“Shit,” I mutter, raking my hands through my hair. “I’m stuck here for two more weeks. Maybe you can fly back down here for another short trip? At least then I could see her after practice.”
Mom and Peyton came down to see me for a long weekend early on in training. Thank fuck the Tridents are so supportive of players with families.
“No, she’ll be okay. She misses you, and it’s been a lot of change in a short period. But she’s a resilient kiddo. Coming down there again might sound like a good idea, but I don’t think it’s wise. She’s used to you being gone, and another travel disruption won’t help her adjust any faster. Besides, you’ve got to focus on the team.”
“Peyton’s more important than the team,” I immediately protest, even though, deep down, I know she’s right.
Mom nods. “I know you believe that, and that’s what makes you such a wonderful father. But think with your head, not your heart right now. Peyton’s safe; she might be unhappy at the moment, but she will be fine. I only told you about her sadness because I promised to always be honest with you about her.”
“And I appreciate that, Mom, I do. But what the fuck am I meant to do?” I exhale sharply. This is when it’s the hardest. When I know my baby girl needs me, and I can’t do a fucking thing about it.
“You’re meant to keep doing exactly what you always do. Focus on your job when you’re on the field and focus on your daughter when you’re not.”
My eyes close as I take in a deep breath. “Okay. You’re right.”
“Of course I am, I’m your mother.”
A small smile breaks free and I open my eyes to see Mom smiling, too. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you, honey. Now let me go and get your little girl.”
After a long chat with Peyton, where her somber little eyes almost broke my damn heart, I see a message from Monty confirming dinner plans. Dragging my ass off the couch, I force myself to shift out of guilty dad mode and into team player mode. Some days the transition is easier than others. Today, it’s really fucking hard.
Down in the lobby, I join the group of guys walking down the street to the Mexican restaurant Kai said has the best tacos in Phoenix. If any of them notice that I’m holding myself back, they don’t comment, and hopefully just chalk it up to being the new guy.
We sit around a large table, and a waitress immediately sets down pitchers of water and a large basket of chips, along with a trio of different salsas.
“Watch out for the red one, Sin.” Rhett leans over to tell me. “It’ll burn your fuckin' tongue off.”
“Darling’s just a wimp when it comes to spice,” Kai calls out from across the table. He takes a chip, scoops a generous amount of red salsa onto it, and pops it in his mouth. Rhett visibly shudders, taking a chip and dipping it in a green salsa, taking only a small amount.
“I’d just rather keep my taste buds intact.”
"Aren't you from the south?" I can't resist teasing, and the guys around the table all laugh. Rhett grins, and shrugs.
"Sure am. But I'm more a sweet tea and hush puppies kinda southern boy. Only place I want spice is in the bedroom." He winks and the table erupts again.
After some goading from Kai, I decide to suck it up and try the red salsa, which really is fucking spicy. Banter and laughter floats around me as the guys all settle in. Slowly, I feel myself relaxing and even enjoying myself. Peyton is forefront in my mind, but I’m skilled in compartmentalizing by now, so I just remind myself of what Mom said. She’ll be fine, even if right now she’s struggling.
“Alright, who’s ready for the fishbowl?” Monty stands, lifting a bag he carried here onto the table. Out of it, he lifts a large glass fishbowl. The guys around the table cheer as I look on in confusion.
Monty starts passing out pieces of paper and pens that he also pulls out of the bag, and all the guys immediately start writing. Looking over at me, Monty grins. “Tradition for the Tridents is every year at spring training, we come here for Taco Tuesday and fill this fishbowl with our goals and predictions for the upcoming season. Then, after the season ends, we get together for a barbecue and pull them all out to see what came true.”
My eyebrows lift in surprise. “Really?”
Monty just nods sagely. “The tradition started about five or six years ago when we had a trainer on staff that was really into the new age woo-woo stuff. They were big on manifesting your destiny,” he says with finger quotes. “But that year over half of our goals and predictions came true. So we keep doing it.”
I take the paper and pen he hands me, and stare at it for a minute. Goal setting isn’t exactly a new concept, but I can honestly say I’ve never done it at a taco joint with my teammates all around me, and I’ve certainly never put my goals into a giant fishbowl with a sticker of the team logo on the side.
But I play along. Only, instead of the obvious goals — win the championships or bat a three hundred average — I open my mind to something more specific. There’s a brief moment of hesitation when I think about the team reading my goals out loud at the end of the year, but fuck it. If I’m going to be on this team for the rest of my career, might as well bare my soul and put it in a fishbowl.
Putting pen to paper, I write.
Make a home in Vancouver for my family. Lock in this team as MY team and take it all the way.
Chapter seventeen
Willow
