“You mean checking in on me?”
“Well, yeah. That too. But you usually give me more information than Steven. I swear, when I call him, it’s like talking to a caveman who swallowed a dictionary but refuses to use it.”
A full smile spreads. “Maybe if you didn’t lecture him on what he needs to work on, he’d be willing to say more.”
Three beeps sound, and then the car engine starts before I hear the phone being switched over to Bluetooth. “Is it my fault I’m usually right?”
“No, but you could bite your tongue sometimes. It might just change the conversations you have with those you want to help.” I can all but hear my middle child rolling his eyes at me. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. “Yes. Steven’s new coach started working with him yesterday.”
“Is he having him focus on his breakout route?” I can’t stop the chuckle from coming out. “See, I knew that was part of his issue. Maybe I should be coaching him.”
“How about you just focus on school work and your play.” All of my sons have played sports successfully and will most likely end up as professional athletes. Miles got a scholarship to several different schools for football as a quarterback, and Wyatt got one for baseball. Steven has scouts watching him, and he still has another year left. Wyatt and Miles received multiple offers from schools all over the United States, but when Caleb got sick, they both chose a school in Colorado. “Speaking of, how is it going?”
“It’s going. Matheson is still starting.” Miles has never liked being second, but Matheson is a senior, and Miles will get his chance next season.
“Next year, it’s all you.”
“Who’s the coach working with Steven?” He blows by my response, a clicking sound echoes, and I hear him shift the car into park.
My pulse accelerates, and my throat tightens. “Uncle John’s friend…Jake.”
“Are you telling me J.T. ‘The Jet’ Thornton is helping my gremlin of a little brother? Okay, that just isn’t fair. Why does he get to have all the fun?”
“I’m not so sure he would say he’s having fun.” An image of Steven’s exhausted body skating off the ice last night pops up. “He’s getting the workout of his life.”
“Yeah! From Dad’s favorite player!” My stomach flips at Miles' comment. “When is he practicing again?”
“I’m pretty sure they’ll be hitting the ice after Steven practices with the team.”
“Tonight?!” Miles' voice hops up an octave, and I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m calling Wyatt, and we’ll be there!”
“Don’t you have stuff—”
“Nothing more exciting than meeting J.T. and watching Steven get beat up.” I shake my head, laughter bubbling up. The boys have always been competitive, but they love watching each other when doing drills. “And Mom?”
“Yes, Miles?”
“I miss Dad, too.”
My throat tightens as guilt moves through me at my son’s words. “I know, honey. I love you. Can’t wait to see you and Wyatt later.”
If only I were just missing Caleb, that would be so much easier.
Chapter Seven
Jacob
Thetinklingofbellsrings out as I enter The Bleacher Bean, covering my exhale as I attempt to calm my sprinting pulse. I shouldn’t be here. John was clear last night, and yet, just like when we were kids, I can’t stay away from Becca. I even told myself I’d go straight to the arena, yet here I am.
My eyes roam the back of the shop, only to find no one behind the counter. When a voice calls out that doesn’t belong to Becca, my gut dips, disappointment filling me,
“Hi there, what can I get you?” Becca’s employee, Michelle, I think her name is, asks. Then her eyes narrow in recognition. “Wait, Jake, right? You like your coffee black, yes?”
A smirk slides across my face. “Impressive. Yes, just black.”
“Michelle.” My heart slams against my ribcage as Becca steps into the room, looking down at some papers in her hands. “I’m going to head out. I have a few stops before—”
When she looks up, and her gaze meets mine, a thrill runs all the way to my toes. Her eyes round in surprise, and a lopsidedgrin pulls up at the corner of my mouth. “Hi, Becs.” I shove my hands in my front jean pockets. The urge to reach out and touch her is overwhelming.
