“Hi.”
She grins like happiness cracking through clouds.
“Didn’t know they’d have you on warm-up crew,” I say.
“I volunteered,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Wanted to make sure Sawyer was properly warmed up before the game because...” she pats her knee, making a drumroll sound, green eyes sparkling. “Guess what.”
“What?”
“She’s starting today.” Her whole body vibrates with excitement as she says it, barely keeping her voice to a soft shriek. Her fists clench and she’s biting down on her bottom lip, bouncing up and down a little.
One of the moms nearby tosses her a judgmental glance for being too loud, but Bri doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t tone it down or try to shrink herself. She just smiles even wider and that makes me smile too.
“That’s great news. I bet she’s thrilled.”
She nods. “I’m so proud of her. She’s so excited about it. Oh my God, she can’t wait. She’s totally earned it.”
“Did she just find out?”
She nods. “Yep. Coach told me first, but I had to keep it a secret.”
“All that practice with you in our backyard paid off.”
She shakes her head; eyes locked on the court as the girls fall into position. “No,” she says softly. “She earned this on her own. She saw something she wanted, and she went out and took it like a badass. Practiced outside of practice and didn’t let anyone tell her she couldn’t do it just because she’s new to the team. She has real grit.”
I glance over, taking her in—how her nose scrunches just a little when she’s focused, how her thick thighs press against the metal bleachers as she leans forward, eyes tracking Sawyer in her starting position. She’s completely in the moment. Doesn’t even notice the way my gaze lingers on her, or how hard it is not to reach out. Not to lace my fingers through hers. Not to tell her right here, in front of God, judgmental volleyball moms, and anyone with a phone that I’m in love with her.
I clasp my hands between my thighs, biting back every urge, every reckless thought. My legs are on fire in this tight-ass space, my knees screaming for mercy, but I sit there like a statue, soaking it all in. Her sweet scent, the way it sounds hearing her cheer for my daughter and how happy I am to know she’s sitting next to me and not someone else.
ThatI’mthe asshole she’s choosing to be next to.
Because maybe she won’t let me claim her the way I want to, but whether she realizes it or not, she’s claimed me. She’s claimedus.This feels like a glimpse of the future we’ll get someday. Me and Bri, side by side at all of Sawyer’s games, cheering her on. High school. College. Whatever she wants to do, we’ll be there. Together.
“Go Sawyer!” I shout out, louder than the rest of the crowd as the whistle blows and the game takes off. And for the next thirty-minutes I don’t stop smiling or cheering for my daughter.
By the time the second set finishes, I finally manage to stand and stretch my hamstring. It’s sore in all the wrong ways, which tells me I’m going to pay for this tomorrow in practice. Worth it.
Sawyer played the entire first set. She made some solid digs, a few shanked ones too, but she held her own as a part of the starting line-up. She ended up getting subbed, but Bri’s confident she’ll be back out there after this short break, and I believe her. Kid’s got grit, and I’m proud she’s mine. I might be biased, but she looks like the best one out there.?
“Everything okay?” I ask as Bri scrolls on her phone, thumbing through something with that half-focused frown she makes when she’s deep in thought.
Her frown deepens before she quickly closes her phone and shoves it in her back pocket. “Yeah. All good.”
I nod though she seems more distracted now. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I need to get up.”
I shake out my leg, trying not to draw too much attention to myself as I move across the packed gym. It’s a little difficult to do at my size and height, and I don’t miss the way several of the parent’s eyes track me and start whispering.
A few minutes later, and a couple awkward waves to people who acted like they knew me but were too afraid to ask for autographs, I return from concessions juggling two oversized cups—one Dr. Pepper for her, one blue Powerade for me.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at me as I force my body back into the torture device they call middle school bleachers.
It’s tight. Uncomfortable. Definitely built for a middle schooler’s frame and not a full-grown adult. But I get to press my thigh against hers like this since there isn’t much room, and she doesn’t pull away, so I count it as a win. Our first time touching in days and just her scent immediately soothes me.
I bump her shoulder with mine. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper.
