Teetering back and forth on his feet, he shrugs. “Yeah, like you said, someday.”
Thankfully, a cohort of screaming kids saves us from continuing this conversation. It’s not like I don’t enjoy talking to Matt, but I’m struggling enough on my own to not think of Lainey, and talking about having a family is only making it harder.
Someone knocks into my side, and I turn to find Jack, Laura and Alec’s son, sugar-rushed out of his mind. God, he’s getting so big. He’s gotta be, like, ten now. He’s a damn good hockey player—that’s for sure—with potential of playing pro one day if he keeps up on his training.
“What’s up, man?” I bump knuckles with his outstretched fist.
“Do you want to play tag with us?” he asks, looking back to the group of boys his same age, waiting impatiently behind him.
Chuckling, I widen my stance and cross my arms. “You think you would even have achanceof beating me?”
Challenge darkens his eyes. “Bring it on, old man.”
“Old man?” I laugh and turn to the group, rubbing my hands together. “Who’s it?”
Jack slaps my back, and surprisingly it stings like a bitch. “You are.”
The boys squeal and run in a thousand different directions as I take a step toward them, feeling sharp pain shoot in my knee. But I’m going to ignore that, just for a little while longer. I’ll be softer on it in the meantime, and eventually, it’ll heal back up.
“Oh, you guys aresodead,” I call after a few of them as I chase them around the huge yard, my heart suddenly feeling fuller than before.
Wanting them to think they have an advantage, I let them pull away before digging in and closing the distance.
I pat one of Jack’s friends on the shoulder. “You’re it!”
He groans in annoyance for a second before taking off after his friends, weaving through the adults and other kids in the yard as he tries to track one of them down.
My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out, confusion pinching my brows as I read the name on the phone.
Luca Bradford.
I haven’t heard from him in a little while, not since we last played against one another a couple of weeks ago.
As I answer the call, I walk toward the back of the yard and away from the crowd so it’s less loud, resting my arm against the tall fence. “Hello?”
“Hey, JD. What’re you up to?”
“I’m at my teammate’s kid’s party. What about you?” I ask, overanalyzing every breath of his, like I do to people during most conversations I have.
It’s always been a part of my curse—to overthink every single thing someone does or doesn’t do, to try to predict their actions so something doesn’t come across nearly as surprising, especially if it’s going to be bad.
He seems calm, collected, even joyful. “I can let you go if you need. It’s not an emergency.”
I wave his concern away even though he can’t see me. “Don’t worry about it. What’s up?”
“Okay …” He pauses. “I’m calling about Lainey.”
My heart skips a beat at her name, but then I tense up, unsure of where this is going.
“About Lainey?” I ask timidly.
“Yeah, she’s in New York?—”
I cut him off without realizing it, my voice low, “I know.”
“Youknow?” He chuckles. “You saw her?”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I sigh. “Yeah, sort of. Her palm saw my face, real up close and personal.”
