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“You nervous?”
“About meeting the players? Or the practice?”
“Either I guess.” The motion of folding her hair on top of itself was soothing, and I missed doing this for her like I had when she was younger. Sage often did her own hair now, favoring a simple ponytail or keeping it down around her shoulders. She had her father’s hair. The auburn tinge caught in the light had me remembering how it used to feather off her head when she was a baby. My motions slowed because I didn’t want to rush these moments.
“A little nervous to meet the players,” she said. “Not nervous for practice. I know I can play.”
I smiled. “I’m proud of you for going to the coach, you know. That took a lot of guts.”
Her shoulders sagged a little. “I got so nervous once I was in there. What if that happens at my first game? Where I think I’m ready, but as soon as I get out there to do the thing, I mess up?”
“It’s okay to be nervous. As long as you still press forward. If we let our nerves keep us down, then it becomes a problem.” I finished one braid, looping a clear elastic around the bottom, then moved on to the next. “And it’s also okay to mess up,” I reminded her. “Even the greats have bad days, kiddo. Just gotta keep working and keep trying. That’s what matters.”
She sighed. “I know.”
We stayed quiet as I finished her second braid. Sage pinched her eyes closed and covered her mouth when I sprayed her braids with some hairspray.
“All done,” I said.
She turned around and spread her hands out. “How do I look?”
The surprising press of tears at the back of my eyes had me swallowing hard. She looked beautiful, and capable, and so much older than her ten and a half years. It was like getting a glimpse at Sage, the woman. Who’d be picking colleges and going to proms and falling in love and finding her passions.
Her eyes took on a horrified glint. “Oh my gosh, are you going to cry?”
“No.” The wobble in my voice betrayed me. I tugged her in for a fierce hug. “You look like you’re ready to kick some ass.”
When she pulled away, she was grinning. “Perfect.”
Sage chose the music on the drive over to the high school field where they were having the first practice, lots of high-volume, driving-beat, pump-you-up kind of songs. And it worked because we were both singing at the top of our lungs as we pulled in.
Normally, they’d be at a large indoor sports facility, but the mild weather had persisted, a warm, sunny mid-November day that had the coach allowing for an outdoor practice in a place where the visiting players wouldn’t get swarmed by other teams playing other sports.
We were early because Sage was going insane sitting at home waiting. Ian had taken Sheila’s big SUV to the private airfield outside of town to pick up Parker and his teammates since they’d decided to cut down on their commute and charter a flight lasting a touch less than thirty minutes.
The SUV wasn’t there yet, and as we parked next to a big black truck with a blue Portland Voyagers sticker on the back, Sage sat up in her chair to look onto the practice field. Black and red tents were set up next to the field, and a tall guy with sandy-brown hair stood with his back to us.
“That your coach?” I asked.
She nodded, rolling her football in her hands as she stared at the crisply painted white lines. “Too bad we couldn’t be on the main field,” she said. “That would be cool.”
I smiled. “One step at a time, slugger.”
She hopped out of the car, slinging her bag onto one shoulder as she called out a greeting to her coach. He turned, and I watched his expression carefully. I knew my daughter, and if this man even hinted that she was a burden to the team, she’d be crushed. I’d be forced to commit violence against him, and it would all be very messy.
But thankfully, he smiled. It seemed genuine too. Some of the tension in my shoulders eased, and I stood out of the car, tucking my phone into my back pocket. A couple of kids and their parents were already there, but they must have parked on a different side of the field, and Sage immediately ran off to join the boys where they tossed a ball back and forth.
I watched them carefully too and was relieved to see a few high fives and a fist bump when she joined in their game.
“You must be Sage’s mom,” the coach said as he approached. He was taller than me, with faint smile lines around bright blue eyes and the kind of easy smile that said he used it often. He held a hand out, and I shook it.
“Harlow,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
His gaze stayed on my face, and I felt my cheeks warm under his perusal. “Coach Collins,” he said. “But you can call me Scott.”
“Thank you for giving my daughter a shot,” I told him. “She was on a girls’ league in New York, and she misses it terribly.”
We both looked over to where she bounced back and let go of a bomb. It dropped perfectly into the other kid’s hands, and they all shouted. Scott whistled. “She’s got a good arm. I can’t guarantee that there’d be enough interest for a girls’ league around here, lots of small towns, but can’t see that there’d be any backlash to having a co-ed flag team if we’ve got a few girls who want to play.”
