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I tilted my head. “Is he? Nice.”
She looked absolutely horrified. “You didn’t know?”
I shrugged. “I know he plays well. I watch his games when I can, which is more now that I’m back from London.”
Slowly, the shocking pink of her cheeks ebbed to something a bit more normal. “Holy shit,” she said. Her eyes snapped up to mine. “Please don’t tell my mom I said that.”
Thankfully, I kept my laugh locked down. “I won’t.”
“Parker Wilder is your brother,” she said again.
“With how much you watch SportsCenter, I figured you would have pieced that together by now.”
“I don’t know every player’s backstory,” she sputtered. “That’s impossible.” Sage caught the ball again, clutching it to her chest. “He’s really your brother? And he like, comes here?”
“On occasion.” I spun the ball in my palm.
She held up her hands. “Wait.”
The ball stopped spinning. “Okay?”
Her eyes never left my face. “That means Erik Wilder is your older brother. From the Washington Wolves.”
“Oh yeah. Him too.” I shrugged. “Figured you wouldn’t know him because he retired when you were little. I never brag about him because we didn’t get along growing up, and it’ll go to his head if I do.”
The look she gave me was pure incredulity.
“And my sister Greer is married to Beckett Coleman.”
Her mouth hung open. “I … no, she’s not. The other tight end for Portland?” Then she rubbed at her chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“I doubt that.” I jerked my chin up. “Come on, snap out of it. Maybe if you’re nice to me, I’ll introduce you the next time they’re home.”
“That’s emotional manipulation.”
“Sure is.”
Sage rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling.
We threw the ball a few more times, and she laughed when I fell to the ground trying to catch a pass that got away from her. “Sorry,” she said on a breathless giggle. “Don’t break a hip.”
I stood with a grunt. “I’m not that old,” I mumbled.
“I know. My mom says I’m a bit too fluent in sarcasm, but…” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “I think we know who to blame for that.”
I smiled. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Your mom always had a sharp tongue.”
“That’s why she’s such a good writer,” Sage stated.
“You ever read her books?”
Sage gave me a look like I’d sprouted a second head. “I’m ten. She writes about serial killers. What kind of mom do you think she is?”
“A really good one,” I said gravely. “I’d like to read one of her books, but she won’t tell me her pen name.”
The leading statement was not lost on the very smart little girl watching me with the football in her hands. “If I tell you and get in trouble, you better make it worth my while.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Like what?”
