He grinned. “Strategic.”
“This is definitely not what I pictured when I heard charity function,” I muttered.
“And yet,” he said, voice a little softer now, “you still came.”
“Cam basically blackmailed me.”
He tilted his head. “Cam mentioned it. I invited you.”
I looked at him, then away. My heart was doing too much again. “You’re the one who told me it’d be freezing.”
“Still true,” he said, nudging my elbow gently. “But the kids are hyped, the cameras are here, and you make me look good.”
I snorted. “So I’m your PR prop now?”
“You’re a very pretty prop with strong opinions on carbs and questionable soccer commentary.”
That made me smile before I could stop it.
We stood there, not talking for a moment. Not touching. Just existing in the same space. I hadn’t expected this to feel so… normal. So easy.
A little boy ran past, yelling Kieren’s name like he was a Marvel superhero, waving a foam finger. Kieren grinned and high-fived him like a pro before turning back to me.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re already here. Might as well see what all the hype’s about.”
I hesitated.
Then I stepped forward.
“Fine,” I said. “But if I get hit with a soccer ball, I’m blaming you.”
“You can sue me later.”
I tossed him a glare over my shoulder, but it didn’t have any heat. Mostly because I was already smiling again.
Damn it.
The chaos had leveled up.
By the time the drills started, the gym was a full-blown circus—whistles, cones, cheers, and kids sprinting in every direction with the kind of energy that should’ve been illegal before noon. I found a spot against the wall, clipboard still in hand like some kind of emotional support item, and tried to blend in.
Tried being the operative word.
Adam was already in his element—shirt slightly rumpled, hair pushed back with dramatic flair like he was starring in his own superhero movie. He spun the ball on his finger, dribbled between cones like he was dancing, and then slid to a stop in front of a group of third graders like he was announcing the next act in a Vegas show.
“Who wants to challenge the king?” he called out, striking a pose with his hands on his hips.
Every single hand shot into the air.
I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.
A few feet away, Derek had somehow recruited a fan club of little girls who followed him around like ducklings. He whistled dramatically every time he passed a cone, tossing the ball up and catching it behind his back like it was choreographed. His voice rang out like a game show host’s—equal parts enthusiasm and flair.
“Eyes up, shoulders back, and remember—smile like you’re about to win!”
The ducklings squealed in unison.
Then there was Caleb—sweet, reliable Caleb. He crouched down to tie a kid’s shoe, patted him on the back, and sent him running with a solid, “You got this, champ.” Every time a kid scored or even got close, Caleb gave the kind of high five that made them beam like they’d just won the World Cup.
