Chapter 2
Two
I stand completely alone in the women’s locker room, as I am the only woman officiating today.
I get this space all to myself. I can have any locker I want.
Or no locker at all. I can use the one floor-to-ceiling mirror in this place for as long or as little as I like.
I can walk around completely naked. I don’t.
But I could. No one would care. I am one hundred percent alone.
I’ve showered, dressed, and now I’m staring into that floor-to-ceiling mirror. No one else around to judge my vanity.
My eyes zone in on the small cluster of freckles just below my right eye. There was a time in my life—ages twenty-three to twenty-five—when I’d stare at my face and ask, Who are you now, Margaret McCrae? Where is your life going?
Then, one day, I noticed that small cluster and how it forms a heart just below my right eye.
I’m guessing I’m the only person on the planet to notice it.
It took me twenty-five years to do so, and it’s my face.
It’s such a tiny little bunch. Still, I saw it that day.
I can’t unsee it now. Every time I look at myself, my eyes draw to that heart.
That day, my questions changed. Instead of asking who I was—as my life had taken a major shift and I no longer knew—that heart-shaped cluster suddenly had me remembering: You are loved, Maggie McCrae.
But did I love myself?
Yes. Yes, I did. Changes in my circumstances and all.
It felt like a better question. With a much more important answer.
I tap the cluster with my pointer finger, revel in the warmth in my chest, and snatch up my blow dryer. Washing, drying, and fixing my hair without a five-year-old busting in on me to see if I would like to try his banana cream pie feels a bit like a luxury.
Don’t get me wrong, I like banana cream pie. And I love my nephew. He’s the entire reason my life got a makeover almost six years ago. And yet, I bask in the peace of getting ready alone. No tiny little person asking me why my underwear has cats in pajamas on them.
I don’t know the answer to that, Wyatt. Because I like cats? Because underwear is a place you can express part of yourself and no one is going to judge you for it?
Does it matter? What matters is that cluster and how it made the trajectory of my life change.
“I love you, Maggie McCrae,” I tell the girl in the mirror—she’s much more of a Maggie than a Margaret.
I brush through my long brown hair a dozen more times—just for luxury’s sake. Just because I can. Then, I slip into my jacket and gather my backpack and my keys. Time to go home.
Stepping out into the cool Tesoro evening air, I pull in a breath through my nose, enjoying the pine and mountain scent that comes with Lake Tesoro. Then, I tap the unlock button on my red Hatchback.
“Hey.” Daniel Clifton stands next to his car.
I hadn’t noticed my coworker. I was too busy enjoying the clean air and loving myself.
“It was a good call,” he says, referring to the ruling I made on Cruz.
There are always questions when a player has an outburst like Lucca Cruz tends to.
I swear, that man would rival one of Wyatt’s two-year-old fits any day.
“I know,” I tell him. I am a woman in a man’s athletic world. I’m not questioning the call. Any sign of weakness, any hint at uncertainty, and I might as well prepare to be eaten alive—and then never hired to referee again.
Daniel nods his approval of my answer, then climbs into his own car before driving away.
I watch him go before settling into my vehicle and turning on forty minutes of “Nine Lives Later.” Not even my mother knows about my obsession with this podcast. Loving cats is one thing; wearing them on your undies and listening to episode after episode about them might be a whole other thing.
“Episode forty-three,” says the melodic bell-toned voice through my car. “The ship-cat who survived three WWII sinkings.”
“Oo, this one is gonna be good.” I’m not a weirdo. I just happen to like podcasts. And cats. I’ll never own one—Dad is allergic.
Oh boy. Does that mean I believe that I’ll live with my parents forever? Like, forever forever?
By the time Waffles the cat has survived his third almost drowning, I am holding back tears.
That little guy clung to life on a wooden crate for three days before they found him.
Waffles, the luckiest ship cat. Also, after three sinking ships, he’s known as the cursed ship cat.
He wasn’t allowed on another boat after that third submerged vessel.
I sniff and pull into the drive of my childhood home. I grew up here, in Canyon Falls, California, with my mom, dad, and younger sister. And I presently live here with my mom, dad, and younger sister. And of course, Wyatt.
And according to my mentality of never being able to own a cat, I don’t plan to move any time soon.
It’s after ten, so everyone except Lindy should be sleeping.
Should be being the key words. Mom and Dad were older when they had me, and then three years later, they had my sister.
They’re both in their seventies now, and bedtime comes around eight-thirty unless something exciting is happening—like Dad bidding on some crazy artifact at one of his online auction sites.
In that case, Mom will stay up to rein Dad in.
But I don’t think Finder’s Bid has any listings until next week.
Once, Dad spent sixty-eight dollars on an unopened can of Coke from the ’80s, only to have Wyatt open it and drink it the day after it arrived.
Ever since, Mom has stayed up to be his voice of reason.
I say let the man have his crusty ol’ can of Coke—as long as we hide it from Wyatt. Dad has worked hard his whole life. He saved every dime. He put one daughter through college and the other through rehab. He’s helping raise his grandson. He can buy whatever crazy junk he wants.
Mom disagrees with me.
I gather my bag from the back seat of my hatchback and sneak around to the back of the house. If Mom’s camera doorbell at the front entrance goes off, she’s going to wake up. I have figured out just how close I can get to the house before it’s pinging my mother awake.
Unlocking the back door, I slip into the dark kitchen, careful to be quiet.
Only—
Giggling. A whole lot of giggling sounds from the dim TV room through the kitchen doorway.
My eyes adjust to the dark as I pass our round kitchen table, Dad’s printed listing of what’s coming on Finder’s Bid resting on top of it.
