When I set down the fork, he chuckles under his breath.
“What?”
“You’ve got a chia in your teeth.”
Saved by the seed.
19
Harlan
That weekend, Danielle and Jamie bring Abby and her friends to the stadium.
They watch the game from the owner’s suite, and I wish I could pop up there and see my girl before kickoff.
But that’s not in the cards.
The team has rules about no distractions, and the rules work.
They put us in a football-only mindset.
On the field, Cooper is unflappable in the pocket, marching the team closer and closer to the end zone with every play it seems, trading off throwing to his favorite targets—Jones and me.
The two of us combine for three touchdowns when the game ends with a win for the Renegades.
I yank off my helmet after the clock runs out and knock fists with my bud. “Good game, and don’t forget I had one hundred one receiving yards to your ninety-nine.”
Jones rolls his eyes. “Hope those two extra yards keep you warm at night.”
And . . . he has a fair point.
But the most important point is this—we’ve only lost two games this season, and we’re in playoff contention again.
Something that makes the owner very happy.
Once I’ve showered and talked to the press, I head to Wilder Blaine’s suite.
The billionaire team owner waits at the door, wearing his custom suit and game-winning grin. “Excellent work, Taylor,” he says.
“Thank you, sir. And that is a most excellent suit.”
He laughs politely, his green eyes glinting, then claps me on the shoulder. “I know our GM is looking forward to talking to your agent.”
Ohhhh.
That’s a sign if ever I heard one.
“That’s great,” I say, buoyed by his words, since it’s not often the owner himself makes it clear he wants you.
“And your family is welcome anytime in my suite,” he says.
It’s a great offer.
Truly it is. “I appreciate that, Mister Blaine.”
“And we appreciate you,” he adds, punctuating his praise.
I make a mental note to pass on his words to my agent, since I’m pretty sure they’re a guaranteed offer in free agency.
But I’ll do that tomorrow, because once I head inside, my favorite person rams into me. “I saw your catch. Also, Simone Biles did the coolest thing ever and you need to see that too,” Abby tells me.
We watch gymnastics on Danielle’s iPad, Abby in my lap, until it’s time to go.
On the way to school one day next week, we pass Fog City Bakery. The shop catches Abby in its tractor-beam scents of sugary sweetness and pillowy bread.
A sign on the glass beckons, and she moves trance-like to it. “Mun-kee,” she reads, sounding out the word. “Monkey bread!”
I clap a few times. “Well done.”
She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “That’s what smells so good. Can we get some?”
“Before school?”
She stares at me like she can’t believe I’d question her request. “Why not? It looks yummy and smells good.”
I peer through the doorway at the shelf of treats, zeroing in on the cinnamon-y, caramel-y pastry calling our names. My stomach rumbles. “It does look tasty, but you just had breakfast. How about we make monkey bread this afternoon?”
Her smile spreads across the city. “Deal.” We resume our pace. “But, Daddy, do you know how to make monkey bread?”
I roll my eyes. “I know how to research recipes and buy ingredients.”
She pats my arm. “You’re so smart.”
“So are you.”
When we reach the school, a dark-haired dynamo whirls into Abby from out of nowhere, smash-hugging my kid. “You should come to my gymnastics class today,” the kid declares when she lets go.
My girl beams. “Sure, Gabriella!”
“It’s after school. My dad is taking me. Can you come with me?”
Abby swivels around. “Can I go? She said her class is doing balance beam, and I really love doing the beam. Please, please, please.”
And the monkey bread afternoon falls by the wayside. “Of course, little bear. But I bet you don’t have a leotard, so why don’t I drop one off for you after my yoga session?”
She snickers, then turns to Gabriella. “I call him Daddy Yoga, like Baby Yoda from The Mandalorian,” she whispers to Gabriella.
The little brunette giggles.
“Bring leotard I will,” I say in my best Yoda voice.
Both girls laugh, but then Abby smacks her forehead. “I have a leotard! There’s one in my bag from my last class. And we can make monkey bread when I get home.”
“Seems you have the whole afternoon planned.”
Abby smiles proudly. “I do.”
Gabriella looks up at me and presses her hands together. “Mister Taylor, next time I come over, can I paint your toes again?”
I arch a brow. “Were you the culprit who made them pink and blue last time?”
A deep, belly laugh comes from nearby, and I turn to the source of it—a guy in glasses with a thick beard. “She does drive-by pedicures when dads fall asleep.” The man extends a hand. “I’m Arturo. Gabriella’s dad. Good to meet you.”
As the girls scurry off to the playground before the bell rings, Arturo gestures to them. “Gabriella said she wanted Abby to come to gymnastics today. Is that cool with you? It’s kind of last minute, but I’ll take the girls.”
“Absolutely. I appreciate you doing that,” I tell him. “Let me know where to pick her up?”
He waves me off. “Nah. S’all good. I can drop her off when they’re done.”
“Works for me,” I say, with a smile. “You’re a full-service dad.”
Arturo smiles. “That’s me. I’m a stay-at-home dad,” he says, looking supremely satisfied with that.
“Good on you,” I reply, and I mean it.
He glances around like he’s checking for eavesdroppers. When he finishes his sweep, he says, “Also, that catch the other week in Seattle. Epic, man. Epic.” He holds up a hand for a combo high-five, fist bump.
“Thank you.”
“You’re killing it this year. Don’t retire. We need you around for a long time. And don’t you dare sign with anyone else in the off-season. Hey, how about a deal?” He points at my chest. “If you re-up, I’ll always take the girls to gymnastics. I’ve got an extra booster seat in my car.”
“You should be my agent. I like that deal,” I tell the guy, then thank him again for ferrying the kids around, and we exchange numbers before I skedaddle.
But honestly, his situation doesn’t sound too bad either. He seems pretty happy doing what he likes.
I make my way to the gym, join the guys for a workout, and shoot the breeze. But my thoughts aren’t entirely on the here and now.
They’re on the future—a year ahead and a couple of hours from now when I meet Katie at her studio.
I’ve seen her five times since our cancelled date—from the classes to the private sessions—and each time I want to see her again a little bit more.