“To get smarter about the truck?”
He laughs and taps the brim of Charlie’s hat. “Exactly. You know Chief Frank doesn’t want anyone dumb on the truck. But take a good picture for me, okay?”
Charlie makes a circle with his thumb and index finger in the symbol for OK before begging my dad to get us to the field.
Without taking a sip of my coffee, I set down my mug and let out a long sigh. “Well, wish me luck.”
“I thought you already had the job, sweetheart,” Dad says.
“Basically, unless Dallas decides I’m no good for the Kings’ organization.”
My mom pulls me into a tight hug. “You’ve got this, my girl.”
Drake’s smile is forced but he hugs me too. “Good luck, Avie.”
“Come on, Auntie A!” Charlie tugs on my dad’s hand, urging him toward the garage door.
“I’m coming, dude.”
I snag my purse off the counter and blow out a nervous breath. Here it goes.
At the door leading to the garage, my mom stops me. “Avie,” she says, voice low. “If you talk to him again, you tell him we miss him.”
I close my eyes when she squeezes me tighter. I don’t need to ask whohimis. There is a Ryder shaped hole in the Williams family.
And I think it makes me hate him a little.
Ava
Burton Field is deckedfor the approaching holiday. Black and orange striped ribbons wrap the iron lampposts and great pumpkin archways mark the entrance. I keep my shoulders back as I file through the line.
Charlie gawks at everything. He points out the massive banners of the players. Dad picks my nephew up and points out Parker Knight, explaining he’s the one who pitches the ball.
It’s a little surreal when I recognize his chiseled face as one of the guys on my lawn last week.
While Charlie bursts out of his skin with excited questions about curveballs and fastballs, I dare to look at Ryder’s banner. His face is as stone, his jaw taut, and one hand is punched into his glove.
He’s delicious and awful and I miss him.
My chin drops to my chest. This opportunity is impossible to pass up, but I wish it didn’t come with Ryder on the side. How am I ever going to get him out of my head if he becomes a constant, stern presence?
“Avie.” Dad gestures for me to catch up at a side door near the ticket stand.
The VIP tickets provide us with our own usher to lead us toward the upper suite.
Popcorn, butter, and grease fill my lungs with each breath, and the energy is contagious. Massive flags and posters line the corridors near the concessions for the All-Star foundation. This is the final game, according to a big, black and gold banner, and the one played between the Kings and the Scorpions, their sister team from California.
I’ve heard of the foundation and the celebrity games played to raise money for children across the country who never get the chance to play competitive sports.
It’s a tug on my heart. Then again, anything with kids from harsher circumstances tugs at my heart. To make a child’s life a little better should be, in my loud and proud opinion, the goal of everyone.
The usher stops outside a door, knocks once, then opens the door for us.
“Can we see the field up here, Pop?” Charlie cranes his neck, a worried look on his freckled face. Right now, the field is blocked by poles and signs.
“We’ve got the best seats, kiddo.” My dad gives me a smile. “Go on in first, sweetie. We’re behind you.”
I mutter a quick thank you to the usher, and step inside the box suite.
