Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
During this practice week, I’ve been sleeping most nights at my parents’ house. Foster’s schedule has allowed him to handle Bowie Jane in the evenings and following mornings, which includes getting her ready and driving her to school. It’s the afternoons where he’s needed me to pick her up because he’s either got practice, team meetings, publicity events or workouts.
I stayed here Monday night because Foster had a black-tie charity event the players had to attend. He was going to be out very late so I stayed at the house with Bowie Jane and was prepared to handle her in the morning so he could sleep in.
I was awake when he came home near midnight because I’m a bit of a night owl and I write some of my best music at those late hours. God did he look good in his tuxedo when he walked in the door. So different from the casual laid-back guy I’ve come to know.
I let my thoughts drift to that night. I was on the couch practicing, plucking so lightly at the guitar strings you could barely hear them. I wasn’t afraid of waking up Bowie Jane as she sleeps like the dead, but I still kept the volume down since only I needed to hear the product.
I was practicing “Cosmic Love” by Florence and the Machine, playing softly and adding nuance to the notes with my voice.
When Foster walked in, I was hyperaware of his presence and momentarily felt the urge to stop playing. But I didn’t and he moved across the living room to sink into one of the chairs opposite me. With deft fingers, he released his bow tie and undid the very top button of his dress shirt, stretching out his neck as if he could finally breathe.
And then he settled back and watched me play. I sang softly, but now I had an audience so it meant more.
I can laugh it off now, the way he watched me, but it gave me goose bumps. He stared at me so intently that my skin turned fire hot and then prickled cold, causing my arm hair to stand on end.
Yeah, he gave me goose bumps that night.
Just like the way I get goose bumps when he talks to me on pretty much any occasion with that deep, gruff voice.
Or when he laughs at my jokes.
Always when he’s with Bowie Jane… so sweet and playful and comforting and fun. He is an amazing dad and while I know there are deep, concerning issues because of Sandra and her behavior, I can’t help but think that Bowie Jane is right where she needs to be.
The child flourished this week after that horrible call with her mother on Saturday. She buckled down in school, came home raving about new friends she’d made and even got an invitation to a sleepover that had her giddy with excitement.
Best of all, she has dedicated herself to learning the guitar and we sit down and play together for about half an hour each evening after her homework is done and before dinner.
I set aside the sliced cucumber and pick up the next whole one. I do this every few days to keep a supply of fresh vegetables for Foster and Bowie Jane. It’s their healthy go-to snack with their current preference to dip in either hummus or ranch dressing.
The sound of the garage door rolling up breaks me out of the rhythmic slicing. Frowning, I glance at the kitchen clock and note that it’s way too early for Foster to be home, but that’s him coming into the garage. Maybe I misheard what he said about when practice ended.
When he walks through the door, I can immediately tell something is wrong by the way he’s holding himself. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that look way too good on him, but it’s the stiffness of his posture that has me giving him a critical once-over.
“What’s wrong?” I demand, going right into fix-it mode.
He smiles at me but within it I see a grimace, maybe a bit of abashment. “It’s nothing. Just a minor injury to my shoulder that knocked me out of practice the rest of the day. X-rays are fine and the doctor ordered me to ice it. I should be good to go for tomorrow.”
I put the knife down and move forward to take his gear bag, assuming it’s his opposite shoulder that’s injured. At first, he doesn’t give it up, but I tug it free. When he lets go, I simply throw it on the kitchen island. “How did it happen?”
Foster rolls his right shoulder, another grimace playing across his face. “I collided with another player. His helmet hit me right here.” He points to the spot. “It’s really only a bruise. No big deal.”
I’m already turning to the freezer as I order him to take a chair at the kitchen table. By the time I’m pulling out one of the many gel ice packs he keeps in there, he’s seated.