Page 105

“We’re going to have to tell them, eventually.”

“After your dad.”

Jubal leaves it there. He doesn’t ask when I’m finally going to do it or point out that it’s been almost a month since I sat across from him at this same island and said I needed to tell Dad about us. I asked him to let me handle the first conversation, and he has. He could ask every time Dad comes up, but he never does.

“After Dad,” I say, and the promise feels different tonight than it did when I first made it.

There have been plenty of reasons not to force the conversation into the moments we’ve had since the bye, but none of those moments felt right. What I can’t quite explain is why an entire month has passed without a better one appearing. I wanted time to tell Dad properly. I wanted one conversation where I could be his daughter before Jubal had to stand in front of him as his quarterback, but I’m wondering why every opportunity seems to become the wrong one as soon as it’s in front of me.

“They’re still not getting cookies,” I say as I turn off the burner, because I don’t have an answer for that tonight.

“I’ll break the news to Easton gently.”

“Don’t. I want him to suffer.”

His laugh follows me as I finish plating dinner. Jubal carries the plates to the island while I grab our drinks and follow him, taking the stool beside him instead of across from him. I’m barely halfway through my plate when his phone buzzes beside him, and the tiredness I noticed when he walked through the door gives way to the focused look I’ve learned means football has found him again.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. JJ wants the third-down cutups.” Jubal reads the rest of the message before turning his phone face down again. “I’ll send them after dinner.”

He reaches for his fork again instead of picking up his phone. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d taken a minute to send JJ what he needed, but Jubal has never made me compete with football for the time we spend together. Even when most of his week belongs to the facility, travel, games, and recovery, the part he gives me never feels like whatever was left over. We finish dinner with his phone still face down between us, talking about everything except football until I finally push my empty plate away. Jubal reaches for it with his left hand before I can, catching the look I give his shoulder and rolling his eyes as he carries both plates toward the sink.

I put away the leftovers while Jubal loads the dishwasher, and once the kitchen is mostly back in order, I reclaim my spot at the island with my book. He kisses my forehead before taking the stool beside me and pulling his laptop closer. Then he picks up the phone he ignored through dinner and opens JJ’s message. I’m barely through another page before I glance over and find him studying the film, rewinding the same play before typing something back. Another message comes through a minute later, and Jubal opens that one too. He takes the time to answer whatever JJ is asking instead of sending him off to figure it out alone.

His phone lights again a few minutes later, but this time, JJ’s name isn’t what catches my attention.

VALOR 6–3: PLAYOFF CONTENDER OR MIDSEASON MIRAGE?

“That’s obnoxious.”

“That’s basically what I spent the last hour answering,” Jubal grumbles as I read the headline again.

A few weeks ago, seeing those words beside the Valor would have felt almost ridiculous. Nobody was supposed to be talking about January yet, but six wins change the way people look at you. Playoff projections have started appearing, and strangers argue about seeding loudly enough for me to hear them while I wait for coffee. Jubal comes home from media irritated because reporters keep asking how far Valor can take it, and I’ve started wondering the same thing lately.

Jubal locks his phone and sets it beside his laptop. “Your dad said something similar this morning. Six wins still count, even if nobody expected us to get them.”

I smile because I can hear Dad saying it, probably right before listing everything they did wrong on the way to getting win number seven. He and Jubal have settled into a rhythm this season that makes conversations like that normal now. Dad trusts him enough to challenge him, Jubal respects him enough to listen, and usually hearing about the two of them together makes me happy. My phone vibrates against the island before I can turn back to my book, and I reach for it, expecting another notification from the group chat. Instead, Olivia’s name fills the screen.

Olivia

Hypothetically, how serious were you about me coming to Charlotte?

I straighten on the stool, any thought of the question waiting in front of me disappearing as I read her message again.

There was nothing hypothetical about the invitation.

I wait impatiently for her response, but when it doesn’t come immediately, I try to return to my book. I make it halfway down the page before my phone finally buzzes again, and I give up pretending I wasn’t waiting for it.

Olivia

Even for Thanksgiving?

I frown at the screen. She’d mentioned going home when we talked, although neither of us had spent much time pretending she was looking forward to it.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s Olivia.” I angle the screen toward him. “She wants to know if the invitation to Charlotte includes Thanksgiving.”