“Me!” most of them chorus.
I hold my hand to my ear. “What’s that? I didn’t hear you. Who’s ready for fun?”
“Me!” they all shout.
“And who are we?” I ask.
“The Fishies!”they shriek.
I freaking love the names kids give their teams. “Go, Fishies!” I cry.
“GO, FISHIES!” they yell back.
“Let’s go play some soccer!”
They all run onto the field in complete disarray.
It’s so damn cute.
Especially with Beck corralling his kids too. They’re the Elbows.
I’m actively not asking why.
It’s three- and four-year-olds. There’s not always a logical why.
Campbell scores a goal in the second half, and all of the kids dogpile him. Beck’s kids score a goal too, and we end the game all tied up at three.
Which is fine with us.
And where I’d normally take my team to the concession stand for snow cones, instead, the parents produce a going away cake for me.
It takes everything inside of me not to cry.
Fletcher’s gone.
So is Campbell’s dad.
Silas refuses to reply to my silent questions, even though I know he knows what I’m asking every time I look at him.
But once all of my kids and their parents have said their final goodbyes, he does the last thing I expect.
He hooks an arm around my shoulder and says, “I’ll be by in an hour with a bunch of the guys from the team to get your books into storage.”
I stare at him.
He scowls back briefly, then turns to Hallie. “Let’s go get lunch, short stuff. Who’s ready for a steak?”
Hell’s freezing over.
I take two steps to follow him, a piercing ache shoots down my leg on my bad side again, and I sigh.
Copper Valley isn’t hell. It’s so far from it.
But it’s freezing over tonight, and I couldn’t be more grateful for my brother’s help with packing.
31
Fletcher
