“You’re late,” he says, mouth full. “Meadow’s on a schedule.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter, drifting to the kitchen island to hover next to Eli as he plates enough bacon to feed fifty.
Charlie Andrews shouts something over the roar of a blender, green sludge spinning in turbo-mode. The sight makes me wince, flashing back to the goo Lulu dumped down my front five days ago.
“Sorry, two more minutes,” she calls, bouncing baby Theo on her hip.
Jake Brooks, the Storm’s star number twenty-seven, is at the stove flipping pancakes with one hand, the other blocking eight-year-old Noah’s attempt to sneak chocolate chips into the batter. Barefoot, relaxed, his grin cheeky enough to flash a dimple, which keeps dragging Charlie’s gaze back to him. Guy’s already captain of the Dad Hall of Fame, and he’s not even trying.
“Noah,” Jake warns, sliding the bowl out of reach.
“They’d taste better,” Noah argues.
“They’d taste like a dental bill.” Jake flips a pancake, looks up at me, and lifts his chin. “Hey, Pooks.”
I smirk. “You ever think you’d end up so domesticated, Brooks?”
He shakes his head, smile still tugging. “With the right person, it doesn’t feel domesticated. Just feels like home.”
Charlie kisses his shoulder as she passes, Theo grabbing wildly for the spatula that Jake easily lifts out of reach with a chuckle. For a couple who spent twelve years apart, battled throughher ex’s custody drama, and still came out on top, they make domestic look easy. Wedding coming up, baby on one hip, two awesome kids underfoot. It’s a long way from the Jake Brooks I met as a rookie.
I sidestep as Meadow marches past, glittery marker clutched in her fist. I’ve learned to avoid her line of sight—last season, she was obsessed with marrying me off to Lulu at every brunch, until she got bored and redirected her wedding games to Zoe and Chase. I’m not taking any chances now she’s armed with stationery.
“No one touch the chairs, I’m doing a seating chart!” she declares.
There’s a spare seat next to Hutchy, which I make a beeline for. He’s our veteran goalie and my unofficial mentor since day one, though he’d never admit it. Quiet, watchful, dry as hell. Exactly why I spend half my time trying to rile him up, and the other half losing.
I drop into the seat beside him. “This taken?”
“Only by people who don’t annoy me,” he mutters.
“Perfect,” I say, swiping his mug.
Across from us, Zoe Carlson’s curled sideways in Chase’s lap, sipping coffee while he tries to steal it.
“Get your own,” she says without looking at him.
“Yours always tastes better,” he says, grinning in a way that’s about to get him in trouble.
“You’re dangerously close to losing what I call mygoodwill, Walton.”
“Mmm, I call that foreplay, ” he says, leaning in until she pushes him away with one manicured finger to his forehead.
They’ve been like this since they fake-dated their way into something real last season—well, sinceshefake-dated andhejust finally got what he’d wanted from day one. Even with what happened to her at the end of the season—which was scary ashell—they came out the other side closer. Which mostly means Chase is now even more protective and disgustingly obsessed.
The blender finally cuts off, and I sigh dramatically. “It’s exhausting watching Chaz be this… Chazzy.”
“We arenotcalled Chaz,” Zoe says flatly.
“Pretty sure you are.” I grin, remembering the very lengthy locker room debate last season where every couple ended up with some deranged couple name. So far we’ve got Chaz, Jarlie, and E.T. I’m secretly counting down the day I get to name Hutchy and his plus one.
“I can’t wait until we get to decide a couple name for you and some poor, unsuspecting woman,Pookie,” Zoe fires back.
Tamara settles into a seat and nods as she pours a coffee. “Oh yeah, you’re gonna rue the day you decided E.T. was a good idea.”
“That was Reid!” I gesture wildly to my side.
He snorts. “You’ve made your bed, Miller.”
