“Mr. Hutch!” Ava calls out from her bedroom window as we approach the building.
“Hi, Ava,” I say, craning my neck to look up at the tiny head with a ridiculous amount of hair.
“Can I interview you for my school project?” she asks.
“Of course. I’ll see you up there,” I reply, and she grins. I love that kid.
“You’d make a good dad,” Al says as we head toward the elevator. Normally, I wouldn’t take it, but Al can’t walk up all those stairs, and my hip is bugging me. Cold weather always makes my joints with old injuries act up.
We walk out onto the rooftop, and Al gets the bar ready and heat lamps going. It’s surprisingly warm once he has it all set up.
“Hi!” Ava squeals as she runs over and crawls up onto the stool next to me. She places a tablet down and then turns to me, interlocking her fingers and stretching her arms.
She releases them and nods. “OK. Let’s get started.”
“Ava, let Mr. Hutch at least get a drink before you start interviewing him,” Carly says as she walks up behind us.
“Mom!” Ava groans. “I need to get this done.” I fight a laugh. This kid is almost six, but she might as well be eighty-six.
“It’s not a problem. Go ahead,” I urge as Al sets a beer down for me.
She grins, and I take a sip of my beer while Al makes her a Shirley Temple. “What’s it like to be famous?” she asks.
I nearly choke on my drink. Clearing my throat, I try to figure out how to answer that. I’m not really famous, at least not any longer.
“Oh, uh, when I played ball and people would recognize me, I guess, it was cool. I felt proud of my work and proud of my teammates. It could be a little weird when people you don’t know come up to you and ask for photos,” I admit.
Ava frowns. “Mom!” she calls out to Carly, who’s standing down at the other end of the bar chatting with Bray.
“Yes?”
“Do I have photos with Mr. Hutch?” she asks, and I press my lips together to keep my smile in check.
“Oh, probably?” Carly answers, her lips twisting as she thinks.
“Can you take one just in case? For my project, of course,” Ava insists.
“Come here, kid,” I say as I open my arms, and she jumps from her chair into my lap and turns to face her mom, who snaps a photo of us.
Carly puts up her thumb. “Got it.”
“Great. Now, is it really that hard to play football?” Ava asks as she turns in my lap and looks up at me.
This time, I start laughing. “Ava, you’re a trip. Yes, it’s hard, sometimes.”
“Will you teach me how to play?” she asks.
“Sure. Have you ever tried rugby?” I ask her.
“What’s that?” she says, her nose scrunching up as she pulls her paper over and tries to write down my answer. She’s a bright kid, but she’s young and she doesn’t know how to spell some words yet. Carly has told me she’s quite advanced for her age. The school has apparently talked about skipping a grade.
“It’s like football. I used to play when I was younger, but my dad wanted me to play football, so I stopped,” I admit.
“Do you miss it?” she asks, and my heart hurts again. I miss so many things about sports. I suppose I should be thankful that I can still work out at the gym.
“Every day,” I answer.
“What’s your advice for someone who wants to play football?” she asks. “Or rugbet?”
