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9
CASS
Try,Kate requested—demanded? Prescribed? Challenged?
Try?I pondered for the rest of the weekend.
Try, I decide when the first Select team practice of the week rolls around.
No one who knows me would describe me as a nervous man but today, as I wait for the Lanes to make an appearance, I embody just that.
When only one does, I stifle a frown as I catch the eleven-year-old hurtling past me by his shoulder. “Where’s your mom, kiddo?”
August ignores my question. He ignores me in general, actually, shoulders tense as he shrugs off my hand, chin high as he stares at a random spot somewhere above my head.
I don’t insult him by pretending I don’t know why. He’s a smart kid. It’s like he has a sixth sense when it comes to Sunday; it took him less than a minute to come to her rescue, thundering into Luna’s kitchen and immediately pinpointing me as the problem.
That was a new low for me. Having a kid look at me like I was the worst person in the world. Fuck, I can’t even say I didn’t deserve it—that incident is just one of the things I plan on apologizing for today.
Yeah,apologizing. Something that’s gonna be hard to do if August beats me with his baseball bat first.
Holding my hands up in surrender, I promise, “I come in peace.”
August snorts.
“I just wanna apologize, kiddo.”
Another snort, a noise fuelled by pure disbelief, and God, does that make me wonder. Is it apologies in general he’s not used to? Or specifically ones directed towards his mother? Has he, at the tender age of eleven, already dismissed the prospect of second chances?
Swallowing my frustration—and my questions—I stoop down to be eye-level with August, forcing him to mean-mug me directly instead of the air above me. Guess today’s apologies are gonna start right here. “I’m sorry about the other day.”
“You yelled at her.”
Did I? Fuck, I don’t even remember raising my voice. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, reedy arms crossing over his small chest. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I won’t do it again.”
Wary eyes clearly don’t believe me. “She doesn't like when people yell.”
Why?I want to ask but I fear I won’t like the answer, and this isn’t the place for a conversation like that, nor do I think August would actually tell me. “I promise, I’m not gonna yell. I just really wanna apologize.”
“It was my fault we were even there, okay? I wanted to go, she didn’t. We won’t go again.”
Oh, I really am the worst person in the world.
“August.” At the risk of being socked in the face, I take a chance and reach out, gently grasping him by the biceps so he has no choice but to stay and listen. “You can go over there whenever you want. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I was in a bad mood and I took it out on your mom and I’m so sorry I did that, and that you had to see it. I was just—” Fuck. How do I explain things in eleven-year-old friendly terms? “I thought your mom did something bad, but now I know she didn’t.”
Like ice melting, August thaws. Slowly—painstakinglyslowly—he stops eyeing me like I’m the crotchety old man who yelled at him for ruining his lawn. The wary dislike I’ve been on the receiving end of for the past month reluctantly fades. With a weary sigh, August jerks his head towards the parking lot. “She’s in the car.”
Standing, I palm the back of my neck awkwardly. “Avoiding me?”
“On the phone with John,” August grunts, his tone implying I should know who that is. As if sensing I don’t, he clarifies, “My dad.”
Oh. Right. That dickhead from last weekend’s tournament. Jesus, I know I have a temper, I know I’m quick to jump to the worst conclusion, but when it comes to John, I don’t think my gut instinct is wrong. I could spot from a mile away how uncomfortable August and Sunday were around him. When the former sloped my way, eyes on his cleats as he admitted forgetting his helmet in the saddest fucking voice, I wanted to grab the older man by the scruff of his neck and toss him out like trash.
It made me sick to my stomach when I realized that’s how Sunday looks around me. Uncomfortable. Tense.Small. Guilt made me do the bare minimum and kick John off my field, but it was quick to fade, quick to be blanketed by anger, quick to be forgotten.
