I kiss his cheek, his beard tickling my chin as it always does. “Don’t sell yourself short, Cap. With a little dedication, this could be you.”
“I’ll keep dreaming.”
My parents exchange a look. “Did our daughter just have a full conversation about the strike zone?” Dad asks.
Mom shrugs. “If I knew what a strike zone was, I think I’d say yes.”
We all laugh. I definitely got my sports apathy from her.
“It’s okay, Mom. You’ll get there,” I say, bumping her shoulder with mine. “This summer, it’s all strike zones and double plays. But come fall, we’ll be talking power plays and goalie save percentages.”
“She means hockey,” Sean says.
Mom smiles. “Whatever you say, sweetie.”
Dad chuckles, then leans toward Sean. “Any word from the Arsenal?”
I feel Sean straighten beside me.
“Yeah,” he says. “They called last night. I leave for a three-week eval camp Monday, probably rooming with a rookie barely old enough to vote. I just hope I don’t have to teach him how to do laundry.”
Dad laughs. “We’ll be rooting for you. The second you tell us what jersey to get, we’ll be wearing it from the bleachers.”
“With face paint,” I add, grinning at Sean.
He ducks his head. “Thanks.”
For a split second, I catch something soft behind his eyes. I wonder what that kind of instant, no-questions-asked support feels like to him. I know his dad and brother love him unconditionally. They’re good men. I know his mom’s doing her best to make amends. But I also know Sean’s spent most of hislife being the emergency contact. The guy you call when things fall apart.
Does he realize my family isn’t just being polite? That they mean it, no matter the logo on his chest? And if he does … does it make him feel more confident?
Or more terrified?
The sharp pop of something dropping behind me makes me flinch, and then I hear a young voice. “Louisa! Don’t step on my glove!”
I freeze. I know that voice. And I know the voice of his little sister, who says, “Phineas, if you’d stop dropping it, I’d stop stepping on it.”
“Be kind to your brother,” another voice says, one I know better than almost any other.
I turn, and there they are, coming down the stairs and about to slide into the row directly behind us:
Aldridge, his sister Meryl—who’s balancing her posh tote bag and a tray of nachos with perfect precision—and Meryl’s two kids: Phineas and Louisa.
Meryl’s eyes light up when she sees me, even as I feel the color drain from my face. “Kayla!”
“Auntie Kay!” Louisa squeals.
The kids try to climb over the seat toward me, but Meryl stops them. “Go around, kids. We’re people, not animals.”
I look at Sean with wide eyes that I hope my sunglasses are hiding. I grin and say under my breath, “That’s Meryl, Aldridge’s sister, and her kids.”
Sean’s face steels. And a moment later, Phineas and Louisa are launching past Sean to throw themselves at me.
And as I hold them close, peppering them with kisses and seeing my ex-best friend beam at me, I think I’m going to cry.
Meryl and I had plans. We were going to raise our kidstogether. She had master-planned me having a honeymoonbaby with Aldridge and her timing her next pregnancy so our kids could practically be twins. We talked family trips and cousin sleepovers.
All of that dissolved the day I ended things with Aldridge.
