“Grant.” Mom's voice, and I turned to find her standing in the hallway, looking smaller than I remembered. She was fifty-eight, her hair more grey than brown now, lines around her eyes that hadn't been there the last time I'd seen her. But her smile was the same—warm and relieved and just for me.
“Mom.” I crossed the space and pulled her into a hug, feeling her squeeze me tight.
“I'm okay,” she said against my chest. “I'm okay. Just scared. I didn't know what to do.”
“You did exactly right. You didn't engage.” I pulled back, hands on her shoulders. “I'm sorry. I should've warned you this might happen.”
“You can't control the media.” She looked past me to where Jace was standing awkwardly by the door. Her expression softened. “And you must be Jace.”
Jace straightened slightly, and I saw the nervousness in his eyes even though his face stayed calm. “Yes, ma'am. It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry it's under these circumstances.”
“Oh, don't apologize.” She moved toward him, and before Jace could react, she'd pulled him into a hug too. “I'm just glad to finally meet you. Grant's told me so much.”
Jace shot me a look over her shoulder—surprised, maybe a little panicked—but he hugged her back carefully. “He has?”
“Of course he has.” She pulled back, hands on his arms, looking him over with a mother's assessing gaze. “You're healing well?”
“Getting there. Physical therapy's helping.”
“Good. Come sit down. Both of you. Cal made coffee.”
Cal was already in the kitchen doorway, and his eyes went to Jace first — just for a second, one quick involuntary flicker — before he got control of his face and leaned back against the counter like he'd been standing there all morning with nothing on his mind.
“Cal, this is Jace,” I said. “Jace, my brother.”
“Hey.” Jace extended his hand, easy and natural, the version of himself he'd learned to deploy in public.
Cal shook it. “Yeah, I know who you are.” Completely flat. Utterly convincing. “Grant talks about his players constantly. It's exhausting.”
“He talks about me specifically?”
“I didn't say that.” Cal looked at me. “I didn't say that.”
I stared at him. “You have his jersey.”
“I have several jerseys. I'm a fan of the sport.”
“It has his name on it, Cal.”
“Grant.” Cal's voice went very careful and deliberate. “Do you want coffee or not.”
Mom was watching all of this with barely disguised delight, which was somehow worse. “Cal made coffee,” she said again, like that was still the relevant information.
“Clearly,” Jace said, and I could hear him working very hard not to smile.
Cal pointed at him. “I like him.”
“Don't.”
“Too late.” He disappeared back into the kitchen, and I heard the sound of mugs being pulled from the cabinet with slightly more force than necessary.
Mom guided us to the living room, and we sat on the couch while she took the armchair. The house smelled like coffee and the lavender candles she'd always loved, familiar and grounding in a way that made my chest ache.
“How bad is it out there?” I asked Cal.
“Bad. Three vans right now. June's team showed up about twenty minutes ago with legal threats, but they're not leaving.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Good news is, they can't actually do anything except stand there and look menacing.”
“Still feels like an invasion.”
