Chapter 17
Seventeen
Balloons, party guests, and Brent.
Brent.
If I weren’t at a six-year-old’s birthday party, I might be dropping four-letter words that are completely inappropriate.
Why is my sister’s online friend here? The friend who still doesn’t know she’s in recovery. The friend who I’m not sure I approve of yet. And while Lindy is an adult, if this man is going to be in Wyatt’s life, I want the power to veto him.
I’m setting up the next game for Wyatt and his five little buddies when my sister walks over.
“When is the main attraction arriving?” she says, brows bouncing.
I can’t help it, I glower. That’s exactly the kind of thing Lucca would love being called. “Saint Lucca will be here any minute now.” I clear my throat. “Can I ask why Brent is here?”
Lindy blinks too many times for it not to be defensive. “I told you he knows about Wyatt. I invited him. What’s so wrong with that?”
“Plenty,” I say, plain and simple, as I stand on tiptoes and tie the soccer ball pinata I made to the top of our porch overhang. “There’s plenty wrong with that. Does Wyatt even know who Brent is?”
“I introduced them when he arrived. I called him a friend. That’s all.” Her jaw clenches. “Does he know who Giani’s mom is? Does he know Adam’s dad? They’re here.” She crosses her arms. “That awful Courtney who’s always telling you that you don’t understand motherhood is here. Why not Brent?”
I sigh. “Lind. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“I know,” she says with a swallow. “You’re protective. And I get it. I’ve made mistakes—”
I shake my head. My overprotective nature isn’t intended to give my sister more guilt. I don’t want that. But I am protective. I can’t help it. But I don’t want my apprehensions to hurt Lindy further. “It’s not about that. I just worry it’s too soon.”
“I know,” she says with an audible exhale. “And Courtney doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
She peers across the lawn, and my gaze trails after hers.
Brent stands against the fence line, a can of soda in hand.
Lindy looks at him a little too longingly when the gate beside him opens and Lucca Cruz himself steps through.
His Red Tails jersey stretches over his chest and shoulders, his black hair is combed back, his beard trimmed, and a smile adorns his face.
He’s looking every bit the ladies’ man I know him to be.
“Ooo, your friend is here!” She starts toward the fence and gate, toward both men.
“Not my friend,” I say, following after her. She knows that. I’ve been complaining about the man and referring to him as Saint Lucca or Pretty Boy Cruz for three years. If anyone knows he isn’t my friend, it’s Lindy.
We approach just in time to hear Brent say, “I’m so sorry. I know you don’t speak Spanish. You’re from Brazil.” Brent shakes his head. “I know that. Promise. It’s Portuguese. Portuguese,” he repeats.
Lucca nods, but whatever Brent said to him before has clearly not impressed him.
I stop, standing a few feet from the overzealous Red Tail.
“Maggie,” he says, almost as if we are old friends. When he’s very much aware that we are not.
“Hello, Lucca,” I deadpan. The words come out as if I’m tired. As if I wasn’t watching my clock, praying he’d come for Wyatt’s sake.
“Mags,” Lindy whisper-scolds. She bumps me with her hip before taking three steps to stand next to Brent. I’m so distracted by the hand she just slipped into his that she’s forced to speak again. “Are you going to introduce us?”
“Oh.” I cram my hands into the pockets of my wide-leg jeans.
Clearing my throat, I rock on my heels. “Lucca, this is my sister, Lindy—Wyatt’s mother.
” I grind my teeth. “Lindy, Lucca Cruz.” He does not need further explanation.
Anything else I were to say would only go to his head. Besides, she already knows who he is.
“Lindy,” Lucca says, reaching out a hand. Too bad the action doesn’t require her to relinquish holding onto the man beside her.
Brent’s eyes dart to me, and Lindy’s head bobs his way. I am silently scolded.
“Right, and this is Brent.” So, it’s possible his name sounded like a flat chord.
“Wyatt’s dad?” Lucca says, hand out to Brent, brows raised.
“No!” I squawk and slap Lucca’s hand back to his side. Poor Brent—I think he really wanted that handshake. He’s looking a little starstruck.
Lindy’s eyes go wide for the briefest of seconds. “Uh, no. Not Wyatt’s dad. Brent is my boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” I choke on the word. “Since when?”
Before Lindy can answer, my father has made his way over to us. The grin on Dad’s face is brighter than a sunny California day. How did I miss his adoration for Lucca? His and Wyatt’s? Where did I go wrong?
“Lucca Cruz,” he says, thrusting his hand into Lucca’s. He shakes the man’s hand, double-fisted in his own, over and over again. “Maggie Pie may not be a fan, but Wyatt and I sure are.”
“Dad,” I say, more insulted that he’s calling himself a Lucca fan than anything. I had hoped Mom was exaggerating.
Lucca only laughs. “That’s putting it nicely,” he says. Then, looking at me, he adds, “Maggie Pie.”
I grind my teeth and glare.
