I squeeze her shoulder. “Sure thing.”
“You just tell me a date,” War says, focused on me now. “I’m sure Josie and Scarlett would love to host a whole family night at the house. Between Cam and me, we’ve got enough bedrooms for everyone.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He shakes his head. “Forget that nonsense. We’re Bolts. I’ve told you to call me War.”
I know and I do it in my head, but it’s so intimidating to say out loud.
Bray chuckles low again. He knows exactly what I’m thinking.
And I prove him right as I stutter out a “Yes, sir. I mean War, sir. Thank you, sir.”
I roll my eyes at myself.
“How’s coaching going?”
War coaches his other son’s high school team, and word is that he and Daniel Hall’s son are entering the draft next year.
He shifts, sticking his thumbs in his pockets.
Instantly, I can feel Avery staring at his fingers. They’re covered in tattoos.
“Daddy,” she whispers.
I shake my head.
“But Daddy.” She tugs on my pants. “He’s got drawings on his hands. Can I get drawings on my hands?”
Brayden and War let out matching chuckles. “Your kid’s a riot,” War says.
I roll back on my heels. “Don’t I know it.”
“Coaching is good,” he says. “It’s my last year, so I’m soaking it all in.”
“What are you going to do next?” I ask.
With a shrug, he scans the arena. “It’s hard to come back here and not want to just come home. Then again,” he says, what looks like wicked delight flashing in his eyes, “it’ll be the first time in eighteen years that my wife and I have had the house to ourselves. We might just hang outnaked”—he mouths that word, and Avery doesn’t notice, thank fuck—“all day and night.”
Brayden groans. “Come on, Dad. I’m at work.”
Chuckling, War throws an arm around his son’s back. “Let’s go find your brother. He wants you to take him around again.”
As the two of them disappear, Avery squeals and runs toward the door.
I don’t have to look to know who she’s spotted. But I do anyway, eager to set my eyes on her myself. And when I do, I nearly stagger back. Adeline’s black pants are so tight they’re molded to her long athletic legs. Her white sweater looks soft to the touch, and those lips I love to obsess over are painted red. Her long dark hair is down and blown out, probably in preparation for tonight.
She looks like a fucking Charlie’s Angel walking our way.
“Jesus, Addie Langfield cleans up nice, huh?” Bobby mutters under his breath.
The guys aren’t used to seeing her like this. While she dresses in suits after games just like the rest of us, she keeps her hair braided.
Right now she looks like a runway model. My fucking runway model.
“She certainly does,” I agree.
Bobby waggles his brows. “So you and her?”
