Some of my favorite memories would be when my dad and the team would have dinner together the night of the bracket reveal, learning ifthey did enough to make it into the tournament. Sometimes, they won their conference championship which cemented their spot, but it was all about what side of the bracket they ended up on.
When I was in college, my mom always made sure to be at our viewing party for women’s basketball. I knew my dad wanted to be there, and he did end up making it to one, but it always felt like this thing that brought us closer together.
After my injury, my dad tried not talking about basketball. He was having a successful tourney run but he felt like it would be rubbing it in my face. I begged him to keep me in the loop. To not let my injury take anything else from me.
Now, my dad calls me about his team at least once a week once the season is in session. I love it.
“How’s the rec center? Almost ready for you to put the kids back in there yet?”
My muscles ache at the mere thought of the amount of work we’ve done to try and expedite the process. “Slowly but surely. Shouldn’t be too long.”
More balls bounce in the distance and I know my dad’s about to be pulled in another direction. “Well, Sadie, just wanted to check in. Hope you’re having a good Sunday.”
“Love you, Dad,” I say, hand on my car door, about to get in to go to Colson’s for our breakfast date.
I can’t help but think about my parents on the short drive to Colson’s. After hearing about Colson losing his mom and not really having a dad, it really shines the light on how great my childhood was. How supported I’ve felt. I’ve always known I was lucky, but Colson’s experience breaks my heart in a way that’s hard to try and understand.
I wish he had more.
My chest warms when I think of him, then my cheeks flush when I think of the way he makes me feel when he touches me. It’s unreal.Unlike anything else in the world. Nothing has ever made me feel the way Colson does.
My daydream is cut short when I realize I’m already on his porch, knocking on his door. He yells for me to come in. The second I step inside, I stop short.
The house smells warm, like butter melting into something sweet. Like sugar and bananas. But there’s also something savory that makes my stomach flip with excitement before my brain can even catch up.
“Wow,” I gush, taking my shoes off. "Doesn't smell like PB and J.”
Colson laughs from the kitchen. “Rude.”
I follow the sound of his voice and find him standing at the stove in only his gym shorts, flipping tiny pancakes. There’s a plate stacked with golden mini banana pancakes with steam still rising. Next to it rests an omelet folded perfectly over bacon, parmesan, and caramelized onions—actualcaramelized onions, not the rushed, sad version people lie about online.
I blink at the spread. “Colson.”
“Mm?” He doesn’t look up, very focused on not burning anything.
“I was told you only know how to make PB and J.”
He finally looks at me, smug. “I never said I only knew how to make it. I said I’m excellent at it.”
I laugh, stepping closer as he slides an omelet onto a plate.
I lean against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen and ask, “What’s the occasion?"
He shrugs. “I like breakfast. And I overheard you asking Maren about some diner when we were with the kids. You seemed awfully interested in the breakfast menu.”
My chest does a small, annoying flip. The thing about Colson is he doesn’t miss a detail. Before I can respond, he nudges a mug toward me. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
I glance down at the French press and freeze. The smell hits me now—rich and familiar, a little nutty, with that gentle sweetness I recognize.
“What kind of coffee?” I ask quietly.
He pauses. “Picked it up at the bakery.”
The same coffee I brought the day I watched him paint his address above the garage. When I asked if he’d be interested in helping me with the summer tournament. The day we almost kissed.
Our fingers brush, and he leans in enough to press a quick kiss to my temple before putting his fingers under my chin, lifting before his lips touch mine. Like he can read my mind.
“Breakfast is served,” he announces.
