“That’s nice. What about your mom and dad?”
“I have a dad.” Wyatt’s head perks up. “Mom says I do. But we haven’t met yet. We will, though. One day.”
He’s so certain. He knows exactly which of my heartstrings to tug. Because I know his story, personally. I’m almost angry with myself for bringing it up. “And you like living with Maggie?”
The boy’s blue eyes skirt over to me once more. “Of course. Maggie is my very favorite person. She plays soccer with me, and she lets me make banana cream pie any time I ask.”
I peer at him, thoughtful. “Banana cream?”
“It’s the very best of all the pies. Have you had it?”
I press my lips together, thinking. “Never.”
Wyatt gasps, and the dust storm of kicking, running, mauling children halts to look over at us with his wheeze. When there’s nothing to see, they return to their twister of soccer.
“Never? Mr. Cruz, you gotta change that. It’s gonna be your favorite. You can come over for dinner and I’ll get you an avocado and make you a pie.”
“An avocado?” He mentioned them before, but I’m not exactly sure why. “What’s with avocados?”
“All soccer players eat avocados. You don’t know about that? Oh boy.” Wyatt shakes his head. I’ve lost some clout with this kid.
“I’ve eaten avocados. Not regularly, not for soccer, but?—”
“You might be able to do that fancy kick with a head butt goal like Aunt Maggie if you eat avocados.”
I puff out my cheeks. “Yeah. Maybe.”
A woman on the sidelines wiggles her fingers at me. The same blonde in the bright pink jumper that commented on my accent earlier. She smiles as the whirlwind of soccer players buzzes past me and Wyatt. One of the kids kicks the ball, and it flings from their clustered group into the small net.
Five kids cheer while three girls glare past them at Wyatt—and at me.
“Nice job, Kash!” Maggie says, focused on giving her team pointers as they play. Has she even noticed Wyatt and I sitting out?
“Miss Maggie!” one of the girls whines. “That’s no fair. ’Cuz Wyatt and Mr. Cruz aren’t doing nothing to help us out!”
Discomfort fills my insides. I’m going to be fouled here, too—at Little League. I peer at Maggie, waiting for her yellow card to fly into the air.
But she just sets both hands on herhips. “You’re right, Heather. This really isn’t fair. Should we play boys against girls?” She points to herself.
My ears perk up. She’s going to play with us? The muscles in my neck go taut. I’m here for that. I absolutely want to see if McCrae’s all tricks, or if the woman knows this game like she thinks she does.
“I was explaining the avocado rule!” Wyatt grumbles to the girl, not caring that his aunt might play alongside us. “He didn’t even know about avocados, Heather!”
Heather rolls her eyes at him. “Nobody likes avocados, Wyatt!”
“Messi does.”
“Does he?” I ask him.
“Yeah. And nobody’s better than Messi. ’Cuz avocados give you super strength and speed.”
“Wyatt,” Maggie says. “You start us out.” She stands on the field, forming a diamond with the rest of the girls on her team.
“Miss Maggie,” Heather whines—she doesn’t like the boys getting to start this round.
“They have one less player,” she tells the girls. “The boys start.”
Slowly, Wyatt dribbles the ball two feet, then three. Maggie directs her team, making them wait before they all rush in. She stands back, letting the little guy have a moment. He winds up to kick one more time, but misses the ball completely and falls onto his back.
