Mason’s eyes light up like she told him he’s the greatest ball player in history. “Someday I w-will be.”
“This is Mason Walker and his buddy, Lucas McKenzie. Mase has been training with us for a few years now.” I glance at the kid. “You sent in your applications for college, right?”
“Crap.” He snaps his fingers. “No. I forgot one of the most important steps in m-my life.”
Lucas laughs, the hint Mason is being ironic, so I grip him by the back of the neck. “Watch what you say, kid. I have pull with Anderson.”
“Yeah . . . but I’m b-basically . . .” Mason grunts when I headlock him against my chest. “Related to P-Parker.”
“You are not.”
“Tell that t-t-to his sister.”
Ava’s laughter sends my pulse racing, and lucky for Mason it’s enough to let him go.
I free his head and step back, looking to Ava. “Mason’s dad is the producer for Perfectly Broken.”
“Oh, Tate’s band,” she says.
“Tate’s my uncle,” Mason says proudly.
“Really?”
He nods. “Ellie is my dad’s sister.” The kid spins his narrowed stare to me. “And listen to how this all works: Lex says the band is family. I’m a band kid, so since she is Parker’s sister, guess that means I’m related to him.”
I laugh. “Way to find a loophole.”
“If loopholes get me perks, heck yes.”
Mason isn’t the biological son of Finn, the producer. I think that’s why he’s been open with me since I told him my dad adopted me, too, but he’s not lying about being in a big, loud randomly selected family. Even before he was adopted, just like she puts pumpkin lights on my railing, Parker’s sister pulled Mason into their band family.
“So I’m looking at a future MLB star?” Ava asks.
At the genuine tone of the question, Mason’s face turns a little red. “That’s the hope.”
“I can see this guy being a King someday.” I don’t say it lightly, but I mean it. Mason has the ambition, talent, and the advantage of training with current players.
“Hey, do you guys need help?” Mason scans the scattered boxes.
I’m about to say no, maybe a little anxious to return to the close proximity Ava and I had before teenagers ruined it, but she claps her hands together. “Yes. The more hands the better.”
I stand back, giving her room to spout off her orders, but this time I’m the one who forgets to breathe when she walks past me and subtly gives two of my fingers a gentle squeeze.
Ava
I’ve always hada bad attitude about teenagers. I was one once, after all. But Mason and Lucas are hilarious, respectful, and helpful.
They stick it out with us, unpacking supplies, helping assemble game tables and equipment, and offering suggestions from their perspective for what they’d want in an athletic house. Not once have they mocked the numerous alarms going off on my phone to keep me focused. I work well in sprints—hard focused chunks, and when the alarm blares, I can take a mental and physical break.
We all have our routines and systems. Ryder already knew mine, but it’s nice that the two boys start to turn my alarm system into a competition. They race each other during the focus time, desperate to see who can unpack more boxes, or take the stairs from the lobby to the loft fastest with new supplies before the alarm sounds.
Lucas even says he’s going to give it a try with his homework.
We make a lot of progress, and most of the rooms are blocked off, planned out, and those that aren’t at least have the beginnings of an organized setup. The sun is nothing but a thin splash of bloody red as it fades over the mountains by the time we call it a day. I wave at the boys from the front door as they pull out of the parking lot.
When the red glow of taillights strikes my face, the back of my neck prickles. Ryder’s stare is a physical entity all on its own. One felt to the bones before it sears into the blood and leaves a delightful shiver of goosebumps all over the arms.
I peek over my shoulder. Ryder holds my stare for half a breath too long, then tosses a stack of trash from a greasy lunch of burgers and fries.
