Love Delayed
by Love Belvin
Chapter 1
Now
May 2014
~Zoey~
Sitting in the bleachers, I’m twisting and turning, totally annoyed by what I see when I glance around me on the bleachers at my son’s soccer game. The women are tapping each other covertly—or so they think—on the thighs and arms as they ogle Stenton Rogers, coaching a bunch of six and seven year olds.
I don’t want to be here. Hell, I’ve declined my child’s invitation all season long to be at games his Dad was able to attend and coach, until I could no longer brush off the glint of disappointment in his little marbled eyes.
Stenton attempts, in earnest, to be a part of every sport our son is registered for. He’s even been able to pull off the title of coach, though he can’t make each spring game because of work. In my opinion, it’s best that he doesn’t attend at all. There’s always too much fanfare at these events because of his celebrity. All the soccer moms show up with their book club, painting club, linedance troupe and whatever other organization they belong to, making a spectacle of his presence. This is precisely why Stenton never brings his colleagues to any of the games to watch our son in action. If he did, it would be a zoo. It’s enough that these parents must agree, in writing, to no pictures at the top of the season. In my opinion, Stenton should stay home and leave the attention to the tikes on the field.
Again, I’m annoyed.
As I try to put my discontentment to the side, I warm at the sight of these small kids in their color-coordinated t-shirts that are supposed to serve as jerseys. My little guy, Jordan, has the number seven embroidered on his back; I’m sure paying homage to his Dad’s professional number. I know I said I’d put my unfavorable feelings for him aside, but seeing that number reminds me of how we’ve arrived at this inimical point in co-parenting. Why I’ve receded my time around him over the past few years.
I see Jordan running my way with the biggest smile plastered on his checkered-tooth mouth. Even with missing teeth, Jordan lights up my world.
“Mom, did you count my goals?” he asks breathlessly, almost bum-rushing me as I try to step off the metal bleachers to greet him.
I stagger as his dense frame collides with mine. At six years old, Jordan is a solid kid, leading in height, presumably taking after his lanky father.
“Sixteen, JR, but you have to share the ball with your teammates. This is not a one-man show, kid.”
“You sound like Dad, Mom. I’m a beast! Argh!” he literally growls.
I have a growling athlete of a child.
“Yeah, honey, but at this stage in the game, I think you should focus on learning how to be a part of a team.”
“That and aggression, all of which you’ve demonstrated out there today. I’m proud of you, son.”
Those tenor vocals poured so smoothly and effortlessly over me. Still on my haunches, talking to Jordan, I peer up to find a set of tall legs belonging to the lengthy creature towering over me. My mouth goes dry, my pulse races. That quickly, I’m disturbed all over again. His smile is filled with pride and total adoration for this little boy, the way that it always is. In an instant, I hate myself for being entranced by his undeniably magnetic countenance.
“Thanks, Dad!” my baby gushes. Then his eyes grow wide as the sun. “Mom, we’re going to dinner. You wanna come? It’s the last game of the season, remember? And me and Dad are gonna hang out. Please come. Please!”
I fight to keep from dropping my head and shoulders and maintain my smile while being cornered to hang out with Stenton. It’s the last thing I want, it’s too hard. But when I see Jordan’s little lips curl up in plea, I can’t say no. Well, not flat out.
“Bernard and I may be going out tonight, JR.”
“Awwww, Mommy!” Jordan’s crestfallen smile matches his collapsed shoulders.