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“Do you want to come out for pizza with us?” Luca asks me.
I swallow hard, praying I won’t pass out. “I…can’t.”
“You okay?” He reaches for my elbow, steadying me in the same way he steadied the former hockey player earlier.
“I just…I have to go,” I manage. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
I turn and walk toward the stairs, stumbling partway there. Percy runs up behind me.
“Abby, what’s going on?”
I have tears running down my cheeks when I turn to her. “Please get me out of here, Percy. Please.”
Her eyes widen with sympathy. “Of course. Here, take my arm.”
We climb the stairs, and the further we get from the locker room, the less I feel like I’m going to faint. When we finally get outside, I lean against a wall and take in a few deep breaths.
“Want to talk about it?” Percy asks softly.
I shake my head. “No. I can’t.”
“It’s okay,” she says in a gentle tone. “We won’t talk.”
“I need to go to the hotel. My anxiety medication is there in my bag.”
Percy takes out her phone. “I’ll get us an Uber. You just stay right there.”
I close my eyes and breathe in, then out.
Luca has kids. They may not be his biological children, but they’re his in every way that matters.
I can’t be with a man who has kids. It’s a hard limit for me. No matter how much I like Luca, we have to be over.Chapter SixteenLucaI check my phone for the third time since softball practice started, but the only text I have is from Anton, inviting me and the kids over for dinner next weekend.
Dammit. It’s been three days and Abby hasn’t responded to any of my messages. I didn’t think she was the type of person who would just walk away with no explanation.
The evening after the game, I called the Palmer House, knowing she always stays there, but there was no Abby Barrett registered as a guest.
I was even more confused when someone from the Blaze front office asked me why I didn’t mention I was dating Abby Daniels. I got a sit-down talk from one of the PR people about how they need to know when a player is dating a famous person so they can be ready when the news hits.
Instead of making an ass of myself by admitting I didn’t know she was famous, I sheepishly apologized. Then I went out to my car and googled Abby Daniels and was floored by the results.
Abby Barrett Daniels is one of the most successful female entrepreneurs ever. She owns Cypress Lane, the home furnishings store that seems to be popping up in every big city I go to on road trips.
Why didn’t she tell me who she really is? I only had time to read one quick article before I had to get home to the kids, but it’s clear Abby has built something impressive and has much to be proud of. No wonder she has a private plane. Belongs to her company, my ass.
Cora looks over at me and smiles. It’s so damn good to see her having fun with the girls on her team. I wish Matt and Danielle could see what a natural athlete she is. Since they can’t be here and I’m in my off-season, I don’t miss a single practice or game. Between Cora’s softball, Jack’s baseball, which I coach, and Emerson’s dance and swim lessons, we’re busy this summer.
It’s so different from last summer, though. We were all still grieving then, trying to find our way in a world without Danielle. Now we have a new normal. We go to cookouts and take road trips to water parks. We stay up late watching movies and ride our bikes around the neighborhood.
Not that everything is perfect now. Cora still struggles with anxiety and Jack can still be painfully shy. But things are getting better with time. I know Matt and Danielle would be happy to see how far their children have come. And I’m starting to think they knew what they were doing when they chose me as the kids’ guardian. We’re a family now, and I don’t know what I’d do without the kids.
Now if I could just figure out what’s going on with Abby. I take out my phone and send her a text message, my first one for today:
Me: I’m not just going away, Abby. I’m worried about you. If you don’t want to see me anymore, at least say that. Say something.
“I’m thirsty, Uncle Luca.” Emerson comes up to me, sweaty from swinging on the playground, which is next to the softball field Cora’s team uses.
“Let’s go get drinks,” I say, getting up from my folding chair.
I had to give up sitting in the bleachers because there was a woman who always sat right next to me and put her hand on my thigh, not so casually working it over to my crotch every time. When I told her to stop, she’d laugh me off and take another sip from her stainless steel mug that smelled heavily of wine.
