“Rumor has it he’s been cutting classes.”
“What?”
At that moment, Simon waked into the kitchen, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked from Mitch to his mother and, scowling, stepped closer to Rebecca. “What are you doing here?”
Protective. Mitch liked him all the more for it. Knowing Simon was probably acting out because he missed his father softened Mitch toward him even more. Hell, the kid reminded him of himself at his age. Young and stupid and thinking he had all the answers.
The oven beeped. Rebecca removed a tray of mouthwatering sticky buns. Then she popped two trays of cookies inside.
Mitch had to check himself for drool. Between the treats and the woman, he was surrounded by mouthwatering goodness.
The kid hadn’t blinked, glaring at him.
Rebecca set her oven mitts down and turned to her son. Mitch didn’t know what he expected, but her poking the kid in the chest surprised him. She hadn’t seemed the violent type.
“Ow. Mom.”
“Don’t you ‘ow’ me. You’ve beenskipping school?”
Mitch wondered that all of Portland, three hours away, didn’t hear her.
The kid winced. “Um, not exactly, see, I—”
“Coach Flash here thinks you have what it takes to go pro someday.”
Mitch hated that nickname. “It’s not Coach Flash, it’s—”
Simon gaped at him. “You do?”
She continued, “But if you’re cutting classes and mouthing off to the team, you’re going to be cut. Permanently.”
“I am?” Simon looked horrified.
“Now I didn’t say that.” He tried to get a word in edgewise. “I—”
“Exactlywhat he said. That you could be good enough if you’d shut up for two seconds and stop telling everyone how to do their jobs.”
Simon frowned.
Rebecca frowned back.
They looked like matching bookends, and Mitch had to work not to smile, which would definitely piss them both off. “Well, it seems like you’ve both got some talking to do…”
“How come you’re here?” Simon asked him, ignoring his mother.
“What?”
“Why are you here, buggingmy momabout me?” His eyes narrowed.
Mitch could see where this was going. “Try again, genius. I’m not here hitting on your mom. I came to talk to her about your attitude. You keep up the trash talk and one of our nearly two-hundred-pound linemen is going to slam you into the field and stomp your head into the turf.” He’d tried to warn the boy at practice, but Simon didn’t want to listen.
“Look, Romeo, I know—”
“Jack shit,” Rebecca interrupted, causing both Mitch and the kid to gawk at her.
Mitch hadn’t expected the swearing. Neither had the kid, by his expression. Oddly, it made Rebecca less girl-next-door and more mouthy-goddess he’d like to kiss into a melting woman he’d slide into—No, no. Not kiss. No sliding. She’s the boy’s mother, for God’s sake!
“You shut up and listen, Simon Neal Bragg. I know your father wouldn’t stand for this kind of talk. What makes you think I will?”
