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With my smile locked in place, I shake hands with the Phantoms players, doing my part as a team leader, while the heaviness in my chest continues to weigh me down.

It was one game. In the scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter. We’re still sitting pretty at the top of the standings. But I can’t deny the fact that it hurts.

As I walk off the field, I let my head fall back and instantly regret it when my eyes lock on the box I arranged for my mom and sister.

Henley’s jumping up and down, cheering along with the rest of the Phantoms fans, and the sting of jealousy bites me. I get it; I was a Phantoms supporter growing up. But does she have to be so happy?

I raise an eyebrow when she looks my way, and while I doubt she can see me, she stops jumping. After a quick wave, she turns to flash me the Storm half of her jersey and I exaggeratedly roll my eyes.

Only Henley would get a custom-made Phantoms/Storm jersey.

I normally wouldn’t pay any attention to what she’s wearing or anyone for that matter, only it was kind of hard not to. It seems that someone running the Jumbotron must have had a thing for my little sister because I swear, she was on the damn big screen every time I looked during the warm-up.

Hell, she was probably there all throughout the game, but I didn’t check. I stopped looking when Lily appeared beside her. It was already going to be hard enough knowing Lily was in the stadium; it would be worse if I kept seeing her.

Because it turns out, I’d forgotten how goddamn beautiful she is.

The image I had on repeat in my mind didn’t even come close to doing her justice.

With my eyes still on the box, Henley lifts a little girl into her arms, and even from this distance, I know that it’s Ava. After spending the night talking to her mom, I feel like I know her. She throws her head back, laughing at something my sister says, and my heart jolts. From the way Lily spoke about her, I can’t imagine there’s another little girl more cherished than she is.

One of my teammates calls out from near the tunnel, pulling my focus, and I wave before walking his way.

When I’m almost to the sideline, I glance up at the box one last time and find Lily where my sister had been, her glorious smile aimed my way. My steps falter, and I almost lift my helmet but think better of it, giving her a swift nod.

She pouts, undoubtedly because we lost the game, and my lips curl of their own accord, making me chuckle inappropriately as I walk off the field.

The guys look my way as I enter the locker room, their faces as ashen as mine should be, and I offer them the appropriate reaction, redirecting my focus. Commiserating with my team.

And the second I look away, I grimace. This is exactly why I avoid distractions, so I don’t get fucking distracted.

We lost our first game. We’ve been on fire all season and we dropped the ball. Literally.

Atlas tried to hide his smug expression after the win, but I caught it before our eyes met.

I don't blame him. I’d have probably looked the same if we’d won.

The problem is, I’ll still be overanalyzing every little detail of the game while attending the goddamn wedding. And he wants to “talk,” as he so graciously reminded me when we met as captains ahead of the coin toss. “Don’t forget you aren’t avoiding me at the wedding this weekend.”

I hadn’t forgotten, as hard as I’d tried.

My mind flashes back to our moment, and I internally groan.

He completely threw me off guard.

I’d prepared myself for the two of us to meet as captains. I’d even prepared for him to drop a comment or two about the wedding. What I wasn’t expecting was for him to hold his palm out flat in front of me, his stance confident as he waited for me to join him in a handshake we haven’t done in years. A handshake we invented when we were young and naive, thinking we’d be friends forever.

It had taken me a few long seconds to get out of my head, but after a beat, I’d smiled and uncharacteristically obliged, accepting his olive branch of sorts. Not that he owed me one.

After the referees interrupted us, we tossed the coin and shook hands, wishing each other luck.

And that’s where our interaction should have ended.

My focus should have reverted back to the game.

It didn’t.

I’m not sure what possessed me to pause instead of walking away, but there was something about the nostalgia of the handshake that had me shouting his name as he headed toward his sideline. The memory attacks me as though I’m reliving it again now, before morphing into the many times we said the exact same thing as teenagers.