“It’s a bunch of little kids awkwardly chasing a soccer ball and falling all over each other and the ball for twenty minutes so their parents can take photos and videos. That’s it.”
“Sweet Pea didn’t want me to tell you this—she’s shy about these things—but she asked to come. She likes balls. And little kids. Even if they pick the wrong balls. But she’s shy, so she made me make up the story about hearing an old lady scream so you wouldn’t be suspicious.”
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“It’s a great opportunity for me to play nice with your brother and compliment his daughter’s skills.”
I pinch my eyes shut briefly again. “I swear on Monopoly, Fletcher, if I have to break up a fight between you two?—”
“You won’t.”
I cross my arms and stare at him.
He stares back for a millisecond before he cracks and smiles again.
“One of you ending a fight by knocking the other out doesn’t count,” I say.
I’m well aware that his smile means he knows exactly why I’m glaring at him, but I still need to say it out loud to make sure that he knows I know he knows, and to make sure that he knows I won’t tolerate him breaking my ground rules on what he’d call a technicality.
“People show up for drama, Goldie,” he says. “He’d be doing the whole club a solid if he let me knock him out.”
“All while Shade records it for posting to your socials?”
He winces. “Ah, no. Shade quit this morning.”
There’s something in his expression that says he’s telling the truth on this one. “Why?”
“Job offer in LA.” He slides a look around us and lowers his voice. “Might’ve been ablow joboffer too. Wasn’t getting that from me.”
I should not giggle at that.
I shouldn’t. “I’m going to go coach my kids now.”
“Make sure you tell them they’re doing a good job. Athletes respond well to positive affirmations.”
He’s in amood. The good kind of mood.
The kind of mood you’d expect if he’d gotten off instead of only him gettingmeoff last night.
His eyes are crinkling and his smile’s popping out far more often than I ever would’ve thought possible from the scowly faced man who passed out on me at a blood drive a few weeks ago.
I scratch Sweet Pea behind the ears. “Thank you for coming to cheer me on, Sweet Pea. If you’re my good luck charm, I’ll have to treat you to a reward.”
She barks and grins at me.
Beck and I get the littles organized and the game underway. His kids are in yellow shirts, and mine are wearing blue. The pint-sized field has chalk boxes drawn on it to show each player the position they’re supposed to stay in, with one child from each team in each box, and they are freaking adorable.
After the first ten-minute half, where we stop every two to three minutes to rotate positions, we huddle up for a water break and a pep talk.
And that’s when I realize things are going sideways with the parents behind me.
But it’s not Fletcher and Silas.
They’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking Campbell’s dad from our huddle.
“He’s not moving fast enough and the coach sucks,” he says.
“Say that about my sister again—” Silas starts, but Fletcher interrupts him. “Your kid’s four. Let him be a kid.”
