Chapter 6
Hades
Wesley fell asleep in my lap about five minutes ago, and I still have no idea how it happened.
A little while ago he was in Zoe's arms, chewing on a piece of toast. Then he climbed down, tore across the dining room, and planted himself in front of me with sticky hands and something red smeared around his mouth.
“I sweepy,” he announced.
“Go lie down with your mom, then.”
“My mama is tawking,” he said, shaking his head and pointing at Zoe, who was deep in conversation with Tina.
“With your other mom, then.”
Wesley scrunched up his face. He studied Tessa, two chairs down, finishing dessert. He looked over at Iris Vance, who winked at him and patted her thighs to tempt him over, and then he raised both arms toward me.
“Up. How come you weaw gwasses?”
It was the first time he'd asked me to pick him up, and I couldn't say no, even as Iris started nudging her teammates to make sure everyone witnessed what was happening and pulled out her phone to film it.
“Oh man, Boss, careful. Don't sit in her lap or you might break out in a rash,” she said.
And now I have a small child ruining my black shirt and an entire team exerting superhuman effort not to burst out laughing. Even Alexandra Drummond is watching me from the far end of the table like I've just produced a live animal from my jacket pocket.
The final dinner of the Florida preseason is a club tradition that predates my time here.
It marks the line between “we work hard, but mistakes are allowed” and “mistakes are no longer allowed because the season starts now.” Drummond and a couple of board members flew in from Seattle just to be here, because they like the team to see that the higher-ups touch down at least once a season.
Mireya Guerrero is sitting between Tina and Lucía. Tina talks too fast, and she smiles at it. She put on a white shirt tonight, and it makes her skin glow, and I have to actively work at not letting my eyes drift in that direction.
Wesley sighs against my arm. He has a little sunscreen on his ears and a flattened piece of bread stuck to the side of his pants.
“Want me to take him?” Tessa asks, keeping her voice low.
I shake my head. It's been years since I held a little kid and I miss the twins.
“Hey, Drummond!” Iris calls from the far end of the table, lifting her glass. “Are we toasting or am I going out?”
Alexandra rolls her eyes and finally stands to give her end-of-preseason speech.
Four minutes. I time it. She covers discipline, results, investment, expectations.
Very corporate. More or less what she says every year, and still, when she finishes, everyone applauds, though Iris mutters something that makes Tina and Mireya nearly choke on their champagne.
“Okay, your turn, Coach,” she says, spinning toward me. “One sentence. Come on. For the end of preseason. Something good, something emotional and motivating. A line we can get tattooed when we win the title.”
“Put the champagne down, Iris,” I say.
Wesley shifts in my arm and grabs my shirt. Fortunately, Lucía pulls something up on her phone, and the attention slides away from me.
**
After dinner, I stretch out in one of the pool loungers.
I don't know when this became a habit, but it's been mine since the first year we ran preseason in Florida.
Everything is quiet at this hour. The garden lights went out a couple of hours ago, and the underwater lights tint the water a pale, clean turquoise.
I don't know much about plants, but every time the breeze picks up, something sweet and almost sugary reaches me.
I close my eyes. Crickets. A frog somewhere in a nearby pond. That's all there is.
A little while later, footsteps.
Mireya comes down the garden path barefoot, shoes in hand. She stops when she sees me, clearly weighing whether to turn back.
“I'm not hiding from anyone,” I tell her. “You can come over if you want.”
She walks over and sets her shoes beside the lounger next to mine. Then she sits with her knees bent, feet tucked beneath her.
We don't say anything for a long stretch. We just look at the water. Mireya wraps her arms around her knees and rests her chin on top of them. The turquoise reflection climbs up the side of her neck every time she breathes in.
“Do you know what that plant is? The one that smells so good?” I ask finally.
“No idea. Smells like candy.”
“Yeah. Like candy.” I agree.
She shrugs, smiles, and goes quiet again.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out on instinct.
Video call. My daughter Sofía.
“It's ten twenty in Seattle,” I murmur. “You're usually asleep by nine thirty.”
“Is something wrong?” Mireya asks, dropping her feet to the ground.
“No. It's my daughters,” I tell her.
“Do you want me to go?”
“Stay.”
I don't know why I say it, but then Sofía's voice pulls me forward.
“Mom. Are you still in Florida?”
“Still here.”
“Show me your room.”
“I'm outside, by the pool.”
“Are you swimming at this hour?”
“No, I'm talking with a friend.”
Lauren, my ex, leans into the frame and waves.
“Nora wants to show you Pickle.”
The camera shakes and Nora appears over her twin sister's shoulder, hair up in a messy bun, wearing a gray sleep shirt.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Hey, Nor.”
And there's Pickle. Small, brown, and objectively ugly. But if the girls love him, I suppose that's fine.
“Look at his little ears,” Nora says.
I look at his ears, and I don't say they're strange-looking.
“They're very small,” I say. “You have to take good care of him. Don't pick him up by his feet or his tail.”
“Guinea pigs don't have tails, Mom,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“When are you coming home?” her sister asks.
I notice Mireya has turned back toward the water, giving me what space she can.
“Mom. We miss you. So much. So, so much.”
“I miss you too. So much. So, so much.”
They both laugh. Even Lauren, in the background, lets a smile through.
“Is that your friend with the legs?”
“Hi. I'm Mireya,” she says, leaning slightly toward the phone.
“Oh!” Nora shouts before Sofía can get a word in. “From Aura Valley!”
“That's me.”
“You're our favorite player!”
“Really?” she asks, genuinely surprised. “Well, thank you so much.”
Lauren sends them to bed soon after, and once I've said goodnight to both of them, I'm left with a stupid smile on my face.
I miss them. So much. So, so much, like Sofía says.
“It's been two weeks and four days since I've seen them,” I say at last, working to keep my voice steady.
“That must be really hard,” she says, and she runs her hand slowly across my back.
“I should go up. It's late,” I murmur, not because I want to, but because right now I'm too wide open, and I don't want to do something I'll regret.
We stand. Mireya picks up her shoes. I pocket my phone, and we walk together toward the garden door, skirting the pool. The hotel lobby is empty. An elevator waits with its doors open.
She gets off on the third floor. I get off on the fourth.
When I walk into my room, I don't turn on the light. I don't open the laptop. I don't check tomorrow's session plan. I take off my clothes, lie down on the bed, and try not to think about the weight of her hand on my back.
Tomorrow we fly to Seattle.
More than 2,500 miles of professional distance between what I felt tonight and what I'm not allowed to feel for the rest of this season.
But tonight, Mireya Guerrero refuses to leave my head.