Chapter 2

Jon sighed as Dorothea brought him up to date on the European trip, telling him how excited Steph was to be heading to Rome the next morning. He was almost annoyed that his wife and daughter were obviously having so much fun without him, then he gave a sardonic chuckle, stopping Dot in mid-sentence.

“What’s funny?” She asked, and Jon snuffed another soft laugh.

“Oh, nothin’ babe. I was just thinking what a weird role reversal this is. You halfway across the world enjoying yourself, me sitting home with the kids. I guess it’s really the first time I’ve understood how you must’ve felt all these years.”

“You know I’ve never minded.”

“I know, I know, Dot. Just strange is all.”

“So what are you boys doing today, anyway?”

Immediately, Jon brightened. “Game day, darlin’. We’re headin’ down to Philly in an hour. Richie’s gonna meet us there. Maybe take the kids to Chickie and Pete’s after, if they behave.”

“You mean if you win.” Dot corrected, and Jon laughed.

“Yeah. That too.”

“What are the boys doing just now? Getting ready?”

“I guess.” Jon cocked his head, listening to the familiar sounds of the apartment. “They’re pretty quiet anyway.”

“How quiet?” Dot asked suspiciously, her maternal intuition kicking into overdrive.

“Uhhhh……” Jon listened harder, then frowned. “Too quiet.” He confirmed. “I better go see what they’re doing. Talk to you tomorrow, baby. I love you.”

“I love you, too. G’night, Jon. Oh, and ‘Go Soul’!” She finished with the familiar words.

“Yeah. We better win.” Jon said seriously. “Fuckin’ Desperados today. Sorry. G’night baby.”

He closed his phone and got off the couch, wandering silently through the apartment to find out just what the three monsters were doing, and why they were so worryingly quiet. He found the answer in his and Dot’s bedroom, where a vase of orchids lay on it’s side on top of the antique dresser, the miniature Philly Soul football also on the top telling him what had happened. Grinding his teeth together, he turned to go look for the culprits, cursing as he saw streaks of chocolate spread on the bedcover. At least, he hoped to hell it was chocolate, but there was no way he was going to risk a taste-test. He drew a breath before yelling.

“Jesse! Jacob! Romeo! Get in here right now!”

Stepping over to the dresser, he righted the vase, cursing again at the waterstain on the wood top. He could only hope that the years of thick lacquer had offered a degree of protection.

Behind him, he heard the soft sound of hesitant footsteps, three sets of them, and he did his best to control his anger as he turned around, seeing guilt written plainly on each face.

“So who’s going to tell me what happened in here?” Jon asked in that unmistakable pissed-off-dad tone.

As if on cue, Jake and Romeo turned to look at Jesse, who gave them both a withering stare. Not one of them spoke, and Jon’s temper started to rise.

“Let’s try an easier one, then.” He suggested, picking the little football off the dresser. “Who threw this?”

“We were just playing.” Jesse muttered.

“So you threw it.” Jon said flatly, clearly seeing his own stubborn streak in his eldest son. Shit, he thought. Make that his second eldest.

“No.”

“So who did?!” The temper was rising fast, but as Jon looked at each of his sons in turn, each one just shook their heads silently, neither willing to confess nor drop the culprit in the shit.

In other circumstances, Jon would have been proud of how his three boys were sticking together, refusing to rat out their brother. But not when it was in direct defiance of him. He knew how his own father would have dealt with it - hell, how he had dealt with it, when he, Tony and Matt had stuck together, but Jon had never yet raised a hand to any of his kids, and he wasn’t about to start now. He did, however, recall one or two beatings he’d taken when he’d confessed to something he hadn’t done, to protect the real guilty party - usually Matt - from their dad’s anger. Or their mom’s.

Since the day Stephanie was old enough to need discipline, though, Jon and Dot had followed a different philosophy, and right now Jon knew exactly how best to punish the guilty party for the damage - and the other two for defying him. Still watching the boys, Jon raised his voice slightly.

“Tina?”

“Yes, Mr Bon Jovi?” The young nanny appeared from the hallway.

“Did you have any plans for this afternoon?” Jon turned to face her. He and Dot had both asked her to call them by their first names, but she’d just smiled and said that, if they didn’t mind, she felt it more appropriate not to.

“No, sir. Just maybe tidying the boys’ rooms while you were all out.”

Since Richie was going to be at the game, too, Jon hadn’t seen any point in dragging the nanny along, as Richie was more than capable of helping him corral the three kids. Looked like it wouldn’t be necessary, though. He smiled slightly.

“Well, it looks like you’ll be having some help with that.” He turned to the kids again, the smile vanishing. “You three are staying here with Tina. No game for you. You’ll stay here and help Tina clean your rooms. Is that clear?”

“But…..that’s not fair!” Jake blurted.

“Excuse me?” Jon raised his eyebrows, then shrugged in a ‘don’t blame me’ way. “Hey, you had your chance to tell me what happened. You wouldn’t. So this is the only way I can be sure the right one gets punished. And all three of you lied to me, so you all get the same. Now go.”

Little Romeo’s lip was quivering, but he was a Bongiovi through and through, following his brothers disconsolately from the room, refusing to cry. Jon was glad of it, too, because if his youngest son had started bawling he’d have probably relented, which wouldn’t have done much to convince the kids he meant what he said. He turned back to Tina.

“I know it’s Belle’s job, but could you maybe change the cover on this bed?” He asked, pointing to the dark stains, grinning wryly. “I hope to hell it’s chocolate!”

“Of course.” She said agreeably. She changed the kids’ bedding, so what was one more? As Jon turned away, Tina spoke again, reassuring him with a smile. “And I’m sure it is chocolate - the boys asked for chocolate spread sandwiches.”

