“All we did was run last time. We didn’t actuallydoanything,” Jake whines.
This kid has never been a whiner. Not when he was a baby, not as a toddler. Not even in the first couple of years after we lost his daddy.
“Get your cleats on and buck up, little trooper. It’s time to put your game face on and give this a go.” I climb out of the car and pray that he listens and does just that, just this once.
The transition from sweet mama’s boy to surly tween is a dicey tap dance of uncertainty.
At the back of my car, I pop the hatch and grab the leash neatly coiled in the corner.
“Come on, Bronson. Sit.” I point to the edge of the tailgate and rub my hands over the short black fur of his face.
I might get attitude from my kid, but at least the dog still listens to me and gives me the puppy-dog eyes.
I reach to clip his leash on, but like a flash, Bronson takes off in a blur, running across the field.
“Where’d he go?” Jake screeches. Panic peppers his voice because while he might think he’s all grown, he’s still just a little boy who loves his dog.
“Get your cleats on, and let’s go. I’ll—” I stop, dumbstruck by what’s playing out in front of me.
Jake climbs out of the car and stands next to me, looking as astounded as I feel. “Is he dancing, Mom? Is Bronson dancing like he used to?”
There, in the middle of the field, my dog is jumping and wiggling around the tall, broad stack of muscle. Wide-eyed, I take in the sight, and a gasp catches in my throat. Bronson’s not an old dog by any means, just now showing a touch of white on his chin, but he hasn’t acted like this in ages. Not since…
“Mom? Why is he doing that now?” Jake appears beside me. “You said he hasn’t danced since Dad died.” His words are breathed out in a hush.
We stand statue-still as Miles jogs toward us, trying to grab at the worn leather collar that’s bouncing all around staying just out of reach because, to Bronson, this is the best game ever. Miles darts his gaze to the cars pulling into the gravel lot, concern pinching at the corners of his eyes. My dog, however, could not care less. His focus is singularly on the man approaching us.
Miles slows, dropping to a knee, and Bronson does a nosedive, half underneath him. He rolls to his back, twisting as all four paws kick at the air.
“Toss me his leash?” Miles asks, one big hand splayed across the white-and-black dappled chest of the squirming dog, the other extended toward me.
Jake whips the leash from my grasp and runs, practically falling to the ground next to Miles. Other kids spill from arriving cars and run toward their coach, and the now thoroughly exhausted dog who’s panting and drooling heavily. Miles clips the leash in place and drops the loop into Jake’s hand.
Leaving the new kid on the team to be the center of attention, Miles stands and makes his way to me, Bronson watching him the entire time. “Think your dog might be happier to see me than the kids. ’Course, I’m not going to make him run drills for the next twenty minutes,” he says, an easy smile pulling at his lips. He rests a hand on his hip and shifts his weight, swiping at a glistening smear of dog slobber.
“I’m sorry. Here, let me…” I pull the sleeve of my hoodie over my hand and wipe at the mess.
It’s not until my hand is firmly attached to his leg that I pause and maybe die a little on the inside because my palm is resting against his thigh. His very muscular, very exposed thigh because those shorts he’s wearing areshort.
My cheeks flame as I pull my hand away like his skin is on fire. The burn of embarrassment simmers up from deep insideme. “Oh, for the love of God,” I mumble. “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.Jeez.” I glance around to see just how many people witnessed me molesting the man.
Thankfully, the only one who seems to have noticed is Miles. His easy smile, still in place, is enhanced by a rumbling laugh, rich and smooth like caramel.
“Thanks,” he says softly.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I just groped my kid’s coach. Not intentionally, but still. And to make matters worse, I kind of liked it. I pull my lips between my teeth and bite down on them. Nodding my head, I turn toward the group of boys gathered around Jake and a very pleased-looking Bronson.
“I’m going to take my dog for a walk, I think. Let you get on with your practice.” I wave my slobber-stained hand toward the field.
I’m used to being cool, generally full of grace, in awkward situations. Evidently, not today though. Not only is my dog acting like a fool, but I am, too.
I whistle shrilly, drawing attention, and Bronson stands, stretching out his back legs before loping toward me.
A series of sharp claps makes my shoulders jump, and my spine stiffens automatically.
“All right, boys, let’s stretch it out like Jake’s dog.” Miles winks as he passes me, trotting out onto the field.
The phone ringsa handful of times before Kate answers, laughing and out of breath. “Hey.” She can barely get that little word out before gasping for air.
