Risky Play (Red Card #1)(42)

Had anyone walked up to me and asked me how I was doing after my father died, I was embarrassed to admit I’d probably have burst into gut-wrenching tears at the time.

“It’s Danny, right?”

He didn’t say anything.

“I heard you’re having a rough time . . .”

He scowled. “No offense, stranger that I don’t know,” he said sarcastically. Kid was probably eleven tops. “But I don’t need to hear it. Any of it. It doesn’t make it better.”

“It doesn’t,” I agreed. “It sucks.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not going to tell you it’s okay, I’m not going to tell you that you should be happy or that you’ll see him again—I’m not going to tell you that sometimes life happens and we can’t control things . . .”

He gulped as a wave of fresh tears ran down his cheeks. “Good.”

“Yeah. Good.” I nodded. “Screw ’em, right?”

His eyes widened.

“All the people still here that love you, that are in pain too, that want you to feel better—screw ’em.”

He gulped. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, suddenly feeling like I had more in common with an eleven-year-old than anyone else in my life. Ironic. “My dad died . . .” My voice shook a bit. I couldn’t stop the tiny tremors or the goose bumps that broke out on my arms. “He died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.” Danny didn’t say anything, so I kept talking even though it hurt my throat to get the words out. “He was at every practice, every game, he was supposed to be at all my new games. We were supposed to go on a trip.” I choked over the word. “He was upset that I decided to come to Seattle, and when he called, I didn’t answer the phone, Danny. I just . . .” Tears stung the back of my throat, but I couldn’t stop talking. “I blamed everyone, including the person I was with when he died.” I toyed with the grass in front of me. “I blamed everyone but myself because it hurt too much. Because it hurts, Danny. Because sometimes I don’t think it will ever stop hurting, and sometimes we hurt a little bit less on the inside when we’re mean and sad on the outside.”

I felt something sweaty touch my hand.

I looked down.

Danny had his hand on mine.

I turned it over and squeezed it.

He stared down at my hand and then looked up at me. “You were Papaw’s favorite player.”

Shit, this kid was going to make me bawl in front of Jagger and elementary school kids.

“Oh yeah?” I rasped.

“He said you were the most inspirational . . .” He frowned. “Inspirational person, that if you could play for a league, someday I could too.” He blinked back another tear. “Was he right?”

Typically, I didn’t give kids false hope.

I liked to inspire but not make it so they thought they could wrangle the moon if they wanted to.

But with this kid?

I’d tell him he could be Captain America if that’s what it took for him to believe that it could get better.

“Danny, he’s right. It sounds like he was a good man, and I know he’d want you to be here playing your heart out—he wouldn’t want you sad.”

Danny put his head on my shoulder and whispered, “I don’t think your dad would want you sad either, Mr. Slade.”

I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears in. “I think you’re right.”

“I don’t hear that a lot.”

I laughed and then released his hand. “Danny, thanks for listening.”

“I’m a good listener.” He squared his shoulders to sit a bit taller and then grinned. “Do you think I can go play now?”

“I think you absolutely should.” I stood and offered him my hand. He took it, dusted off the grass, and went flying.

He left the soccer ball.

I picked it up and flipped it over and nearly dropped it. In black marker etched across the white was the name Pablo.

My father’s name.

I shook my head as fresh tears stung my eyes. I gave myself a few seconds to gather my emotions then trotted over to Mitchell. “How’s it going?”

“I think I’m going to be a coach someday, I like bossing people around,” he announced.

I burst out laughing, tears replaced with humor. “Yeah, yeah, give the whistle back, little boss.”

He pouted but gave it back and joined the ranks.

And when Danny made his way through the next drill with a smile on his face, I had to ask myself if that talk was for him . . . or for me.





Chapter Thirty-Two

MACKENZIE

Something was different.

First of all he was whistling when he came home. Alfie even tilted his head in disbelief. I almost asked him if he was on drugs.

Especially when he swept into the kitchen, saw dinner on, and pulled me in for a hug, then kissed my cheek. “I was going to sell my soul for a nugget on the way home, then got your text that you made dinner.” His eyes bored into mine. “Thank you, Mack, you’re the best.”

My heart did a little flip as I waited for the other shoe to drop, like You’re the best but there’s too much salt, or You’re super great, but this isn’t working out.