“I’m pretty sure we just need to cut all this up and throw it in a pot,” Ty says, already picking out a knife. I drop the tuber back on the counter and stare at him with an open mouth.
“Pretty sure. You mean, you don’t actually have the recipe?” My eyes flutter closed at this revelation. I should have known.
“I mean, it’s basically just soup, and I know most of the stuff that goes in it.” He picks up the sharp knife and runs the blade against a handheld sharpener while his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.
“Pretty sure and basically. This is how we’re doing this? Flying by the seat of our pants?” I rub my temples.
“You worry too much, bro. Why don’t you take a nice, long, hot shower while I get the prep done.” He slams the blade down into my mom’s butcher-block cutting board with enough force that it sticks. A sly grin tugs up his lip.
If this stew is edible, it’ll be a damn miracle.
“You know what? Fine. Yeah, you’re right. I’m gonna shower, and I’ll cook the meat when I get back out here.” Ty waves me off, his tongue covering his front teeth as his concentration centers on the first stalk of the kale-looking stuff he’s about to chop into bits.
My brother knows how to push my buttons. I love him fiercely, though. Other than Rowe, he’s my best friend. He also inspires the hell out of me. He finished grad school a semester early and is opening his own training facility for para-athletes by spring. I might be the one getting the buzz for next summer’s baseball draft, but Ty’s ten times the athlete I am. He just finished his first season ever of wheelchair softball, and already made ESPN’s Top Ten with two back-to-back dingers over the fence—a highlight I haven’t achieved yet, as he so lovingly—and regularly—likes to point out.
I leave the mad chef alone in the kitchen and head down the hall to the master bath. My parents bought the Colorado cabin last year, and ultimately want to sell their house in Louisiana and downsize, probably picking up a small condo wherever I end up getting signed. Ty is making Denver home, and I know for a fact he’s popping the question to Cass soon, maybe as soon as she graduates in the spring. I’ll have a lot of reasons to come here to visit no matter where I end up, and hopefully Rowe will be with me.
Rowe and I haven’t talked about the future since the end of last season. That’s when the talk about me and the draft and going pro got real. I know it’s unfair to expect Rowe to pick up and follow me around the triple-A ball circuit, from small town to small town, her life and dreams on hold while we chase mine. I just don’t know how to find a way to get it all—the game and the girl. The dream and the dream life. I won’t give up on it, though. When we need to have the hard talk, we’ll have it, and whatever is in our way, we’ll find a way around. My future has this girl in it—that I’m certain of.
Ty has connected his phone to the big speaker in the living room and is already filling the cabin with his music. It’s a little early to thump this hard, but thankfully, the thick pine door on the bathroom dampens the sound a little. The full spray of the shower takes care of the rest. I like my mornings peaceful, which is a rare occurrence with my brother in the house. I slip off my shoes and hop around, tugging off one of my socks. For being one of the top-ranked catchers in the NCAA, I have really shitty balance.
When I finally get my foot free, I stumble and catch myself on the side of the claw-foot tub. At first glance, I dismiss the small strip of plastic on the floor as an old tag, but something about its shape beckons me to look closer. I would never have seen it if it weren’t for my crummy balance. The thin stick rests under the front of the tub, nestled in a groove between two tiles. Someone missed the trash in the corner. Someone who probably did not want this stick to be found. This . . . pregnancy test.
What. The. Fuck?
“Tyson?” I shout my brother’s name and hold the stick in front of my face, a blue line across the tip. I scream my brother’s name two more times before flinging the bathroom door open and gripping the entry frame.
“Tyson, I know you hear me!” My voice echoes around the lofted ceiling just down the hall, and this time, it’s enough to cause him to pause his music.
“What?” he shouts back.
“I’m gonna need you to come here and see this!”
“Why do I have to come? You come to me.” he responds.
Typical.
“Ty, not the time, dude! Not. The. Time!” My knees are wobbling, and if I left this space right now I’m pretty sure I’d pass out. I hold on while I hear my brother spinning his chair wheels, the shadow of his form hitting the hallway before I make eye contact with him.
“You look freaked out. I swear to God, if you called me in here to kill a spider, I am never going to stop making fun of—” Ty’s joke stops right there when I hold the stick up between us. His throat moves with the hard swallow. He is having the same panic attack I am. I recognize it because I feel the same physical symptoms.
Both of our girls have used this bathroom in the last twenty-four hours. Looking back through this new totally-freaked-out lens, there was a lot of whispering and secret meetings in here last night.
“Bro, stay calm, stay calm,” Ty says. I’m convinced he’s talking to himself. He looks so far from cool. “First, we need to figure out what a blue line means. Maybe we’ve got this all wrong. If it means . . . what we are both probably thinking it means, then we move on to the next phase of this.”
“Next phase?” I look at him like he’s a moron. He is a moron.
“Phase Operation Who’s a Daddy,” he adds.
And suddenly, that hard conversation between me and Rowe seems closer to happening than it did five minutes ago.
Chapter Two
Tyson Preeter
Strangest thing is happening in my head right now. I am literally of two minds. On one side, I want that blue stick to mean I’m a dad. On the other side? I hope like hell it’s my brother. Not because I don’t want kids with Cass. I do. I do more than anything. But she and I have big plans, and I haven’t even proposed yet. Not that she doesn’t totally know it’s coming. Hell, she’s sent me no less than seven screenshots of rings she thinks are “pretty cool.” I might be daft sometimes, but I know when “pretty cool” really means “buy me one of these, ASAP!”
“You find it yet?” I bark at Nate. He’s already sorted through the kitchen trash and the two bags tied up in the canister by the garage. No evidence exists anywhere of the box this test came in.
“I’m Googling. There are basically a million of these things, so just trying to find one that matches.” Nate sounds panicked. I guess I’m panicked, too. I’m sweating for sure.
“Wait. How does this look?” My brother flips his phone to face me, and I hold up the stick next to the photo on his screen. They look pretty freakin’ identical.
“Winner, winner, chicken—”
“No. Just no,” Nate interrupts. He’s moody, which I guess I get. Maybe this means I’m really okay with this test belonging to Cass.
“Blue line means . . .” Nate pauses while he scrolls, his thumb flipping manically up and down his screen. He finally stops and grips his device in both palms, stretching the image on the screen wide so he can read the fine print. “Positive. Blue. Means. Positive.”