“He’s even taller than I expected,” said Kyla, circling around him like a shark.
To his credit, Tucker didn’t flinch one bit. “You should know, I come with a warning label.” He smiled sheepishly. “Loud snorer. Hogs the bathtub. Eats an offensive amount of carbs. Oh, and I once wore socks with sandals in public.”
My sisters exchanged impressed looks.
“He’s a keeper,” Laurel praised, and Kyla just nodded.
I caught my dad lingering near the fireplace in the adjoining room, arms folded across his chest. He gave me a small nod. Reserved, watchful, but not unfriendly. Like he was waiting to make his judgment once the dust had settled. That was his way. Always had been, always would be. It was one of the only things we had in common—we were both creatures of habit.
Tucker noticed him too and extended his hand. “It’s really nice to meet you, sir.”
“Keith Heller.” Dad’s grip was firm, his brow slightly raised. “Congratulations on your big win last month. You boys played a hell of a series.”
Tucker shrugged modestly. “Had to impress someone.”
I bit back a smile as everyone chuckled, even my dad. And just like that, some of the tension in my chest started to melt away.
Dinner was a warm, noisy blur of second helpings and overlapping stories. Mom’s stuffing was legendary around these parts, full of sweet peaches, toasted pecans, and cubes of sourdough so soft they nearly melted into the gravy. The cranberry sauce was homemade—my sisters would mutiny otherwise—and the green beans were sautéed with lemon and almonds the way my dad swore he didn’t like but devoured, nonetheless.
My plate was a patchwork of all the side dishes: roasted root vegetables, vegan mac and cheese my sister Laurel had made just for me, and mashed potatoes with oat milk and olive oil that somehow still tasted like the real deal.
Tucker, of course, had everything—and seconds of most. His appetite had already endeared him to my mother, who kept placing more rolls near his elbow like she was trying to fatten him up for winter.
The only real hiccup came when my dad carved the turkey.
“You sure you don’t want any?” he asked, holding up a slice and glancing at me across the table. “It’s just the way you used to like it.”
“I’m good, Dad. I don’t eat meat anymore, remember?”
He huffed a little under his breath and set the slice down. “Seems a bit dramatic.”
The room quieted—not fully, but just enough for me to feel the words land.
Before I could come up with something diplomatic, Tucker jumped in, all easy charm and warmth. “Sandra, that stuffing is unlike anything I’ve ever had,” he said, nudging me with his knee under the table. “And I don’t know how any of y’all could pass up the sweet potato casserole. I’m going to have naughty dreams about those bad boys tonight.”
My mom laughed, tension dissipating like steam from one of her pies. “Finally, someone who appreciates my love of marshmallows.”
Tucker’s eyes met mine from across the table, and I mouthed a silent thank you. He just winked and stole the last crescent roll off my plate like the smug little shit he was.
Throughout our meal, my dad kept circling back to Tucker like he just couldn’t help himself. Like Tucker was the son he had always hoped for.
“That slide into home during game four?” He pointed his fork like it was part of the replay. “Split-second decision-making like that—you can’t teach it.”
Tucker smiled, but instead of soaking it in, he shook his head. “Brock wrote this whole breakdown of the play for his column. He called it ‘a study in controlled chaos.’ Honestly, it made me sound like I had a PhD in base running.”
My dad chuckled but didn’t let up. “Still. That final inning—hell of a clutch performance.”
Tucker gave a modest shrug and gestured across the table. “I was just trying to live up to the hype. Your son’s articles have the whole city thinking we’re some kind of superheroes.”
It kept going like that. With every compliment, statistic, and memorable play my dad brought up, Tucker volleyed back.
Each time he did it, my mom smiled a little softer, my sisters exchanged knowing looks, and my dad, to his credit, started looking at me a little longer. Differently, even. Like maybe I wasn’t just the guy sitting beside the star athlete—but someone whomatteredto him, too.
“Brock’s the one with the real discipline,” Tucker added at one point, resting his hand on mine. “He wakes up at dawn, writes until his fingers cramp. Anyone can train for a game. Sitting with yourself long enough to write a book, though? That’s a different kind of endurance.”
“A book, huh?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, I was going to tell you about that,” I said, my voice rough with nerves. I wiped my palms across my thighs. “I, um— I’ve taken a leave from the paper. I’ve had this book in me for a while, and now I finally have a chance to write it. And before you say anything, I’ve already found a great literary agent, and she thinks I show a lot of promise.”
