One Look: A grumpy, single dad small town romance(87)

“What do you think?” I asked. “Have I earned a nickname?”

Wyatt’s grin widened as he stepped closer. “I’m sure eventually something will stick, but I don’t care what it is as long as I can call you mine. Now, let’s shower.”

I sucked my lower lip into my mouth. I loved those little moments when he transitioned from coach to lover but forgot to drop the hard edge from his voice. “Oh . . . Coach Wyatt,” I teased. “Postgame shower? I think I know that story line.”

Wyatt reached forward and hooked a finger into the belt loop in my jeans. “Oh yeah? How does that one go?”

I batted my lashes at him. “I think it’s the one where the coach needs some cheering up and ends with me on my knees.” My hand trailed down the hard lines of his abdomen and lower, until I palmed him through his pants.

Wyatt growled. “You are devious.”

When the gap between us closed, Wyatt released a breath and planted his forehead on mine.

“The only thing I need right now is you, under a hot shower, with your hands in my hair and screaming my name.”

My heart squeezed, and I climbed him like a tree. “You’re on, Coach.”





EPILOGUE





Wyatt





Two Years later


I swallowed a groan as I watched a preteen tap-dance through a painfully awkward rendition of “My Heart Will Go On.”

Talk about a downer of a song choice.

It was the third Little Miss Blueberry Pageant I’d had to endure, and time wasn’t making it any less painful to watch. Next to me, Michael’s knee bounced, and I glanced at him.

“Relax, it’ll be fine.”

He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “I know, but this is her year. I can feel it. She deserves this.”

I smiled to myself. Michael was a good kid. He was twenty-three now, and though we’d all hoped his dreams of the NFL would pan out, it wasn’t in the cards. He had, however, become one of the best offensive graduate assistants I could ask for. When he was not working with quarterbacks and receivers, he substitute taught at a local high school.

He had also become an extended part of the Sullivan family.

I slapped my hand on his shoulder, hoping to distract him. “Did you see the fancy footwork Joey pulled off on Sunday?”

Michael’s narrowed eyes sliced in my direction. “I taught him that move.”

An easy laugh erupted from my chest. After he’d graduated, Joey had been a second-round draft pick, and his career had shot off like a rocket. Same with Kevin. Both were integral players on their pro ball teams, and I felt nothing but sheer pride anytime I saw them play.

Of all my players, those three boys and the summer I’d spent keeping them out of trouble had bonded us for life. Lark still called them “our boys” despite the fact they towered over her and outweighed her by a hundred pounds.

I scanned the crowd for my wife and frowned.

The talent portion of Pickle’s pageant showcase was scheduled to begin, and I hadn’t seen Lark since she’d waddled off toward the Gyro Man’s food truck. My chest ached when I caught a glimpse of her long brown hair lifting in the breeze. Her smile was wide, and she held up the small white Styrofoam container like it was baby Simba on Pride Rock.

I shook my head and laughed. When she approached, I stood from the seat and pointed. “Sit down.”

She frowned at me and ran a gentle hand down her large pregnant belly. “Daddy’s so grouchy.”

Lark groaned softly as she maneuvered into the small chair beside Michael. She was weeks away from giving birth to our first child together, and though she liked to grumble about it, she loved how protective I had become of her.

Still a bit out of breath, Lark lifted her hair from her shoulders and sighed. “I just saw Pen. She’s ready.”

I moved to stand behind her, swooping her hair to the side and gently rubbing her tired shoulders. My eyes searched the edge of the stage, hoping to catch a glimpse of Pickle and discreetly throw her a thumbs-up or something.

When the music shifted from one performer’s modern interpretive ribbon dance to Metallica, I paused.

Lark’s shoulders bounced under my hands, as she could barely contain her giggles.

“What did you do?” I growled.

She snort-laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Then she proceeded to stuff a mouthful of gyro into her face and smile up at me with chipmunk cheeks.

What a shit.

With the darkening sky, my beautiful, sweet nine-year-old confidently pranced up the stage, wearing a black leotard with fringe and rhinestone sparkles all over it. She was wearing heavy makeup I didn’t love and was holding a long black baton.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. On the beat drop, Penny lit the ends of the baton on actual fire, and I nearly had a stroke.

Michael shot to his feet, both fists in the air, and shouted, “Hell yeah!”

The crowd followed suit and was enamored with how graceful and lively she was as she twirled her flaming death stick and leaped across the stage.

Lark clapped and cheered while I was freaking the fuck out.

Finally, the song came to a close, and the entire crowd was on their feet and screaming for my little girl. Her smile was a mile wide, and she extinguished her baton with a sassy hand on her hip and a wink.