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She glances down. “What’s wrong with it?”

“That thing belongs in a museum.”

Her mouth drops open. “This is vintage.”

“I could have gotten you a jersey, Baby Becks. You only had to ask.”

“My dad gave me this treasure, thank you very much.”

Coach immediately lifts both hands. “Don’t bring me into this.”

“Coward,” Laney mutters, smoothing her palm over the faded Phoenixes logo. “Besides, I needed something neutral.”

I glance at her brother, but he just shrugs.

“Neutral?”

“I’m not wearing a St. Louis jersey to a Phoenixes home game.”

“Smart.”

“And I’m not wearing yours.”

I hadn’t asked and hadn’t even thought about it.

Until this moment.

“Didn’t offer.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Good.”

“Good.”

There’s a beat.

Beckett looks between us. “Jesus Christ. Are you two twelve?”

“Yes,” Laney and I say together.

Mrs. B Laughs.

And just like that, we’re back on familiar ground.

Probably for the best.

Dinner with the Becketts is loud. It always is.

The restaurant isn’t much quieter. Silverware clinks against plates, conversations overlap from the surrounding tables, and the smell of grilled steak and garlic hangs heavy in the air.

We end up at The Prime, a steakhouse not far from Ignite, squeezed around a table while Coach dissects portions of the game nobody asked him to dissect, and Mrs. B repeatedly reminds him he doesn’t coach either of us anymore.

Laney sits across from me.

She steals one of Beckett’s fries, dips it into the steak sauce on his plate, and pops it into her mouth.

He slaps her hand away. She steals another. Some things never change.

What has changed is the way she talks about work. She lights up when Mrs. B asks about Wilder House. Actually, lights up.