Maybe it’s silly to try to keep this part of their lives the same when so much else has changed. Still, when I text her, it feels like conceding failure.
Me: Okay, but be here by 3:30.
She replies with a thumbs up.
I put my phone away, ignoring the too-familiar sinking feeling in my gut, and lift my gaze to the field. Harry is the starting goalie, and even from this distance, I can see the coiled readiness of his limbs, the way his eyes track the ball as it zig-zags across the grass.
The season just started. The Lions are three home games in. Last season, back when everything was the way it was supposed to be, Harry and Mattie were still in middle school. He played, of course, but I was still in vet school, and I could only make it in town for one game. The same thing for the years before that. Before this year, I’d seen maybe three soccer games. This season I’ve figured out about half the flag signs, but I still don’t understand most of the offside calls.
I’m trying to understand why one of the assistant refs has his flag in the air when four people—arguing in rapid-fire Spanish—approach and sit on the bleachers in front of us. I can’t help but notice them because, besides the arguing, out of the four, two of them walk with canes, an older man and a woman who looks adorably ancient.
But it’s the man between them, steadying each with a supportive arm on either side, my eyes find. I swallow. Dark. Chiseled. Flawless… Oh, except for that scar that scores his left brow. It would make him look kind of scary if he didn’t have those long, curling eyelashes.
This is what I’m thinking when the eyes behind those dark, curling lashes flit to mine—and I suck in a breath and choke on a piece of popcorn.
The rogue kernel triggers an instant coughing fit, and I wrench open my Dasani bottle, trying to silence my struggle in a flood of water.
“You okay?” Emmett asks, frowning up at me.
Eyes streaming, bottle pressed to my lips, I nod. It’s touch-and-go for moment, and for one terrifying instant, I’m afraid I’m about to spray Emmett and the entire Spanish-speaking family with a mouth shower. But then the beastly popcorn kernel washes away, and I can breathe again after a few wracking coughs.
Thankfully, most of this has happened while the family in front of me has been busy situating the two cane-bound members, still arguing in Spanish.
Dear God, for future reference, if I’m going to choke to death, please don’t let it be in front of an audience,I pray, dabbing my eyes dry on the cuff of my sweater.Definitely not in front of Emmett.And no cute guys. I know I shouldn’t care about that part, but I really do—
I halt my prayer as one of the strikers from the opposing team aims a powerful and arrow-straight kick right at the Lions’ goal. Harry leaps, limbs splayed like a five-pointed star, and deflects it with his right hand.
The home side goes wild. Emmett and I spring to our feet, screaming for all we’re worth.
“HARRY! YEAH!” I yell.
“WOOHOO!” Emmett whoops. “THAT’S MY BROTHER! WOO!”
I hear chuckles from the crowd around us, and I don’t miss Mr. Dark, Scarred, & Chiseled glancing over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a grin. But I quickly drag my gaze away, cheering again for Harry before I sit down.
I grab the water bottle and guzzle. Cheering is thirsty work. And my face is hot. And I am definitely not here to make eyes at the dark, scarred, and chiseled of the world. Not today, and not anytime in the near future.
That is the last thing you need right now,I tell myself, a mental image of Carter Fox darting through my mind. And that image does the trick. A frosty rush replaces the heat in my cheeks, and I draw my thin cardigan more tightly around myself.
One thought, and I am prepared to live like a nun until Emmett finishes high school. That’s me. Sister Mildred. I sniff a laugh at the ring of it. Sister Mildred sounds more chaste than Mary Poppins and absolutely, positively impregnable.
Impregnable.That’s the critical point.
So with impregnable focus, I turn my attention firmly back to the soccer game and cheer as the Lions make a goal.
The blocked kick and the first score rev up the crowd, and the bleachers rattle as feet stamp in time to “We Will Rock You!” Emmett and I are stomping, clapping, and laughing when Mattie finds us.
With her backpack slung over one shoulder, she gives us a wry smile. “Having fun?”
Oblivious to her irony, Emmett practically vibrates with excitement. “Harry blocked a kick and then that guy scored!” He bounces in his seat, jabbing a finger toward the field. Mattie and I follow the trajectory of his pointing to see Number Seven, a tall, wiry boy with thick dark hair who is already in pursuit of the ball again, frowning in concentration, the moment of triumph clearly already a memory.
And then the guy on the row in front of us turns. “That’smybrother,” he says with a grin for Emmett, but his gaze flicks to mine, and I quickly look away.
“Really?” Emmett squeals. “He’s good!”
I glance at Mattie to have something to focus on besides the gorgeous guy in front of me, but I find her blinking, looking almost startled, her eyes glued to the figure on the field. Number Seven.
“Heisgood,” she says, sounding breathless.
