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With my hands raised, I walked back about ten yards. Sage laid her fingers over the laces on the top of the football, danced back a step, then pointed at a spot to my right. I jogged to the spot just as she released the ball, a perfect spiral that I easily snagged out of the air.
I whistled. “Nice ball. Who taught you to throw?”
“One of my friends back in New York. I played on a flag team with my school.”
I pulled my arm back and released the ball back in her direction. My spiral wasn’t as tight, but she adjusted and caught it with a grin.
“Do they have one of those teams at your school here?”
She nodded. “No girls, though. Besides, we transferred here after the fall season started.”
“Think they’ll let you join next season?”
“I don’t know,” she said glumly. “I checked the rules before asking my mom to sign me up. It doesn’t say no girls, but you know how it goes.”
She tossed the ball again, and I grabbed it easily. From the side window, I caught movement. Harlow watched us with a tiny smile, arms crossed over her middle.
“You haven’t been around much,” Sage said as she caught the ball over her head because my throw was a bit too high. Her eyes didn’t meet mine as she threw again, but the toss had more oomph to it, and I grunted when I caught it against my stomach. That made her smile, and I caught a glimpse of the same dimple as her mother’s.
“Working a lot,” I told her. It was partially true, at least. “My dad passed away about six weeks ago, and my mom wanted some shelves built. She’s been changing up some rooms at the house. I think it helps her feel better about being there without him.”
I wasn’t sure why I was telling her that, other than some driving need to make sure she knew that my absence at the house truly had nothing to do with her.
She nodded. “Mom told me about your dad, that he was really nice to her.” Her eyes met mine, big and earnest, and I felt them like a bat to my chest. “I wish I could’ve met him. It sucks that he’s gone.”
I stopped, the football wedged against my hip while I studied her serious face.
During the memorial service, and even in the couple of weeks after, people rushed to say the right thing, the perfect thing, and the unfortunate truth was that it was rarely the right or perfect thing. Half the time, Sheila felt the need to comfort them or rehash things that were hard for her.
And this girl, a quarter of the age of most of those mourners, managed to say the perfect thing.
Because, man, it sucked that he was gone. Every time someone wanted to talk to me about him, the words stuck like sand in my throat, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t wash it away. Couldn’t really get the words out either. Or never the right ones, at least.
But I did manage this. “He would’ve loved you, Sage.”
Even though my voice was rough and uneven, and the words came out like someone dragged them through spikes, she gave me a shy smile that broke my fucking heart. Oh God, how I wished he could meet her.
I stared down at the grass and focused on my breathing, pulling in a sharp inhale through my nose until I felt steady enough to look back up again.
“He’s the one who taught me and my brothers to throw a football,” I told her.
Based on the dubious expression, she wasn’t all that impressed, and a low chuckle escaped my mouth.
“My brother is a little bit better at it than I am,” I said smoothly.
“The one who lives here?” she asked, notching her fingers on the laces again after catching the ball easily.
She was just about to release the ball when I answered. “The one who plays for the Portland Voyagers.”
The ball wobbled wildly in the air. She didn’t even notice, and I was still able to catch it by shifting forward a few steps. “What?” she yelled.
I tossed it back and shrugged. “He’s not the quarterback, but he can still throw a good ball.”
Her cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes bright with interest. “Wh-who is it?”
“Parker Wilder.”
“Shut up,” she said on a shocked exhale. “He’s the second-highest producing tight end in the league right now.”
