Page 82 of The Last Five Yards

“That is why your mother married me,” Reese says. “Balance.”

Rowan snorts despite herself, then swings her legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the carpet with a soft thump. She rubs her eyes, then stretches her arms over her head until her shoulders pop.

Reese watches her for a moment. The kid who used to hop around the house at this hour is still there, just taller now, stronger, surer of herself. Fourteen looks good on her.

“Alright,” Reese says. “Teeth, hair, suit check, and then breakfast. Your mother will want a full inventory before we leave.”

Rowan groans again, but she stands and shuffles toward the bathroom.

As Reese turns to leave, Rowan’s voice catches her in the doorway.

“Mom,” she says softly.

Reese glances back.

Rowan gives a small smile, still sleepy at the edges. “Thanks for waking me up.”

Reese’s chest warms. “Always, kid.”

She closes the door gently behind her and starts down the hall, the pace of the morning beginning to build around her.

Reese steps back into the kitchen just as Maren is checking the time on the stove clock for the third time. Her coaching jacket is on now, team logo bright, hair pulled neatly into a braid she probably finished half asleep. She moves around the kitchen with that purposeful calm she gets on meet days, straightening things that do not need straightening and glancing toward the hallway every few seconds.

“Please tell me you didn’t let her fall back asleep,” Maren says.

“Teeth, hair, suit check,” Reese says. “Your kid is operational.”

Before Maren can respond, Rowan appears in the doorway, meet bag slung over her shoulder. The bag looks much less like an art installation now and more like something that might actually make it to the pool. Rowan is chewing half a piece of toast and blinking at the kitchen light like it offends her.

“I fixed it,” she says, lifting the bag in one hand.

Maren arches a brow. “Fixed as in actually packed or fixed as in you shoved everything in and hoped for the best.”

Rowan hands her the bag with a sigh that is pure teenage suffering. “Check it then.”

Maren does. Of course she does. She unzips the top, looks inside, shifts something, zips it again. “Okay. Acceptable.”

Rowan throws her hands up. “That is what I said.”

Reese hides a smile behind her mug. “You two are adorable in the morning.”

Maren shoots her a look. “You are not helping.”

Rowan puts her toast on a napkin and reaches for her water bottle. “I’m ready to go.”

Maren inhales sharply, eyes narrowing. “Shoes.”

Rowan looks at her socks—mismatched like always. “I’m getting them.”

She disappears toward the front door.

Maren picks up her own bag, then turns to Reese, pointing at her with a narrowed gaze. “You better not be in slippers.”

Reese looks down slowly. Slippers.

Maren groans. “Reese.”

“I was getting my kid up,” Reese says, already grabbing her shoes from near the couch. “Multitasking.”