Chapter 30 Josephine
Josephine
Blinking behind my sunglasses, I crane my neck and scan the stands for Hunter.
She swears she’s standing up and waving, and I think I’m looking in the right section, but I still haven’t spotted her.
I already explained to her that I’m one of the team photographers, so I’d be on the field for most of the game.
There’s so much commotion surrounding our spot on the bench I don’t notice the people approaching until they’re within earshot.
“Sweetheart!”
The speaker isn’t just calling out to me; she’s reaching out, arms fully extended, with a grin plastered to her face.
Caught off guard and more than a little confused, I take a step back.
It’s not until she’s within arm’s reach that I realize her sights aren’t set on me. No, she’s going right for Kylian.
He lets out a quiet, rumbling “hi” as he returns her affection with a one-armed squeeze. Hilariously, he hasn’t taken his eyes off the field.
Swiping quickly through screens on one of his devices, he asks, “How did you guys get down here?”
“Decker surprised us!” the other woman in the group squeals, her hands clasped in front of her chest. “Misty texted and said to meet her at will call, then handed us field passes for today.”
“We never get these at away games,” one of the men marvels, holding out the pass attached to the red and white Crusaders lanyard hanging around his neck.
The hug. The intimate familiarity. If I didn’t know any better, I would suspect…
“Jo, these are my parents, Charlie and Claudia Walsh. And those are Locke’s parents, Brenda and Gary Marshall.” When I turn to him, wide-eyed, he’s already looking up from the screen and scanning my face.
“I was planning to meet up with them after the game,” he offers, holding my gaze for two more beats before focusing on setup again.
Kylian wasn’t expecting them down here. Decker surprised them with passes…
And here I am, mouth agape, rocking my short shorts, with Kylian’s name embossed on the back of my jersey.
Touché, Crusade. Tou-fucking-ché.
“I didn’t catch your name, dear,” Brenda says to me.
I never asked Locke if he kept in touch with his foster parents. Seeing them here, at his game, inspires an ache in the hollow of my chest.
“I’m Joey,” I offer, hand outstretched. “I know Locke from school,” I offer weakly, sparing these people insight into just how intertwined my life has become with their son’s.
Brenda takes my hand but quickly pulls me into one of the warmest, longest hugs I think I’ve ever received. I’m thoroughly embarrassed by the time I try and wiggle free. “Any friend of Locke’s is a friend of ours,” she tells me.
When I finally start to pull away, a gasp sounds behind me.
“Heavens! Where did you get that?”
My cheeks heat, likely flushing to a shade that matches the Crusaders jersey I’m wearing as I slowly turn to face Claudia.
I look to Kylian for help, but he’s focused on his tablet.
I’ve never once begrudged him his intense commitment to his role on the team, but I have to fight back the urge to kick him in the shin and get his attention. I could use an assist right about now.
Shifting from hip to hip, I bite down on my lower lip and laugh uncomfortably.
“Um, well, I had it custom made, actually, because Kylian’s my favorite player.” The shtick seems far less funny now that I have to explain it to his parents. Fucking Decker…
“What’s the number on the back? Is that supposed to be an o?” Claudia presses.
“Sigma, Mom. It’s a Greek letter used to symbolize standard deviation,” Kylian interjects.
Finally. I try to catch his eye, but he’s already turned back to the field.
“Because Kylian does the stats…” I reason.
“Wonderful. And so clever!” Charlie chimes in, clasping his hands. “You said you had it made? So we could order them, too?”
Pursing my lips to hold back a laugh, I nod. This is absurd. I had no idea they would be here. Or that this would become a thing…
Claudia digs a pen out of her purse and writes her number on a torn piece of paper, along with her shirt size, and Charlie’s, too. She’s going on and on about how she’ll pay for the jerseys, and how maybe she should order one to wear, plus one extra to display.
It takes several more minutes before the parents say their goodbyes and head back to their seats. I’m all sorts of frazzled by the time they leave, so I sit on the bench and blow out a breath, trying to get my bearings.
Kylian takes a seat beside me, legs spread wide, a device balanced on each thigh. All signs that the coin toss is imminent. His headset is in place, and a few of the coaches come over to speak to him. He’s locked in, focused, with his head in the game.
Watching him work is like watching an artist paint or a sculptor sculpt.
His fingers fly over the screen, his eyes moving frantically as he assesses the numbers in front of him.
When he speaks, he’s eerily calm, calling plays and making suggestions into a headset that I now know is linked to Decker, the head coach, and their offensive coordinator.
“Sorry about that,” Kylian murmurs, still not looking up. “I’ll help you get back at him for pulling that stunt.”
Kylian doesn’t exist in any shade of gray. He’s right and wrong. Black and white. He knows Decker upset me, and he’s agreeing to back me up on this.
Thoughtful, but not necessary. I have more than a few ideas for retribution after this unexpected parental meet and greet.
“They liked you,” he adds as an afterthought. Or maybe a reassurance.
They don’t know me. But it’s still kind of Kylian to say that.
“You didn’t have to say what you said about the jersey.”
I still. There’s a hollow sort of doubt in his words that I can’t ignore.
Sure, my comment about the jersey was playful and a bit cheeky. But it was still very much the truth.
“Do you really not understand that I’m wearing this for you?”
He blinks, his focus shifting so he’s side-eyeing me before his attention snaps back to the action on the field.
“I did not. I assumed the jersey was just a way to piss off Decker.”
“Fringe benefit,” I admit with a shrug. “But I thought you’d be into this. After everything that’s happened this week…” I trail off and drop my chin, suddenly filled with doubt.
“You’re serious? This isn’t about him?” In my periphery, he’s watching me, searching my profile. This time, I’m the one focused on the field, embarrassingly avoiding his gaze.
Finally, I shift on the bench and face him. “No Cap,” I assure him with a smirk.
Literally. Figuratively. In all the ways.
His grin is so wide, it lifts his glasses, and that single dimple appears.
The refs and players circle up for the coin toss.
“No Cap,” Kylian repeats, tongue in cheek, his attention laser-focused on what’s happening on the field once more.
I’m so caught up in watching him watch the start of the game that I jump when his arm circles my low back.
But I don’t fight him when he pulls me as close as possible to him without disturbing his setup.
I startle again when he brushes his fingertips along my leg, leaving goose bumps on my skin despite the heat of the sun radiating down on us.
“You look really fucking hot in my jersey,” he murmurs with a quick squeeze of my thigh.
The Crusaders win the coin toss. And the game begins.