"I know." Easton's voice was rough. "But for every letter like Sophie's, there are fifty that are… less wholesome. Marriage proposals. Threats from people who think I'm a deadbeat dadwho doesn't deserve Casey. Conspiracy theories about whether I actually knew all along."
"You're getting threats?"
"Nothing serious. Just the usual internet bullshit." But the way he said it told me there was more he wasn't sharing. "My security team is monitoring it."
"You have a security team?"
"As of last week. They recommended I get one after someone showed up at my condo building asking for my apartment number." He must have seen my face because he added quickly, "It's fine. They were escorted out. Nothing happened."
"Easton—"
"This is the cost of fame, Palisade. I knew that going into the press conference. I just…" He picked up Sophie's letter again. "I didn't think about letters like this. About kids looking up to Casey because she has a dad who went on TV and admitted he wasn't perfect but was trying, anyway."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I don't know." He looked at me, and I saw the exhaustion in his eyes. "What if I screw it up? What if I prove all those skeptical commenters right and I'm not cut out for this?"
"Then you'll have tried. Which is more than Sophie's dad did."
He was quiet for a long moment, then: "Should I respond to her? To Sophie?"
"That's not my decision."
"I'm asking your opinion."
I thought about it. About Sophie, eight years old, watching a press conference and seeing hope. About Casey, six years old, still figuring out what it meant to have a famous dad.
"I think," I said carefully, "that if you respond, it should be through official channels. Through your publicist or the team. Something that can't be traced back to Casey or used to find her."
"So, she can't have her own fan mail."
"Not until she's old enough to decide if she wants it."
Easton nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll have Marcus draft something generic. 'Thank you for your letter. Casey appreciates your support but isn't able to respond personally because of her age.'"
"That's good."
"Is it?" He laughed bitterly. "Because it feels like I'm disappointing an eight-year-old who just wanted Casey to know she's not alone."
"You're protecting your six-year-old from being overwhelmed by strangers' expectations. That's your job."
After he left, I kept Sophie's letter. Put it in a folder labeled "For Casey - When She's Older."
Someday, when she was old enough to understand, she should know that people saw her father's press conference and felt hope.
Even if that hope came at the cost of her privacy.
Even if we'd never asked for any of it.
Easton
March
I left practice a few minutes early, making sure I got everything perfect for tonight. Five months. It had been five months since I discovered Casey was my daughter. Five months since that October day when everything changed.
We'd been living together officially since that night at the lookout when we stopped fighting what we both wanted and committed to building this family together. The press statement, the captaincy crisis, all of it had finally pushed us to choose eachother. Thanksgiving came three weeks after we moved in, our first major holiday as a united family. Christmas brought the chaos of coordinating gifts from three grandparents. Valentine's Day in February marked our first as an official couple, complete with Casey making us elaborate construction-paper cards that now hung on our refrigerator.
And yesterday, we celebrated Casey's seventh birthday with both families at the skating rink, her joy so complete it made my chest ache.
