She slides off the swing and walks toward me, brow furrowed. She stops in front of me and tilts her head, studying my face like she's trying to figure out how sad about this I actually am.
"You okay, buddy?"
I look down at her. This kid has a chocolate mustache she has no idea is there, and still,sheis more concerned about my childhood than I have been in three decades.
"Excuse me… did you just call mebuddy?"
She smirks and the mood lifts instantly. "Yeah?"
"Like… you're the adult and I'm the kid?"
"Maybe." She grins, slow and wicked. "Buddy."
"That's it. You're done."
"What—"
I lunge to chase her so quick sheshrieks, dropping her hot chocolate in the grass and bolting toward the climbing frame, her laughter trailing behind her like a goddamn anthem.
"GET BACK HERE, MORGAN MORRISON!"
"NEVER! BUDDY!"
I chase her around the playground, ducking under a slide, vaulting a low bench. She scrambles up the climbing frame, declaring herself queen of the castle, and I collapse against the bottom rung, hand pressed to my chest, breathless from laughing.
But underneath the laughter, this kid has struck a nerve without even meaning to.
Is this why I am the way I am? Is this why I felt so lost when I got injured?
Because underneath the pranks, the chirping and the constant expectations…Am I still that little kid? Trying to earn love by being perfect?
I look up at Morgan, perched at the top of the climbing frame like the conqueror of small worlds, and my chest aches.
She's never had to earn love.
Zoey loves this kid more than anything. No scoreboard, no conditions.
And it shows.
It shows in every uninhibited shriek, every loud opinion, every braid she ruins by tugging on it because shecan.
Morgan has never had to beon.
She just gets to be free.
I sit down on the bottom of the slide, and for one terrible, beautiful second, I let myself feel the grief of being four years old in skates I didn't ask for.
But then, precious as she is, Morgan calls down. "COLT! Catch me!"
I look up just in time to see her launching herself off the climbing frame, all flying braids and blind faith.
I catch her and my arms swing her in a wide circle that makes me dizzier than I felt after twenty laps with Willa this morning.
But this kids laughter is the only thing in the whole damn world.
I set her down and push her braid behind her ear. She squints up at me, hands on her hips like a tiny detective.
"Do you think I could be a hockey broadcasteranda pastry chef, Colt? Like, at the same time?"
