3

 

 

 

Half a dozen excuses play through my mind when I wake up Sunday morning, every fabrication a foolproof way to get me out of this meet-up.

 

Can't come. Sudden onset of a vicious stomach flu.

Wish I could make it, but this emergency root canal's gonna take a while.

 

Just got some shitty news from my Doc. Turns out I'm allergic to people under the age of 18 & I'll go into anaphylactic shock if I'm in the vicinity of one for more than 5 minutes. Fuckin' weird, right? Don't try and Google it—apparently I'm the first documented case.

 

Each tempting bluff has my fingers hovering over my phone, aching to text Coach and bail on him and the kid.

But that's just not the kind of dude I am.

I don't shirk responsibilities, I don't flake out on plans, and I sure as shit don't go back on my promises. I'm a man of my word—if I say I'm gonna do something, you better believe I fucking do it.

Even if I really don't want to.

So instead of putting one of my many feigned lies to the test, I get my ass in my SUV, turn the radio to max volume, and head over to the Hansons'.

I'm on auto-pilot as I cruise down the country road, the familiar scenery passing by in a colorful blur. I've made this drive so many times in the last three years, I'm almost positive I could do it with my eyes closed.

Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the modest, red-brick home. As I pull into the driveway, I spot Coach on the front porch. He's sitting in a patio chair, hunched over and furiously scribbling away on a clipboard, most likely about something soccer related. Our season starts in less than a week and he tends to over-prepare. The man wants another national championship title as much or more than my teammates and me.

I give the horn a quick honk to break him out of his trance. He stands, lifting his pen in greeting as I put the vehicle in park.

"Collins. Thanks for coming. How're you doing, son?"

"Great," I mumble as I shove my keys in my pocket. My answer is equal parts sardonic and unenthusiastic, but Coach doesn't comment on my obvious reluctance. "What about you?"

"Good, good. Come on in."

He waves me forward and I follow him up the entry steps.

"Whoa."

The second I step inside the home, I'm instantly disoriented. They've completely changed the layout of their living room since I was here last week for Sunday dinner. Furniture flipped around, a bunch of new blue-and-white decor... If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was in someone else's house.

I wave a hand over the unrecognizable space. "Y'all felt like redecorating?"

"That would be Erika's doing," Coach says with a grunt. "She's been antsy about Beverley's arrival, wanting every damn room rearranged and organized in preparation. Turns out you don't need to be pregnant to do that 'nesting' thing."

"Apparently not." I glance around, noticing it's more than just a simple revamp of the room's design. Every square inch is gleaming as if it's been meticulously polished. Erika's usually a stickler for a tidy home, but this is venturing into operating-room levels of cleanliness.

"Looks like you guys scrubbed this place sterile, too."

"It's been a week filled with bleach, feather dusters, and non-stop vacuuming. A long week." He taps his shoe against the laminate flooring. "She insisted I mop and wax this floor three times over. Wanted me to do it again this morning, but the woman's lost her damn mind if she thinks it can get any cleaner than this."

I look down and yup. I can see my reflection in the faux-wood surface, clear as day.

Mr. Clean doesn't have shit on the Hansons.

"So," I say as I peer towards the back of the house. "Where are they?"

"On their way. Shouldn't be more than five minutes," he responds as we walk into the bright yellow kitchen. He opens a drawer and shoots me a grin. "While it's just us men, I might as well break these out."

After fumbling around for a moment, he pulls out a package of individually-wrapped cigars.

"Here." He tosses me one of the thick stogies. "Celebratory smokes."

I roll the massive cigar between my fingers and read the pink cursive words on the packaging.

"It's a Girl." I laugh. "Congrats, Coach."

He huffs in response before pointing to my hand with sudden realization. "Don't actually smoke that, son. Need your lungs in tip-top shape for opening weekend."

Considering I'm a freaking goalkeeper, I'm not sure how much lung power he thinks I need to cover the 8' x 24' territory I'm responsible for. I could smoke two packs a day and still do my job properly.

But I don't wanna add another stressor to his already-full plate, so I stuff it in my back pocket and nod. "I'll save it for after season."

"Good answer."

I lean against the countertop, piercing Coach with a curious look. "You ready for this? Dad status? It's a big deal."

A heavy breath precedes his answer. "Don't know if anyone is ever truly prepared for parenthood, especially in a case like this," he admits. "But we'll see how it goes."

"What's she like?" I ask, trying to pry some details out of him.

I'd like to know what kind of shitshow I'm getting myself into here.

"A teenager," he answers with a deep chuckle.

"Yeah, I got that." I roll my eyes. "Anything else?"

