“Do you want to skip wif me?”
Hell yes, I do. “Let’s do it.”
Roxy and I start skipping until we reach Julius. He smiles, and my heart stops. Deep down, I know it’s because his daughter is with me, but I swear he looked right at me when he did.
“I have to go,” I say when we reach him. “I didn’t want to leave her on the bench by herself.”
“I appreciate that.” He takes Roxy’s hand. “She likes to wander off sometimes, as you can see.” He looks down at this daughter, who is beaming up at her father.
“She’s sweet, Julius. I enjoyed my time with her.”
“What do you say to Miss Autumn?”
“Fank you for bisiting wif me.”
I crouch down, so we’re level. “You’re welcome, Roxy. I hope we can hang out again real soon.”
“Me too.” She wraps her arms around her dad’s leg, suddenly shy.
“Have a great day, Julius. It was nice to see you.” It wasn’t, but I’m a firm believer in killing people with kindness. I leave them there and head back toward my apartment. I’m tempted to look over my shoulder to see if he’s watching, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I care whether he’s paying attention to me or not.
Once I’m back in my apartment, I head to the sliding glass door and step out onto the balcony. I find myself surveying the area for Julius, wondering if he’s still out there or if he’s left. I’m curious where he lives and why he would be in this neighborhood. According to Peyton, most of the guys live in the suburbs, at least the ones with children, while a few of the guys live in the same building as her and Noah. When I don’t see him, I step back inside and head for the shower.
One thing is for sure—the Julius Cunningham I’ve met and encountered since moving here is not the same man I spoke with today. When his daughter is around, he’s soft and vulnerable. The bad attitude, the snark, and disparaging comments don’t exist, and that is something I could definitely get used to.
Twelve
Julius
After practice, Noah and I head to the golf course. The sun is shining, and we want to get as many rounds of golf in as we can before the course closes for the winter. Granted, we still have time, considering it’s only mid-September, but with our schedules, it’s hard to say when we can come out again.
I tee off from the fifth and watch my ball sail through the air until it lands approximately one-hundred and fifty yards from me.
“Not bad,” Noah says as he pushes his tee into the ground and sets his ball on top of it. He takes a few practice swings and then finally centers his driver behind the dimpled ball and swings, hitting the stupid white orb about twenty yards farther than mine. I’m starting to think there isn’t anything Noah Westbury isn’t good at. I’ve seen him play baseball when he volunteered for the Pioneers for a charity game. The dude can not only pitch lights out but is a beast with the bat. And he can even sing, but it’s a rare day he belts out a tune.
“Did you get good grades in school?” I ask as we head back to the cart.
“What do my grades have to do with golf?”
I slide into the driver's seat and wait for Noah to sit down on the passenger side before taking off toward my ball. “It doesn’t. I’m trying to find something you’re not good at.”
Noah laughs, which sort of makes things worse because he’s leading me to believe he’s some genius who probably could’ve gone to MIT or something. “My grades were decent, and I’m not good at everything.”
I scoff.
“I’m not,” he adds. “You have to remember I chose football over baseball and didn’t have a scholarship when I went to Notre Dame. I was a walk-on.”
“Yeah, why did you do that?”
I look over at him as he shrugs. “Lots of reasons, really. I knew I could play baseball anywhere I wanted, but football was my passion and something I had done all my life. Growing up, I expected I’d have offers from every college out there, but only a few came in, and they weren’t schools I wanted to play for. I took a chance at Notre Dame because their program was something I believed in. However, being a walk-on affords you nothing. I was a practice player until I got my shot, and once I did, I didn’t let the coach down. So, no, I’m not good at everything and have often thought about giving up on football and going back to baseball.”
Noah’s confession causes me to hit the brake on the cart. We lurch forward, and I mutter a weak apology. I don’t know what I’d do without Noah and know that we won’t be on the same team forever. Trades happen, or contracts don’t get renewed, whether we like them or not.
“Are you planning on leaving the Pioneers?”
He looks at me quickly and then back at the green. “I think about leaving all the time. I’m not sure if I’m good enough for the Pioneers or able to get them to the next level. Every draft, I’m on pins and needles, waiting to see what management will do with their picks. If they take a QB, I feel like that’s my sign to go.”
I put the cart in park and wait a moment before exiting. Noah follows me to the back, where we each take an iron out of our bags. Noah walks with me to my ball and waits for me to set up my shot. You never realize that most of the time it takes to golf is because you have to look down the fairway, test each angle, practice your shot and imagine the ball landing somewhere near the pin. If you’re really good at the game, you’re checking the wind speed and direction and mentally calculating the trajectory.
My second hit barely escapes the sand trap and rolls to the edge of the green. “Better, but that’ll be a long putt.”
Noah laughs and walks toward his ball. I head back to the cart and don’t bother to put my iron away so I can catch up with him. Noah walks through almost the same motions as I had and finally sends his ball through the air, landing not far from mine.
“I’m about to say something, but it has to stay between us. This means no going home to tell Peyton.”
Noah looks at me warily. “I don’t like to keep secrets from my wife.”
“I know, but this one is important, and I don’t want her to know anything, at least not yet.”
“Okay...” he says hesitantly.
I motion for us to get back in the cart, and as soon as we do, I inhale deeply and ready myself for what I’m about to say. “I think I may have misjudged Autumn.”
Noah lets out a strangled laugh and then coughs. He apologizes, but I know he’s done it on purpose. “Why’s that?”
“Well, I saw her a little over a week ago at the park by my house. Roxy ran right up to her, like she’s known her for years, and had a conversation. Autumn didn’t care that a toddler took up any of her time, and then more kids came over, and she just sat there, entertaining all of them. Ever since, Roxy insists on watching the weather every evening, and naturally, I watch with her because I’m her dad.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” he asks. “Or is there another reason?”
“Another reason entirely,” I tell him. “Why didn’t you slap me in the head when I first met her? She’s so freaking beautiful.”