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Internally, I sigh. Terrific. Just what I need right now; the other man in my life uniquely skilled at making me feel like shit.
Tilting his head back, Isaac gazes solemnly up at his uncle. “We can’t find August.”
Dark eyes flick to me, slow and arduous, like acknowledging my presence is a chore.
Many moons ago—okay, like one and a half moons—I remember thinking those eyes were dangerous, especially when wielded by the man they belonged to.Veritable weapons of mass destruction,I silently remarked the day after, as I showered off the remnants of the most outrageous thing I’ve done in the past decade,capable of ruining a girl with one blink.Under their spell,I remember being reduced to a, for lack of better wording, complete and utter swooning ditz as they glimmered and gleamed and freakingsparkledin all their onyx glory. They sparkle right now too, that’s for sure, sunlight catching the flecks of caramel speckling his irises, but the hint of disdain? The blatant annoyance? The faint whiff of hatred? Those are completely new.
Not quite the destruction I remember.
“Iz.” Cass claps his nephew’s shoulder gently, steering him towards the field before giving him a shove. “Go warm up with the others.”
“But Ms. Lane—”
“Ms. Lane is fine,” Cass says, in unison with me weakly insisting the same.
Unconvinced, Isaac squints at us. “My dad says when a woman says she’s fine, she’s lying.”
Wise man,I just about manage to refrain from commenting, barely keeping my chuckle at bay too. God, this kid. I love him. And whoever made him. Especially his dad.
Not so much his uncle. Especially when I assure Isaac I’m not lying and a snort sounds behind me.How refreshing, I swear I hear him mutter, and while outside, I might be calmly bidding Isaac good luck, inside, I’m seething.
It takes everything in me not to do something rash—kicking him in the shins sounds especially satisfying, as does screamingI did not fuck you for money. But alas, our current audience doesn’t allow for impulsivity so I bite my tongue, keep both feet firmly planted on the ground, and do what I’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks; ignore Cass Morgan.
Unfortunately, in a rare twist of fate perhaps to be blamed on a full moon or a planet in retrograde or, I don’t know, low blood sugar, Cass Morgan does not ignore me.
“I can’t start him if he’s late.”
And that, folks, is how you spot Not A Parent. No concern over the missing child. Just threats to bench him. Uncle Cass is agem. “I know.”
“This is a serious team, Sunday.”
Indignation licks a path up my spine, steeling it. “I know.”
“If you can’t handle that—”
“Why don’t you let me worry about what I can handle, okay?”
Cass runs his tongue over his teeth, the undeniably chastising kissing sound making me wince. Scanning the field quickly, he steps closer, ensuring only I hear his low reprimand. “I understand our relationship is a little different, but you can’t yell at me like that.”
So many things coax the next words out of my mouth. Irritation, not just at Cass for questioning my parenting, but at John for making it be questioned. Worry for August. Whatever the word is for being so damn fed up, you strike to hurt because you think that’ll make you hurt a little less. “We fucked, Cass. That’s not a relationship. If it was, you’d be taken by half of Chicago.”
If I were a different person, if the situation wasn’t what it is, maybe I’d relish in making the infamous Cass Morgan, Bonafide Manwhore, Pleasurer of Women, flinch. Maybe I’d find some power in striking a nerve with such an almighty man, some satisfaction in locating his weak spot, some sick delight in dishing out instead of taking for once.
I don’t.
I just feel like shit.
But I don’t get a chance to apologize; a split second later, I don’t want to. I don’t regret my dig at all, in fact, when Cass spits, “Figure out where the hell your kid is, Sunday,” with so much venom, so much judgment, it makes me a little nauseous.
I force myself to remain calm, curling my fingers into fists to stop one in particular from rising in a salute. That vindictive, helpless feeling returns, doubling down, begging me to tell Cass, from the very bottom of my heart, to go fuck himself. I stem that urge at the last minute, but I don’t quite manage to keep the bitter sarcasm from my spat, “Yes,Coach.”
Without another word, I turn back towards the parking lot, waiting until I hear Cass’ retreating footsteps before I let my eyes blur with frustrated tears, barely able to see through them as I resume searching for the kid I’m apparently so careless with.
I clear them with a few furious blinks only for relief to mist them over a few seconds later, a crop of light hair headed my way making my body go slack. It’s a short-lived repose, though, because the closer August gets, the more the sight of him breaks my heart. Gaze low and shoulders hunched, there’s no sign of the boy who left my home last night, so excited for his first tournament he could barely stand still.
The second he’s within arm’s reach, I drag him into my side, holding him tight while I peck his temple. The biggest red flag? He lets me. August sinks into my side, the typical tween dislike of showing affection nowhere to be seen. “What happened?”
When he mumbles a response, his dad huffs. “Speak up, August. Men don’t mumble.”