Jon chuckled, nodding thanks for her reassuring words. He went to the closet, finding his usual ‘lucky’ game outfit of dark jeans and turtleneck, going into the bathroom as Tina left the bedroom, giving him privacy. Not like he hadn’t changed, stripped and dressed in front of any number of people before, but she always maintained a level of professionalism that was one of the things that had convinced Dorothea to hire her, despite her youth. Jon dressed for the game, shaving quickly since he hadn’t bothered to when he showered that morning, then he grabbed his boots and jacket.

With his cellphone and cigarettes in his pockets, Jon said goodbye to Tina, then quickly said goodbye to each of the boys, keeping his tone still a little stern, reminding them he expected them to help Tina. He headed downstairs, finding the black SUV waiting there, and he climbed into the back, saying hello to the driver and asking him to stop at the nearest coffee shop. Once that was done, Jon fortified in the backseat with a large cup of strong coffee, he settled in for the ride to Philadelphia.

At the arena, the driver let him off at the usual door, and Jon lingered outside, finishing his coffee and smoking a cigarette, wondering yet again whether he should finally accede to the pointed suggestions of his voice ‘doctor’ and quit. He knew there were any number of reasons he shouldn’t smoke, but damned if he could think of them most of the time. Bottom line was, he liked it. Pure and simple.

When he finally stubbed out his cigarette and ditched the empty coffee cup, the security guard opened the door to him without bothering to check ID - not like anyone who worked at Wachovia didn’t know him by sight. Jon followed the deserted hallways, taking the short, back route up to his private box, opening the door to find a familiar shape slumped comfortably on one of the couches.

“Hey.” Jon said in greeting as Richie looked up, and he saw the confused frown on his friend’s face as he peered past Jon, looking for the kids.

“Where’s the boys?” Richie asked.

“At home. Helping Tina clean their rooms.” Jon said, shaking his head. “Looks like they were practising their football skills in our bedroom, but none of them would ‘fess up to who did the damage, so…..”

“So you grounded them all, make sure you got the right one?”

“Uh-huh.”

Richie just chuckled. Sometimes he was glad he only had one kid. Not often, but sometimes.

“So it’s just you and me, then, bro.” Jon said. “Obie’s sick. Flu.”

Shrugging, Richie got to his feet. “You want a drink?”

Jon looked at him a little sharply, his temper and suspicions still high from earlier, and Richie frowned at him reproachfully.

“I’ve got diet coke - what do you want?” He asked, and Jon grinned.

“Sorry. Guess I’m still pissed at the kids. Maybe I’ll stick to coffee for now.”

They sat chatting until near game time, when Jon headed down to the field for his customary walk around the walls, signing autographs and taking the occasional photo. Richie elected to stay in the box, since he was on a call to Ava, and Jon was gone little more than a half hour, returning to the private area in plenty of time for the opening festivities.

The game was fast-paced, and Jon had a hard time containing his pride as Jay ran out as quarterback. Coach Munsey had put him in for the last few games, as the more senior men were injured, but with the commitments of his job, Jon had missed the games, so this was the first time he’d seen his son play in the crucial role.

As usual, Dallas were playing a borderline illegal game, flirting with the rules and running increasingly dirty plays. One of their linebackers was almost as new to the professional game as Jay, only just out of rookie status, and Jon remembered reading a profile on him that had said the Desperados had picked him out after seeing his ‘aggressive and physical’ play during tryouts. Seemed typical for that team.

The game was more than halfway gone when the ball was passed to Jay, his catch unerringly solid, then he set up to throw the ball up the field. He set his feet and threw, the ball soaring over the heads of both teams, and a good ten seconds after the ball left his hand, the Desperados’ Dixon - a six foot one, two hundred and forty pound wrecking ball - slammed into Jay, the impact lifting the young player clean off his feet to land awkwardly on his shoulder at least five yards away. What didn’t help was that Dixon’s momentum carried him with Jay, and the linebacker’s full weight landed on top of the younger, lighter man.

Jon was on his feet, yelling abuse at the player, at the late hit on the quarterback, surprising Richie with his vehemence. Sure, it was a late hit, a dirty hit, and one of the Soul’s players had been on the receiving end, but Jon’s reaction seemed excessive.

Down on the field, Dixon got off Jay - mainly because the even bigger figure of Mike Mabry grabbed him by the collar and pulled him off - and the Soul players crowded around the prostrate body, then Coach Munsey was on the field, kneeling beside his quarterback.

In the private box, Jon was still on his feet, gripping tightly to the rail as he tried to see what was happening. Richie stood beside him, also trying to see, but cutting glances at Jon’s strained face, his friend’s tension clear.

Munsey spoke into his radio and a stretcher team ran onto the field, and a few minutes later the heavily strapped body of Jay was very carefully carried off the field.

“Oh, Jesus, no.” Jon muttered, and Richie turned to look at him, seeing tears in Jon’s eyes.

“Jon? What is it? He’ll be okay.”

“Will he?” Jon’s emotions were too high for him to think clearly, to have the restraint to keep his mouth shut. “He’s gotta be okay. I gotta go see what’s happening.”

Richie laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “Jon - he’s a tough kid. I watched them at practice the other day, and I talked to him. He’s a good kid.”

“You talked to him?” Jon whispered, heading from the balcony into the private box, Richie following.

“Yeah.”

“I should’ve talked to him. Should’ve talked to him before this happened.” He turned worried eyes on his friend of so many years. “What if I don’t get the chance?”

“The chance for what?”

They were just about to leave the private box, and Jon paused with his hand on the door, looking at Richie.

“The chance to tell him……oh, Jesus…..” Jon leaned his head back, blinking away tears as he looked to the ceiling before looking back at Richie. “He’s my son.”