BWWM Interracial Romance 5: Love After Halftime by Elena Brown Page B

twenty on the bar and let Cara drag her back into the dining room.
    “Don’t tell Dad,” he said and she smirked. “I won’t have to,” she said, waving a hand in front of her nose. “You smell like a brewery.”
    “Mom, Dad,” he grinned, head slightly less achy, body vaguely less sore, Joe feeling slightly more human as he hugged his parents and sat at their favorite corner table. The Brick House Bistro had been a family favorite for years, their go-to celebration spot for everything from birthdays to graduations to engagement announcements and, during football season, after every one of Joe’s wins.
    “There he is,” crowed their favorite waitress, Angel, in her mid-50s and crotchety to just about everybody but Joe and his family. “Great game last night!”
    He blushed and chuckled, nodding and waving to several other tables as they murmured and chuckled and cheered him on. As ever, his family waited until the hoo-ha had died down to congratulate him.
    “It really was a great game, son,” said his father, beaming proudly. “That pass in the third quarter, my God… I don’t know how you do it.”
    “Me either,” Joe chuckled as his mother squeezed his hand.
    “Honey, you know I love you,” she teased, pinching his cheek playfully. “But how many times I have asked you to quite licking your fingers before the center snaps the ball? You know how many germs there are on that field?”
    “To say nothing of the center’s butt!” Cara teased, looking youthful and radiant in her black turtleneck and gray pleated skirt. She had straight black hair, a youthful face and an athletic frame, which befit her status as captain of her college volleyball team. His parents were in their sixties, pleasantly plump and enjoying their retirement ever since Joe had paid off their house and allowed them to quit their jobs as high school teachers in the Chicago suburbs.
    It was a small price to pay for the sacrifices they’d made for Joe while he was growing up: endless football camps and going to every game, no matter how far away, the gear and the trophies and the camps and the two-a-days and the anxiety of which college he might go to, the draft and then worrying about that injury he’d had his first year playing for the Chicago Hawks football team.
    Now he wanted his parents to sit back, relax, and enjoy the good life. After all, you don’t grow up to sign a $22 million contract and not take care of the Dad who first taught you how to throw a ball – and the mom who stitched you up every time you fell down trying to catch one!
    The lunch went well, as always, a few more beers helping Joe to get over his hangover as, at last, he helped his folks into their new SUV and watched them drive away. After they’d turned the corner and the coast was clear, Cara slugged him playfully on the shoulder and dragged him back into the bar.
    “First round’s on me,” Cara said, waving down the bartender. “The rest are on you!”
    “As always,” he said, hunkering down next to his favorite drinking partner. They sipped their beers as the afternoon stretched out before them, slow and lazy. Tuesdays were always his favorite days: another game over, no practice, time to heal his wounds and retreat from the crazy world that was professional football. Did he enjoy the fame and recognition, the money and the trappings, the sports recaps and interviews and signing autographs for a dozen folks in his favorite bistro every Tuesday? Sure, yes, of course, but at the end of the day, he just wanted to play ball, hang out and enjoy his family and friends.
    Once upon a time, that had included his wife, Tina, but as the pressures of fame wore on them both, he and his ex-wife grew farther and farther apart until, to keep from hurting – and hating – each other anymore, they’d simply chosen to leave the marriage.
    “Penny for your thoughts,” Cara said, watching him muse about what had brought him to this funky, upscale bistro on a