"She's a sweet kid. Bit rough around the edges, but hey. She's been through a hell of a lot."

His vague response isn't making this situation any more palatable. Before I can grill him for more info on the mystery child, we hear Erika's car pull into the drive.

A minute later, the front door squeaks open.

"Home sweet home," Erika gushes as she leads a scowling tween into the kitchen.

Immediately, Coach's rough around the edges comment makes sense.

The tiny girl's decked out in all black: black ripped skinny jeans, black combat boots, and a black beanie hanging loosely off the back of her head. Most jarring is the makeup, which I didn't even realize 12-year-olds wore. The heavy-handed, coal-colored eyeliner circling her eyes gives off major raccoon-vibes, and the black lipstick makes her look like a back-up singer in some '80s rock band.

The only pop of color on this kid is her freakishly vibrant red hair, a shade so unnatural and off-putting that if the box was labeled anything other than Ronald McDonald Red she could sue for false advertising.

And the icing on top of the grunge, wannabe-tough-chick aesthetic is her graphic tee—a black shirt that reads "I'm not antisocial. I just don't like you".

Christ Almighty.

She's a walking, talking ball of teenage angst.

There's no fucking way this is gonna go well.

Erika spots me and a smile pops up on her face. "You're already here! Great. Cameron, I'd like you to meet Beverley."

"Bev," the girl snarls.

"Oops. Sorry, honey. I'm so used to you going by Beverley. This is Bev," Erika corrects herself as she squeezes her niece's shoulders.

Miss Black-is-the-new-black shakes off the motherly gesture and I step forward.

"'Sup, Bev? I'm Cam."

I hold out my hand, trying to start things off on the right foot, but she snubs my offer. Instead, she gives me a suspicious perusal, those eyes that I can barely see under all that make-up traveling from my head to my toes.

"You're a giant."

Yeah, no shit, Bev.

I pull my hand back and jut up a brow.

"And you're a shrimp."

She really is, though. Kid can't be more than 4'10'' and looks about 90 pounds soaking wet.

She crosses her arms and glares at me. "I'm still growing."

"Not sure about that."

"Oh, you two are funny!" Erika emits a loud, nervous laugh. "I think you'll get along great."

I snort. "Not sure about that, either."

Coach clears his throat, leveling me with a stern look. "Yes, they certainly will."

He's using his "head coach" voice, letting me know his words are more of an order than a statement.

"Where's my territory?" Bev questions.

Erika points down the hall. "Second door on the left. Why don't you and Cam go get your bags from the car and put them in your room? You two could chat a bit while I get brunch started. I'm making chocolate-chip pancakes," she says with a warm smile. "It was always your favorite when you came to visit."

"When I was five," Bev mutters.

"Well, we'll have to see if it still passes the test seven years later." Erika takes the snark in stride, pulling an electric griddle from a cabinet as she waves us off. "Go on. Car's unlocked."

The pair of us head outside, the shrimp's boots scuffing noisily against the ground as she follows my lead. When I open the trunk, only two worn-down bags come into view.

It looks like she's packed for a slumber party, not a move, but the sight doesn't surprise me in the slightest. Back in the day, I kept all my shit in a dirty Jansport I dug out of a dumpster. Less luggage makes those inevitable moves from foster home to foster home much easier.

I grab the largest of the two items—a duffle bag that's practically bursting at the seams. When I toss it over my shoulder, something sharp as hell digs into my spine.

"Damn." I wince at the sharp sting.

"What?" Bev raises a brow in challenge. "Too heavy for you?"

"Yeah, actually. You might wanna consider cutting down on the make-up stash." I jiggle the duffle with a frown. "It's a little excessive."

She gives me an unamused look as she snatches the remaining bag and stomps back towards the house.

If she's gonna dish it out, she better be able to take it, too.

The attitude continues when we step inside her new room, but I can't blame her for that. The explosion of pastels, glittery wallpaper, and pink polkadot bedspread are probably more suited for a Disney-Princess-obsessed six-year-old. The girly oasis looks like Bev's personal version of hell.

"Disgusting," she moans.

"It's not that bad," I try to insist, but my real opinion seeps through in my tone.

I'm definitely on Team Bev for this one.

She lets her backpack drop to the floor and grabs a fuzzy unicorn from the night stand.

"I'll torch you later," she threatens before hurling the innocent stuffed animal at the wall.

After setting her bag on the ground, I rub my lower back.

"Seriously—what the hell do you have in there?"

"Be careful with that!" she snaps as she elbows me out of the way.

Kneeling down, she unzips the massive duffle to reveal a buttload of skater shit. Helmets, elbow pads, boards...

