daddy loves my versatility. I can prepare a five star meal with the same hands I can prepare neck bones and greens.”

Opening the gold handle, I removed a wine glass, but my phone flashed. I tapped the screen to see a text.

Stacie

Marcus sent those damn flowers.

Me

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