“I’m happy to meet you, sir,” Lucca says, ignoring my death scowl. I swear, his accent thickens. He’s putting on a show for his fans.
“LUCCA!” says the little voice I know so well.
Wyatt. “He’s here!” he bellows to his friends, who are still eating pizza.
Wyatt races over, half a slice of pepperoni in hand.
“You’re here! You came!” he sings, hopping on one foot in a semi-circle.
It might be the most athletic thing I’ve seen my little guy do.
“You bet I came. How could I resist Maggie Pie’s sweet invitation?”
Nerves tick in my veins, and my limbs grow warm with discomfort. “Don’t call me that,” I mutter between gritted teeth.
But Wyatt smiles. And Lucca pretends not to hear me.
“Do you have tricks for us?” Wyatt says. “I told my friends you’d do tricks.”
Like a magician? Or some kind of comedy act? Lucca the joke. I can get behind that.
“Do you have a ball?” Lucca lifts his brows in question.
Wyatt nods emphatically. “Aunt Maggie has lots of soccer balls. And she lets me use them whenever I want to. Even when I kick them over the fence and the neighbor’s dog chews on them.”
It’s a lot of information all zooming from Wyatt’s mouth.
Lucca simply nods. “Well, if you have a ball, I have tricks.”
“On it! I have a ball!” Wyatt booms. He races from the backyard and into the house.
There’s a moment of awkward silence before Dad says, “Have you ever thought of signing and selling merch on auction websites?”
“Dad,” I hiss out a breath.
“What?” Dad shrugs. “It could be a lucrative side business.”
Lucca chuckles. “Maybe I should consider it.”
“I’d buy something.” My father is still grinning like he’s one of the six-year-olds running around this backyard, rather than what he is, a seventy-one-year-old with costly hobbies. “I wouldn’t even have to hide it. Now that Maggie’s decided to play nice.”
“Is Maggie playing nice?” Lucca says, and he winks at me. What is wrong with the man’s eyeballs? The testosterone inside his body believes that if it sees anything female, it must charm, wink, and flirt. But that’s not going to work on me.
I swallow and tilt my head as if to examine Lucca more closely. “Play nice? With you? Never.”
He grins, but before he can respond, Wyatt comes running. He practically slams into the front of our resident Red Tail. I can only imagine the conversation he’d have with his coach—injured by a six-year-old. But Lucca reaches out, catching Wyatt by the shoulders before he can cause any harm.
“Ball,” Wyatt puffs, lifting up the soccer ball in his hands, his little chest heaving.
And then the man walks to the center of the yard, like the main attraction Lindy referred to him as, to perform tricks. I’m lucky only a handful of my team parents are here—and that Blaire isn’t one of them.
I’m grinding my teeth and trying not to groan at everything Lucca does. It’s difficult, as my best little buddy is currently worshipping the man. I still have no idea when Wyatt and my dad became huge Lucca fans.
“He’s good,” Lindy says, watching to my right.
“And he’s hot,” says my mother to my left.
“Mom!” I snap. And sure, objectively, factually, Lucca is hot. But that is one hundred percent beside the point.
“She’s right,” Lindy says. “He is. Why do you hate him again?”
I cross my arms, tightening the fold over my chest. “Where’s your boyfriend, Lindy? Should you really be calling guys hot when you just announced Brent as your partner?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m pretty sure he thinks Lucca’s hot, too.”
“Gah,” I groan just as I spot Lindy’s boyfriend.
Brent has given himself a front-row seat.
He and Dad are lined up next to all the other five- and six-year-olds to watch Lucca perform toe taps, pullbacks, and stepovers.
“You know, I bought a pinata. The kids haven’t even looked at it now that he’s here. ”
“Get over it,” Lindy says.
“Well, I think he’s nice. He came, didn’t he?” Mom says, not catching the clue that I was attempting to deflect the conversation topic. “And he’s a hit with Wyatt.”
“He really is. He’s sweet, Mags.” Lindy’s eyes are glued to the Brazilian currently attempting to teach Wyatt—who can’t even kick a straight line—a bicycle kick.
There’s no way my nephew is going to jump, swing his non-kicking leg upward, fall onto his back, and strike the ball. He’s only going to get Wyatt hurt.
I step onto the grass, cross the space to where the boys are playing. “Leave the teaching to me,” I tell Lucca. “You stick to being the show.”
Wyatt somersaults back to his place in line with his friends.
“Party pooper,” Mom says upon my return.
“When did you all turn traitor?” I face the pair. My sister and mother try to look around me to the Red Tail behind.
“We aren’t traitors,” Lindy says. “We’re just telling you what we see. A nice guy—”
“A spicy piece of eye candy,” Mom says.
And Lindy nods. I feel like I’ve stepped into the twilight zone. “Yeah, a hottie who is sweet enough to entertain Wyatt and his friends. How are you the only single girl in the room and not drooling, Mags?”