Page 18 of Played
Another silence descends over the table. Kyle scans each face, and the enthusiasm slowly disappears his smile until he just looks ... confused.
“Okay, no, for real.” Malcolm sets his fork and knife down on his plate and leans back in his chair. “What’s going on? It’s October, so noApril Fools’ joke. But, Ma, you brought a hockey groupie here, and Dina brings aplayer. Somebody better tell me something.”
“I’m sorry?” Kyle glances at my mom, then at Malcolm. “Did I say something wrong?”
“This is a Patriots household,” Malik says. “No other sport or team exists except football and the Patriots. If you’re not talking about Belichick or Brady, we don’t give a damn. No offense,” he tosses at Solomon.
He dips his head, lifting a forkful of roast and mashed potatoes to his mouth.
“None taken.”
“Brady?” Kyle frowns. “He’s not a Patriot any longer. He retired from Tampa Bay.”
Malik’s fork clatters to his plate, and I shake my head at Kyle.
Oh sweet, sweet summer child.
“Say that again. I dare you,” Malik threatens.
“Once a Patriot, always a Patriot. Especially if you’re Brady,” Dad sermonizes, glaring at Kyle.
“Seriously, Ma?” Malcolm scowls. “Where’d you find this guy? And you actually brought him here to hook him up with Dina? What tomfoolery is this?”
I would feel bad for Kyle and his ass that’s about to be handed to him, but his untimely and unwise homage to hockey saved my ass from my family’s interrogation about my “relationship” with Solomon.
In desperate times like these, it’s each person for themselves. Nah. He’s on his own.
“Brady should’ve retired a Patriot.” Solomon forks more roast into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before continuing with his blasphemy. “He’s one of those athletes that just don’t know when to step away from the sport. Even after winning a ring with Tampa Bay, that still wasn’t enough for him. It’s sad when you allow a sport to define who you are.”
Malik gasps. Ma groans. Dad goes stony silent. Malcolm glares. Kyle gives him a look of such adoration I’m embarrassed for him.
And me?
I gape at Solomon in abject horror.
But he doesn’t give a damn that he just committed blasphemy at my mother’s dinner table. He keeps eating as if he isn’t seconds away from a dogpile.
Why would he deliberately court death? We were in the clear. We ... I glance across the table at Kyle again, then return my attention to Solomon.
Holy shit. Did he just throw himself on the grenade for Kyle?
Noooo.
This man verbally eviscerated me within seconds of us meeting, so why would he ...?
I frown.
“You gotta go.” Malik jerks a thumb over his shoulder, his eyebrows a dark V over his nose. “We don’t play that in this house. What would a guy who figure skates for a living know about football, anyway?”
Solomon breaks off a piece of corn bread and slides it in his mouth. And I really shouldn’t be distracted by those full lips in the face of his imminent destruction.
Sure, he has my brothers and father by a few inches and pounds, but there are three of them. Am I expected to throw myself in front of my fake boyfriend? Like, what are the rules for that?
“Football players run on a field, catching balls. In hockey, we skate on razor-sharp blades, requiring balance and speed, which means when we hit the boards or each other, you can hear it in the nosebleed section. And all this carrying sticks while passing and shooting a frozen rubber disc that flies at speeds exceeding ninety miles per hour.” He picks up his glass of wine, arching his eyebrow at Malik. “And figure skating is hard as fuck. Sorry, ma’am,” he says to my mother.
She waves his profanity off, staring at him in the same way she did when I was fourteen and we visited Robben Island Prison and the cell where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned—fascination and awe.
“Hold up,” Malcolm butts in. “You have skates, but football players wear spiked cleats. Take a cleat in the foot or leg and see how tough you are. And turf—especially in the winter—isn’t a field of grass. It’s like hitting rock. And every play in football means hitting against six-foot-plus, sometimes-three-hundred-pound fully padded men. Yeah, you get shoved in a hockey game, but we tackle over and over again. Football requires a mental and physical toughness that’s superior to other sports.”
