Sunday afternoon smelled like chlorine, charcoal smoke, and peach cobbler.
Dylan stood waist-deep in the pool, sunlight flickering off the water like shattered glass, arms stretched up as his niece screamed in delight.
“Ready?” he asked.
“THROW ME, UNCLE FYLAN!” She squealed with her sweet little lisp.
He launched her into the deep end with a laugh, and she hit the water with a cannonball splash that soaked his chest and the edge of his mama’s rose bushes.
“Again!” she shouted, resurfacing with her goggles crooked on her face.
“You tryna drown me?” he teased, slicking back his hair. “Go catch your breath first, water bug.”
Across the yard, his dad stood at the grill in flip-flops and an old Magnolia Bluff football tee, tongs in hand, flipping steaks with surgical focus. The scent of sizzling meat drifted through the air as his mama came outside balancing a tray with baked potatoes, sour cream, and a pan of her famous yeast rolls.
“Y’all better not let those babies get sunburnt!” she called as she set the tray down.
“They’re lotioned up, Mama,” Daisy replied, holding her youngest on one hip while sipping sweet tea with the other hand. Her wife, Laila, was stretched out on a lounger, sunglasses on, scrolling through something on her iPad.
Meanwhile, Dylan tossed a football to his nephew, who stood at the diving board, knees wobbly but grinning.
“Alright, buddy. You jump, I’ll throw.”
His nephew jumped, arms flailing, and Dylan lobbed the ball with perfect timing. The kid caught it mid-air and fell into the water with a triumphant splash.
“YESSS!” he screamed when he surfaced.
“Gonna draft you to the Tritons,” Dylan said.
Hours passed in the way Sundays should — slow, warm, and full of family noise. After the kids had dried off and changed into pajamas, they all sat at the patio table. His dad served the steaks while his mama passed out plates like clockwork.
The table was full: laughter, teasing, seconds of cobbler.
And for a few rare, golden hours, it was easy to forget the rest of the world.
No interviews.
No NFL pressure.
No late-night texts from the girl who still made his pulse skip.
Just family.
After dinner, Laila wiped cobbler off sticky fingers and murmured something to Daisy about bedtime.
The kids hugged Dylan goodnight, squeezing his middle and asking if he was playing with them tomorrow too. When they disappeared inside, Daisy turned to him.
“You sticking around a little longer?”
He shrugged. “I can.”
She smirked. “Cards? Or you scared?”
“Not scared,” he said, already walking toward the house. “Just merciful.”
Dylan stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing plates while the sound of cartoon lullabies echoed faintly from upstairs.
The air inside still carried the sweetness of his mama’s peach cobbler, the tang of steak seasoning clinging to his fingertips. A summer breeze floated through the open window above the sink, lifting the sheer curtain and cooling the sweat still drying on the back of his neck.
