I know for a fact the twins have matching tattoos. I went with them when they got them done, but I chickened out on mine. I’m about to answer when Mr. Morgan clears his throat, giving us a look.
Kash refocuses on the game, and drops the subject, even though I’m sure it kills him to. Their parents weren’t super happy when they got them a week after turning eighteen, but they couldn’t stop them.
“Has Cora gotten one yet?” Mara asks.
“Not yet,” Atlas answers. “I have the perfect one in mind, though.”
My head whips to him. “Really?”
Smiling, he nods. “Why do you sound so surprised?”
I don’t have an answer. Looking down at my coat-covered arms, I try to imagine myself with tattoos and come up blank. “Maybe I’ll get something little, like a flower or something in black ink,” I think aloud.
“No,” Atlas says, his eyes finding mine.
Everyone else is engrossed in the game.Seth is watching the plays, not making any comments, Kash is not so subtly sneaking glances at Mila, and Rhett is chatting with Mr. Morgan about cars. I look at him in confusion. “What do you mean,no?”
Atlas turns his head, his gaze meeting mine. “I would never put anything dark on your body, Cora.” The breeze cuts through us, and his hair blows up at the sides under his hat. It makes me want to run my hands through it.
Atlas grabs my hand under the blanket and twines our fingers together. “There is no amount of color in this world that would do you justice, but damn if I won’t try, Firefly.”
His response leaves me speechless. I don’t know what to think when he says things like that to me. My biggest worry is that one day, Atlas will realize that I’m not as special as he thinks I am. It will hurt when he learns that I’m too busy or have to cancel on him because I have something with Noah and decides it’s not worth the hassle. ThatI’mnot worth the hassle.
Focusing back on the game, I look in time to see Noah kick the ball into the net. Cheering along with the other parents, he looks back at me and smiles widely. He’s such a good kid, skull tattoo and all.
The game ends about twenty minutes later. Noah’s team wins by a goal, but at this age, it’s supposed to be more about having fun.
Standing, I stretch and start to gather my things. Mara is the first to greet Noah when he comes over to join us. “Good game, punk! That was some goal.”
“Thanks, Mara! I did good!”
“You sure did.” I hear Matt before I see him. He’s walking over with his duffel bag on his shoulder, while Dane carries his. “How’s the rest of your week been, Cora?”
“Her week has been fine,” Atlas answers for me.
Shooting him a look, I turn to Matt. “It’s been good. Noah will be back to school on Monday.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. I can’t believe that kid said what he did.” He shakes his head.
“Same,” I agree with a nod. Noticing that the other threeguys are standing off to the side with the Morgans, I decide to keep it brief. “I hope he learns to be kinder.” I know it sounds lame, but it’s true. There’s already enough ugliness in the world.
“Oh, I don’t know. His dad coaches the other team, and the guy’s a tool, so I’m not surprised his kid acts how he does.”
Following Matt’s line of vision, I see a small light-haired boy standing next to the other coach. Nudging Noah, I look down at him. “Is that Dylan?”
Judging by the scowl on his face, I’m guessing it is. “Yeah.”
Before I can say anything at all, Atlas turns away and starts walking toward the pair.Shit.“I’ll talk to you later, Matt. Great game, Dane!”
Looking to Mara, I gesture toward Atlas, then Noah. Her eyes widen, and she yells Noah’s name and waves him over.
Running to catch up, I get to Atlas right as he says, “Are you the father of the little punk who made fun of Noah?”
The man turns to face Atlas. I can already tell what he thinks as he looks Atlas up and down. He sees the tattoos and automatically makes a judgment. “What’s the big deal?”
“I’ll tell you the big deal.” Atlas steps into his space. Fortunately, most of the other parents have left, but I’m afraid that if we stand here too long, we’ll attract a crowd. I watch as the woman I assume is Dylan’s mom walks over.
“Is there an issue here?” she questions, looking from Atlas to me. I’ve seen her type before. She’s wearing leggings tucked into boots, paired with a sweater and a puffer vest. The woman looks like every other quintessential soccer mom.