He’s circled a handwritten grocery list that supposedly belonged to Joe Montana and unopened cassette tapes of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers.
Last I checked, we didn’t own a cassette player—but then, he probably won’t take them out of their packaging.
I slip through the arched doorway to where my sister giggles in the family room.
So, help me, Lindy, if you brought a man home—
“I never said that,” Lindy says through another bout of laughter. She’s responding to someone, but I can’t hear that someone at all.
I flick on the family room light and all of Lindy’s giggles go quiet. She peeks her blonde head up and over the side of the couch where she’s lying. Thankfully, alone. “Maggie?”
I drop my bag next to the wall and walk over to where Lindy’s squinting at me. “In the flesh.”
She’s on the phone, messaging with someone.
Oh, someone—I’ve met you before, you’re always the same, and I never ever approve.
“How was the game?” she says, phone clutched in her right hand.
I sigh. “Fine. Saint Lucca caused trouble. But that’s nothing new.”
“Hmm. Last season, it was Pretty Boy Cruz. I think I liked that nickname better.” She smirks.
“Who’s that?” I say, nodding to the phone in her grasp.
Lindy swallows and her cheek concaves where she’s nibbling. “Brent.”
“The online guy?”
Her cheek folds in farther, telling me that’s exactly who it is.
“You gave him your actual number? Belinda.” She one hundred percent deserves to be first-named.
“He’s nice.”
“He’s also a bartender.” And you, baby sister, are a recovering alcoholic.
Her eyes turn to saucers, and she flicks her gaze to the ceiling for a brief half second. “A bartender who doesn’t drink.”
“Sweetie,” I groan, then reach out for my sister’s hand, squeezing her fingers and shaking her.
“Am I never allowed to date again?” She stares at me, completely serious, and I’d like to seriously answer back, No, you are not.
“Of course you are,” I say. “I didn’t say that.”
She sits up straighter, bouncing in her seat on the couch cushion. “He’s nice, Mags. You’d like him.”
I wouldn’t. I one hundred percent would not like Brent the bartender. I don’t have to meet him to know it. Because Lindy’s taste in men and my approval never go together.
“Okay. I believe you,” I lie. “Did Wyatt get dinner?”
“Yes. Mom made her goulash casserole.” Lindy cringes. And I wrinkle my nose. “He likes it,” she says.
“And his homework? He has that spring scavenger hunt due on Thursday, and tomorrow he has soccer practice, so I won’t be able to take him around—”
“Done.” She nods, giving me the rundown.
My sister is used to giving me or Mom a report on Wyatt’s day.
She’s very aware that we are coparenting, and to her credit, she doesn’t get threatened by it.
“Dad and I took him to the park. He drew a picture of a blue bird, found a dandelion, a twig shaped like a Y, and splashed some water from a puddle on his page and labeled it rain.”
I nod. Good enough. “Perfect. Great job. I’m off to bed. You?”
Lindy pinches her lips together, her eyes darting to her phone. “Not yet. Soon.”
My chest tightens, and there’s a thumping in my throat that wasn’t there fifteen seconds ago. “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, baby sister.”
I pick up my bag and head down the hall where my parents’ and Wyatt’s bedrooms are. Lindy and I share the basement. I just need one little peek—
“Maggie Pie?”
I spin to see my mother glimpsing at me through the crack of her bedroom door. I slap a hand to my chest. “Oh, hi, Momma. Did I wake you?”
“You’re late.”
I shake my head. “Nah. It was a night game. I’m right on time.” I give her a smile, and the crack of her door widens.
Dad’s soft snores seep through the gap and Mom tiptoes into the hall. “Lindy is still up?” she asks.
I nod and my jaw clenches. “Texting with Brent.” His name comes out like I might be allergic to it. And Mom doesn’t miss it.
“You don’t like him?”
“You do?” I counter.
“He makes her smile. She says he’s lovely. He golfs and gardens and—”
“And he’s a bartender. Besides, anyone can say anything online,” I whisper, but my words are an accusation. I’ve never actually met the man. Neither has Mom.
“Lindy says he doesn’t drink.” Mom shrugs one shoulder.
She can’t be that na?ve though. I know she can’t. I cannot be the only person to remember the hell we went through six years ago, can I?
“Are you serious?”
Her lips flatten in a line, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening. “Okay, we don’t know him. That doesn’t automatically mean he’s bad news, Maggie. Have some faith.”
Faith. Mom always has faith. “You’re right,” I say, but I’m not sure I mean it.
Mom cups a hand to my cheek and lifts on her toes just an inch to meet my five-foot-nine frame, then presses a kiss to my cheek. “Love you, Maggie Pie.”
“Love you, Momma.” I set my hand to Wyatt’s doorknob. “I just want to check on him,” I whisper.
She nods, knowing I’ll do it even if she protests, then she slips back into her and Dad’s room.
I turn the knob slowly and intentionally, as if there were a bomb behind this door rather than a sleeping five-year-old boy.
Cracking his door just enough for my body to slip through, I walk slowly, carefully, and quietly over to Wyatt’s bed.
His spring scavenger hunt page sits on the dresser next to him, wrinkled where he splashed water onto the paper and then it dried.
His chest rises and falls with even breaths, and his thick blond hair skews up and out as if I’ve been sitting here running my fingers through it. Dark, long lashes, just like his mother’s, protrude like pretty Chinese fans.
From hell to heaven.
Lindy put us through hell six years ago, but from the depths of despair came heaven. An angel my sister let me name Wyatt.