"Night Daddy! Night Reese! Tell Fred about turkey!"
The screen goes black.
I put the phone down. Reese scoots closer on the couch.
I pull her against me. Thursday suddenly feels huge—my son, my team, my family all in one room.
"Can you believe this?" I say. "Six months ago, I didn't even know Tyler existed. Now I'm hosting Thanksgiving with my three-year-old son."
"And I'm helping you navigate toddler meltdowns and planning turkey dinner."
"It's insane." I run my hand through my hair. "Sully meeting Tyler. My son hanging out with my teammates. Like this is my real life now—being someone's dad."
"Are you ready for it?"
"What if Tyler gets overwhelmed with all those people? What if he cries the whole time? What if the guys don't know how to act around a kid? The boys have zero filter. What if they teach Tyler some horrible word?"
Reese laughs. "Then Jessica will definitely murder you."
"I'm serious. This is the first holiday where I'm the dad. Where I'm responsible for making it special for him." I pause.
"It’s going to be perfect for Tyler. You've thought about which teammates to invite. You know he can't have too much pie."
"Jessica reminded me about the pie."
"But you listened." She shifts to look at me. "Logan, do you realize what we're building here? You and Tyler, us, this whole messy complicated thing?"
"A family?" The word comes out like a question.
"Yeah. A weird one with shared custody and teammates who curse too much and a kindergarten teacher who stages elephant cookie interventions. But still."
"I really hope Tyler's going to remember this Thanksgiving," I say quietly. "His first one with me."
"So we'll make it a good memory."
"Elena's going to boss everyone around in the kitchen."
"Obviously. And Nate will drink too much wine and tell embarrassing stories."
"Sully will let Tyler have three pieces of pie behind my back."
"At least."
We sit there, imagining it. This impossible new life taking shape. My phone still has Tyler's fingerprints on the screen. My shirt still has apple juice stains.
"Hey Logan?"
"Yeah?"
"We should probably clean that shirt before Thursday. And maybe child-proof your apartment."
I look around at my penthouse—glass tables, sharp corners, white furniture.
"Shit. I didn't think about that."
"We have four days."
"We?"
