“Son.” My father takes my hand firmly before pulling me into a hug.
We’re similar builds, both standing a solid nine inches taller than my mother’s five-foot-five-inch frame. His scowl matches mine, or so I’ve been told. Same features, same mannerisms.
“Dad,” I say, squeezing him tight, not realizing until this very moment just how much I’ve needed my people.
I’m at the top of my class and my parents see to it that I don’t want for anything. But even with those fortunes, I still miss being around them, miss having someone close to lean on.
I break our embrace and throw my arm around Kai to give him a noogie.
“Ouch, jerk. Stop it.”
I let him go and he playfully throws up his hands. I lean forward, throwing a weak jab then effortlessly block his punch. I laugh and stand up straight, blocking another one of his hits. Then he reaches into the van and hands me a large Tupperware container.
“What’s this?” I take it from him.
“Frybread with zhiiwaagamizigan,” he says enthusiastically.
“Yesss,” I say in a near groan, immediately cracking open the top and breaking off a piece of the frybread. I pop it into my mouth, moaning at how good it is.
“Don’t let Kane eat them all,” Kai orders.
We chuckle as I unzip my duffel and put the treats inside.
“Grandma made extra just for them,” Mom adds.
The front window rolls down, a hand sticking out, waving me over. Grandma’s there, wrapped in three shawls, and sipping tea from the dented green thermos she’s had since I was a kid.
She smiles at me, her face more wrinkled than the last time I saw her, but she’s beautiful. Her silver hair is hidden beneath her shawls. She raises a shaky hand, silently calling me closer. It’s a weak gesture, her limbs trembling just a little.
Leaning down, I bring my face to her palm, my eyes shutting the moment she cups my face, giving my cheeks a pat.
“Grandmother.”
“I’ve missed you, little one,” she says, her tone full of warmth.
My chest swells, warmth spreading like wildflowers. It means a lot that she’s here—so much honor, so much history wrapped up in her ailing body. So if she wants to call me by a pet name she’s called me for as long as I can remember, so be it. Never mind the fact that I’m a six-foot, two-hundred-pound goalie who can take a hit like I’m made of steel. To Grandmother, I’ll always be her little one.
I palm her hands, nuzzling my face against hers. “Thank you for being here.”
She pats my face. “I wouldn’t miss it. Your grandfather would be so proud of you.”
I feel my mother at my side, her hand on my back.
“How are you sleeping?”
I avoid looking her in the eye. “Fine.”
It’s a lie. Truth is, I haven’t been able to sleep in days. Maybe it’s the pressure of it all; tonight, if we win, we’re going to nationals. And before we know it, college will be over. If we’re lucky, tonight’s match puts us closer to the draft and the pro league.
She knows I’m lying, brows arched, an invisible question mark above her head. Thankfully, she doesn’t push. Instead she pulls my letterman jacket closed then pats my heart.
Then my eyes drift past her across the courtyard. It’s Sam, walking to the entrance, her broken backpack strap—and curvy build—an easy identifier. She’s on her phone, obviously arguing with someone on the other end from what I can see.
I wonder if it’s the same person from the phone call I witnessed before.
“Bryden?” Mom’s voice snaps me out of my daze.
My gaze snaps back. “Yes. Sorry. What were you saying?”
