I definitely stare.
Fletcher has zero business showing up for my Little Kickers soccer clinic finale, but there he is, striding in like he owns the place, long legs taking confident strides in his jeans, his T-shirt hidden behind Sweet Pea’s sling, and a plain black jacket covering his arms.
I recognize that jacket.
It hasPoundersin massive letters on the back.
Much better than his Pounders sweatpants.
He drops to one knee and takes a hug from Hallie, one of his massive arms briefly looping around her back.
“Don’t youdare,” I hear myself say.
I’m talking to Silas, but I’m also silently sending awhat the fuck are you thinking?to Fletcher.
Last night was—okay, I’m not going to finish that, because if I think about last night, I’m going to get hot and bothered and here on the soccer field with my kids is not the place.
Compartmentalize, Goldie.
Compartmentalize.
“Is that the guy who was bothering you, Coach Goldie?” Coach Beck says beside me.
“Yes. No. I mean, he bothers me, but not in the bad way.”
More parents look at me.
Usually they’re looking at Beck, which is completely and totally understandable. Especially since the former internationally known underwear model is also wearing a sling today. But unlike Fletcher, Beck’s sling has an actual baby in it.
How often do you get to stand in the same breathing space as one of the world’s objectively most attractive men while he holds a baby and coaches another daughter’s soccer practice?
He should be the main event, and I say that with all the love and respect for his wife, who is also a fabulous—and very patient and understanding—human being. And also with complete acknowledgement that I’d pick watching Fletcher over watching Beck for personal reasons.
But no one’s staring at Beck.
They’re watching me confess to beingbotheredby Fletcher, and yes, they’re appropriately reading between those lines.
Or so say their knowing smirks and grins.
Silas moves, and I shake myself out of my stupor. “Do not—I repeat,do notdo something that’ll get you plastered all over the news.”
“What the fu?—”
I pinch his elbow. “Language. Other people’s kids are around.”
“I told him?—”
“Let it go, Silas,” Brittany interrupts.
“It’s good to play nice with your teammates,” I agree.
He glowers at me.
“And Fletcher’s not wrong,” I continue. “You play dirty, and that does your game a disservice. Not onlyyourgame either. The entire sport.”
Hello, sore spot.
That’s a glower I don’t get from my brother every day.
