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“Why not?” mother and son ask in unison, their inflections so wildly different
“Because…” When my gaze flits to Sunday, hers narrows.
I swear, she blinks and the trepidation furrowing her features vanishes, replaced by a calm front. “You should do it.”
I eye Sunday cautiously. “You think?”
Her expression remains carefully neutral but her nod is firm, sure. “You wanna play, right?”
“Right.” That's what I told her. What I tell everyone—most of all myself lately. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll let them know.”
Scooping up my laptop, I walk away, heart racketing in my chest as I read through the email. When I scroll past the part that has August loudly celebrating in my kitchen, my heart stops.
Fuck.
* * *
“How did this happen?”
“How did this happen,” Ryan repeats with a scornful laugh. “Bydoing my job, Cass. Remember? Like you asked?”
“I didn’t ask forthis.” In fact, I think I explicitly said I had no interest in playing with the Devils. I never mentioned playing with them at all, let alone at the All Star Game. I sure as fuck never expressed a desire to sign with them permanently.
Yet there it is. In the same email as the invitation to join them for a single game.
A contract inviting me to play for the next three years.
Switching tactics, I ask, “When did this happen?”
Ryan hesitates before answering, “I’ve been working on it for a while.”
“And you didn’t think you should mention it to me?”
“You’ve been a littlebusy, Cass. And I did mention it. I told you they were asking about you, that they wanted a meeting.”
“And that miraculously became a ready-to-sign contract?”
“You know, you could try saying thank you.”
I try, and I fail; currently, there isn’t a thankful bone in my body. Just a whole lot of resentful, confused ones, and neither emotions are resolved by the time I hang up on Ryan, fed up with listening to him whine about my ungrateful ass.
“Fuck.”
“Language, Uncle Cassie.”
I catch another surprised curse just before it spills, instead sighing at the pajama-clad little girl throwing herself on the sofa beside me. “Rory, what’re you doing?”
My niece shrugs, nonchalant like it isn’t the middle of the night. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“And instead of counting sheep you decided to give trespassing a try?”
“It’s not trespassing if I’m invited. Or if the door is unlocked.” Rory tucks herself against my side, fuzzy pajamas tickling my skin. “You said I’m always welcome here.”
I did; I realize now that I should’ve clarified my invitation doesn’t extend to the witching hour. “We’ve talked about this, Aurora.” At length. Multiple times. My niece has a penchant for midnight escapes—usually, they involve jaunts next door to corrupt Izzy. “You can’t sneak out without telling anyone.”
“I didn’t sneak,” she insists. “I even stomped around a little. It’s not my fault no one woke up.”
How am I supposed to argue with logic like that? Especially when she adds, “Mom said you probably weren’t sleeping either because you can play baseball again but you don’t know if you wanna ‘cause of Sunday and the baby.”
