Josie nods. “It was insane. We’ve never been this close before.”
“Yeah,” Kylie adds. “I think I forgot to breathe for most of it.”
Lindy beams. “I told you he’d be good.”
I ruffle her hair. “You’re biased.”
“And correct,” she says.
We walk out together, Lindy glued to my side, her arm looped through mine like she’s afraid I might disappear if she lets go. I don’t tell her she’s squeezing too tight. I let her. Outside, the night is warm and alive, the city humming with postgame energy. I steer them toward my car, automatically counting heads, making sure everyone’s accounted for.
“Okay,” I say once we’re settled. “Rules.”
Lindy groans. “Oh my God.”
“You are not going clubbing while in LA,” I continue. “You are not sneaking off. And if any of you think about doing something stupid?—”
“We won’t,” Josie says quickly, laughing.
Kylie nods. “Promise.”
Lindy rolls her eyes. “You’re still such a dad.”
“I had to be,” I shoot back. “You were feral.”
She grins, unrepentant.
We end up at a late-night diner not far from the arena, neon lights buzzing softly overhead. It’s crowded but casual, exactly the kind of place where no one looks twice at a group like ours. I slide into a booth with Lindy beside me, Josie and Kylie across from us, menus slapped down in front of us.
“This is surreal,” Kylie says, looking at me over the menu. “Like, you’re actually a League player.”
“Don’t inflate his ego,” Lindy warns. “It’s already a problem.”
I snort. “Says the person who screamed my full government name in public.”
“Worth it,” she says.
We order milkshakes and fries and way too much food, the table filling quickly with plates and laughter. Lindy talks a mile a minute, recounting every moment she thought I might look her way in the stands.
“I waved,” she says. “You didn’t wave back.”
“I was in a game,” I point out.
“You could’ve tried harder.”
Josie grins. “She nearly cried when you scored that second basket.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Lindy glares at her, then turns back to me. “I’m proud of you,” she says, quieter now.
Something settles in my chest, deep and steady. “Thanks, Linds.”
We fall into easy conversation after that, the kind that comes from shared history and unspoken understanding. We complain about our parents—about the constant checking in, the thinly veiled concern disguised as advice.
“They keep asking if I’m being responsible,” Lindy says, stabbing a fry. “What does that even mean?”
