It's no secret my ego is boosted. Being light on my feet and good with my hands, I control the plays and my stamina is legendary. And on and off the field, I make the decisions, the rules.
Do I do complicated?
Hell, no.
I take what I want, tackle life my way. But then there's her. My hotter than sin assistant. Art is her life, painting secrets knowing the colors will never reveal the truth. Her heart is fire and wallsimpenetrable. Mine is rules, strategy and execution. But I have a play-by-play game plan for my life, for her. What could possibly take me out of the game? My brother dying.
Now, I have five complications I'm responsible for. There are no rules about hormonal teenage girls, coaching pee wee football, or braiding hair. Can you intimidate a toddler into potty training or wearing clothes? Who the hell knows?
But what I do know is that sinfully sexy best friend of mine with the razor-sharp wit who won't give us a chance she has a soft spot for kids. I may have been blindsided, but I refuse to let this bring me to my knees.