Chapter 8
Tessa
The second I step off the plane, Florida humidity slaps me full in the face.
“Fuck,” someone groans behind me. “Is this air or chicken soup?”
I don’t turn. I don’t need to. That tone—pure “I speak, therefore I am”—only belongs to Iris Vance.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs, off to the side, like a decorative plant they park next to the aircraft.
The team starts coming down one by one, dragging carry-ons, complaints, and under-eye circles.
Someone decides a 7 a.m. flight is a good idea.
Sweat beads before I can form a thought. My shirt sticks to my back.
Zoe comes down last.
She has Wesley strapped to her chest in a baby carrier, a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, and she pulls a small suitcase with her right hand. Her perfect ponytail from a few hours ago has surrendered. Strands escape everywhere, some already plastered to her forehead by the heat.
“Let me help you,” I offer, climbing up three steps to meet her.
“I’m fine.”
She says it too fast, the same way a player says “I’m not hurt” while she grips her thigh. I ignore her and take the suitcase from her hand.
Wesley watches me with huge brown eyes. Dead serious, like he’s deciding if he should smack me.
“Hey, boss,” I murmur. “Don’t worry. I hate this temperature too.”
The shift when we step into the air-conditioned bus is violent. Even the baby looks up, startled, like we just walked through a portal or someone opened a freezer door in the middle of hell. At this point it already smells like sports deodorant and potato chips.
From the back seats, Iris pops up like she just scored a last-minute winner.
“The boss is here!” she screams, cutting across the aisle toward the kid.
Zoe shakes her head and rolls her eyes. On the plane, one of the many times Iris leaned in... she said the kid looked like the boss of the whole expedition. The rest of the players found it hilarious and started calling him Boss, which doesn’t amuse his mother.
Iris bends close to Wesley, closes her eyes, and inhales like a psycho.
“God… I love how this kid smells,” she sighs. “Can I keep him?”
“No,” Zoe growls.
“Rent him by the hour?”
“Vance, sit your ass down, we’re leaving,” the coach yells from the front seat without looking up from her tablet.
Iris makes a fake pout but obeys. Even she doesn’t pick fights with Hades.
I choose a seat four rows back. Distance. Boundaries. Professional.
Even so, my eyes keep sliding to Zoe’s reflection in the bus window the whole ride.
At breakfast, the yogurt in front of me tastes like nothing. Diana decides we start with a morning training session, even though most of the players would rather sleep. Half the team doesn’t even come down to eat.
The noise changes when Zoe walks in.
It’s subtle. A few conversations stop. A couple chairs scrape.
Zoe crosses the dining room with Wesley on her hip. Wet hair. Dark circles. Team T-shirt.
“Sit with me, Méndez!” Iris yells. “I saved you a chair. Give me the boss. You eat. You need fuel.” She basically snatches the baby from Zoe’s arms.
Wesley protests for a second, then decides our star striker is acceptable and starts yanking Iris’s ponytail like it’s a toy.
“Can I hold him?” one of the younger players asks, the kind who came to learn and will probably leave traumatized by Diana Creed’s standards.
“I’ve got him,” Iris grunts, explaining to Wesley something about the importance of a balanced breakfast.
**
Later, in the gym, the huge fans pushing air don’t do much. Sweat sticks the second you do anything at all.
Zoe works with Sara, the team’s lead trainer. After the custody hearing mess with Nate’s lawyer, we decided I needed to delegate anything that isn’t absolutely necessary. Just in case. Zoe does a stability drill, trembles a little at the end, and still pushes through.
She always pushes.
Wesley sits in his car seat in a corner where the heat feels less brutal. We surround him with bright toys, but the machines and their sounds grab his attention more. Jade is on baby duty and stands a few feet away, stiff as a statue, watching like she’s guarding a vault.
“What do I do if he cries?” Jade asks, worried, when Zoe comes over to give her son a quick cuddle.
“You pick him up and talk to him or sing something.”
“And if he keeps crying?”
“Then you keep talking while you walk around.”
“Talk about what?”
Zoe rolls her eyes while Wesley blows a spit bubble. He looks thrilled with the attention he’s getting at preseason camp.
When I walk over to the car seat, Jade tenses like I’m about to steal the baby.
“I’ve got him. Go to practice,” I tell her, nodding toward the dumbbells. Jade lets out a breath that sounds like relief.
Wesley looks at me, surprised, like: another one who wants to play with me. Lucky day.
Then he gurgles and flings his arms at the toys.
“Seems like the baby likes you,” Zoe whispers, appearing at my side.
“You think?”
“You’re good with kids. That’s a point in your favor.” She gives me a wink that makes my stomach do something stupid. “I need a favor. Can you take him during afternoon training? It’s Lucía’s turn, but Hades decided to test a new tactical setup and she needs her on the field.”
I just nod, shrug like it’s nothing, and before I realize it I’m in the medical room with a baby crawling across the mat, stopping to look at his reflection in the mirror and grinning at it like he’s flirting.
“Okay,” I whisper. “You and I are going to get along.”
Wesley blinks like he’s thinking it over.
“We just have to survive two hours of training.”
At forty minutes, everything stays fine. Gurgles. Toys. Peace.
He rubs his eyes. I think he’s about to fall asleep and then… he starts crying.
Shit.
No warning. Not a little whine. Real crying.
I do a quick check.
Diaper: dry.
Bottle: he smacks it away like I insulted him.
Fever: no.
“Wesley, help me out,” I mutter, nerves spiking. “Because right now I’d love an instruction manual.”
I pick him up and he cries harder. Heat climbs my neck. The last thing I need is Zoe hearing this and leaving training.
Music.
They say music calms beasts.
I fumble for my phone, open Spotify, and hit the first thing that pops up on a playlist.
Whitesnake. “Is This Love?” I press play.
Wesley goes quiet.
He stares at me with wet eyes. Total silence.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “It works.”
I rock him slow to the beat. I feel his body soften. He opens and closes his fist on my shirt and his eyelids start to droop. Before the song ends, he’s asleep with his face smashed against my collarbone, drooling all over my T-shirt.
I barely move.
I don’t dare.
And I don’t want it to end.
When the door opens and Zoe sticks her head in, she sees us by the window: her son asleep in my arms, Whitesnake playing low.
She smiles. A beautiful smile.
She sits in my chair, props her elbows on the table, laces her fingers together, and rests her chin on them while she watches us, like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect to see.
“When you told me after Florida you’d ask if there was anything left…” Zoe says, voice thin, “are you still going to ask?”
“Yes. No doubt.”
“Even knowing how much work this little monster is?”
“Especially because of that.”
She rolls her eyes, smiles, and shakes her head a little.
“Good,” she whispers. “Because I think I already know my answer.”