“Do you have a ball?” Lucca lifts his brows in question.
Wyatt nods emphatically. “Aunt Maggie has lots of soccerballs. And she lets me use them whenever I want to. Even when I kick them over the fence and the neighbor’s dog chews on them.”
It’s a lot of information all zooming from Wyatt’s mouth.
Lucca simply nods. “Well, if you have a ball, I have tricks.”
“On it! I have a ball!” Wyatt booms. He races from the backyard and into the house.
There’s a moment of awkward silence before Dad says, “Have you ever thought of signing and selling merch on auction websites?”
“Dad,” I hiss out a breath.
“What?” Dad shrugs. “It could be a lucrative side business.”
Lucca chuckles. “Maybe I should consider it.”
“I’d buy something.” My father is still grinning like he’s one of the six-year-olds running around this backyard, rather than what he is, a seventy-one-year-old with costly hobbies. “I wouldn’t even have to hide it. Now that Maggie’s decided to play nice.”
“Is Maggie playing nice?” Lucca says, and he winks at me. What is wrong with the man’s eyeballs? The testosterone inside his body believes that if it sees anything female, it must charm, wink, and flirt. But that’s not going to work on me.
I swallow and tilt my head as if to examine Lucca more closely. “Play nice? With you? Never.”
He grins, but before he can respond, Wyatt comes running. He practically slams into the front of our resident Red Tail. I can only imagine the conversation he’d have with his coach—injured by a six-year-old. But Lucca reaches out, catching Wyatt by the shoulders before he can cause any harm.
“Ball,” Wyatt puffs, lifting up the soccer ball in his hands, his little chest heaving.
And then the man walks to the center of the yard, like themain attraction Lindy referred to him as, to perform tricks. I’m lucky only a handful of my team parents are here—and that Blaire isn’t one of them.
I’m grinding my teeth and trying not to groan at everything Lucca does. It’s difficult, as my best little buddy is currently worshipping the man. I still have no idea when Wyatt and my dad became huge Lucca fans.
“He’s good,” Lindy says, watching to my right.
“And he’s hot,” says my mother to my left.
“Mom!” I snap. And sure, objectively, factually, Lucca is hot. But that is one hundred percent beside the point.
“She’s right,” Lindy says. “He is. Why do you hate him again?”
I cross my arms, tightening the fold over my chest. “Where’s yourboyfriend, Lindy? Should you really be calling guys hot when you just announced Brent as your partner?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m pretty sure he thinks Lucca’s hot, too.”
“Gah,” I groan just as I spot Lindy’s boyfriend. Brent has given himself a front-row seat. He and Dad are lined up next to all the other five- and six-year-olds to watch Lucca perform toe taps, pullbacks, and stepovers. “You know, I bought a piñata. The kids haven’t even looked at it now that he’s here.”
“Get over it,” Lindy says.
“Well, I think he’s nice. He came, didn’t he?” Mom says, not catching the clue that I was attempting to deflect the conversation topic. “And he’s a hit with Wyatt.”
“He really is. He’s sweet, Mags.” Lindy’s eyes are glued to the Brazilian currently attempting to teach Wyatt—who can’t even kick a straight line—a bicycle kick. There’s no way my nephew is going to jump, swing his non-kicking leg upward, fall onto his back, and strike the ball. He’s only going to get Wyatt hurt.
I step onto the grass, cross the space to where the boys are playing. “Leave the teaching to me,” I tell Lucca. “You stick to being the show.”
Wyatt somersaults back to his place in line with his friends.
“Party pooper,” Mom says upon my return.
“When did you all turn traitor?” I face the pair. My sister and mother try to look around me to the Red Tail behind.