"You like to skate?" I ask.

She pulls out the longboard that I'm pretty sure is responsible for my bruised spine and a helmet covered with faded brand-name stickers.

"No," she deadpans.

Okayyy.

I shove both hands in my pockets as we partake in an awkward stare down. Dunno how she manages it, but she looks bored to tears and pissed off at the same damn time.

What in the fresh hell am I supposed to say to this girl?

"So, uh, what grade are you in? I'm guessing middle school or someth—"

"Let me stop you right there," Bev suddenly interrupts. "I don't know what your angle is or how you got roped into this gig by my aunt and uncle, but I don't need a babysitter. Save the small talk for your next charity case because I'm not interested. Cool?"

Before I can even process her words, she's on top of the bed, prying open the window. With a swift kick, the protective screen goes flying. She tosses her longboard after it and turns to me, fingers in the form of a peace sign. "See ya never, Camden."

"It's Cameron." I watch in disbelief as she slips her twig-like body through the narrow opening. When she disappears from view, I head over to the window and poke my head out. "Nice chat, Bev."

She ignores my remark as she bends over and slaps the dirt off her knees. Tucking the longboard under one arm, she jogs off in all her rebellious glory.

The invincible mindset, the reckless, devil-may-care temperament...

Fuck.

It's like a window straight to the past—I was the exact same way at that age.

Which means this is gonna be even worse than I thought.

I heave an annoyed sigh and shuffle back into the kitchen, Coach's and Erika's eager eyes on me.

"Well?" Coach prods. "How'd it go?"

"Not bad." I rest my forearms on the raised bar counter and shrug. "Except for the part where she told me to stop talking and jumped out the window."

"What?!" Erika flings her spatula up in surprise, a splatter of pancake batter now coating the ceiling. "Cameron! We shouldn't just let her up and leave." Her eyebrows squish together in contemplation. "Should we? I don't know what's appropriate. All the information about raising teens on the internet contradicts itself. This parenting thing is going to be..." Her words trail off as she shakes her head. "I want to do this right. For her."

Coach walks up behind his wife, rubbing her back in reassurance. "You're going to do fine. We're going to do fine. Look." He points out the bay window. "There she is, right out front. She'll be alright."

"If you say so." Erika flips a perfectly cooked pancake and adds it to a hearty stack, gooey chocolate chips melting down the sides. "But I still want you to bolt that window shut!"

"On it." Coach scratches his head. "But I could've sworn her room already had a sealed window. Guess not."

"Speaking of her bedroom..." I interject. "Ruffles and bows and dolls? She was on the verge of a freaking brain aneurism at the sight."

"The moment I picked her up this morning, I knew I screwed up," Erika admits with a frown. "I'm going to have to take her to the store and let her pick out a few things. I swear she was all about sparkles and dresses three months ago. This current fashion statement is new to me."

Coach grins. "She's always had a flair for the outlandish."

"This is true." Erika blows a stray piece of hair from her face and meets my gaze. "What are the kids calling her look nowadays? Goth? Emo? Punk?"

"Not a damn clue," I say as I raise my shoulders. "But it kinda freaks me out."

"She's just finding herself, I suppose." She cranes her neck, taking another peek at Bev skating in the street. "You'll need to keep an eye on her during y'all's meet-ups."

Coach nods in agreement. "Still good with a few hours every Sunday afternoon?"

I scrub a hand over my face. "I dunno if she's gonna be down for that."

Translation: I don't know if I'm gonna be down for that.

"I don't want you to feel forced into this, Cameron, but we'd really love if you could spend some time with her," Erika reiterates as she removes the final pancake and flips the griddle off. "Bev's social worker said it'd be extremely productive for her to talk with someone who grew up in a similar situation. You, in particular, because you've escaped a negative environment and found success in both academics and athletics."

Coach gives a sharp nod. "You're a true example of overcoming your circumstances, son. It'd be fantastic for her to see that it's possible."

The guilt-trip is real, but the intentions behind it are commendable. This isn't about dumping Bev off to get her out of their hair for a couple hours every weekend—it's about doing what's best for the kid. They'll do everything they can to fill in the cracks of her shitty upbringing with happy memories and positive role models.

In case you haven't been clued in already, the Hansons are fucking amazing people.

Erika's selfless and pure-hearted. Coach is, too, although it's hidden behind his tough, man-in-charge exterior.

If it wasn't for these two, I wouldn't have discovered my penchant for soccer. I wouldn't be in college right now. Hell, with the route I was headed down, I probably wouldn't've even graduated high school.

And that's exactly why I swallow my hesitation and give in.

"Sunday afternoons sound good."