Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
LAW
Ivy booked us a tour on the Road to Hāna today. It’s just the two of us with four other people we don’t know in a tour van on a winding, twisty road. There are multiple stops, and the scenery is breathtaking. Though I wish Carlie could have been included on the trip, it’s one of the excursions Ivy scheduled before we left. Still, I’m glad to get to see so much of Maui. I miss a couple calls from my mom, but I text that I can’t talk and will call her this evening. She doesn’t check in often, and she knows I’m on vacation right now, so I’m curious what sparked the call.
“So, you got some time alone with Carlie yesterday?” Ivy asks when we stop at a black sand beach in Wai‘ānapanapa State Park. It’s one of the longest stops, which I’m sure is why Ivy decides to bring up Carlie now.
“Kind of.” We were mostly by ourselves at the beach, even though her family was there. Later that evening, we had dinner together with her family, but we were always surrounded by people.
“But you had some opportunities to get to know her better?” Ivy takes off her shoes, holding them loosely in her hand as we explore the beach and meander toward the sea arch this spot is known for.
“Yeah, there’s more to the story of her ex—maybe a lot more—but I don’t blame her for not getting into it. We haven’t had real alone time for that kind of confiding, and maybe we don’t know each other well enough yet. It’s only been a few days. She mentioned things were bad with the ex, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she has some trust issues.”
I sigh. How can I blame her for holding back? She told me all about her family while I said as little as possible about mine. And when she teased me about being a Blues fan, I wanted to tell her that moving to Houston was more of a struggle than my joking answer made it out to be. Will she see me as an entitled athlete if I tell her that I’m not as grateful as I should be to play for the Pumas? Sometimes she looks at me with such hope that I don’t want to burst that bubble.
Two boys run past us through the sand, one of them turning to look at me over his shoulder as he follows the other boy.
“Just keep listening,” Ivy says, about the same time the boys huddle together, one of them pointing at me. They’re probably ten or eleven, and it’s hard holding back a grin at them possibly recognizing who I am.
“Yeah,” I say distractedly, which I realize is kind of ironic. “Of course,” I add, trying to sound genuine. Ivy raises an eyebrow.
One of the boys comes trotting back toward me—not the one who did the double take over his shoulder. “Hi,” he says, smiling.
“Hi, there.” The grin is itching to break out. I remember being ten years old and how excited I was any time we saw a Blues player around town. I studied the faces of every player on the roster, just in case. Any Blues player was good enough for me. One good thing I do remember about my dad was the time he took me along with him to a photoshoot with the team. Jordan Wake, their all-star wide receiver, spent ten minutes talking to me about my future in football. I told him then I was going to the pros. When I got drafted by the Rays, Wake called me to congratulate me. I want to be just like him.
“My brother—” The boy points back to the other one, who drops his gaze when we all look at him. “He thinks you’re Lawson Card.”
I smirk and raise one eyebrow. “What do you think?”
The boy beams. “I think so too.” He’s practically bouncing now, his grin wide-toothed and identical to the one I must have worn when Wake sat down next to me while my dad was taking pictures with the Blues owner and general manager. I love interacting with kids like this. I’ve spent a decent amount of time with kids through football. The service projects and football camps we do have given me a bunch of opportunities, and it’s one of the best parts about my job—aside from the fact that I’m playing my favorite game and getting paid for it, of course.
“You both think right,” Ivy says to the boys. She beams too, looking between me and the boy. She doesn’t always love when fans interrupt time we spend together, but we’re both suckers for the kids.
The boy turns around, waving at his brother. “It’s him! It’s him!” he shouts.
Ivy and I share a look, barely holding back our laughter.
The other little boy runs up. “You’re really Lawson Card?” he says.
“You can call me Law.” Lawson is a snooty last name, not somebody’s first name, and my parents chose it for the future president of the United States, not a football player.
“You’re from Nashville too, aren’t you?” The first boy—the older brother, I assume—says, squinting up at me.
“I am. Are you guys from Nashville?” I put my hands in my pockets, hoping they don’t mind chatting for a bit. This is the best part of the tour.
“Yeah, we are,” the little brother says.
“Is it all right if you guys tell me your names?” I ask.
The little brother turns toward the way they were running. A man walks toward us, and when he sees me with the boys, he starts to jog. “Dad!” the little brother says. “Can we tell Lawson Card our names?”
“Law!” The older brother nudges him in the side.
“Oops, sorry.”
I chuckle. “No problem.”
The man reaches us and looks surprised to discover that it is, indeed, Lawson Card standing on the beach with his boys. “Uh, yeah. You can tell him your names.” He laughs nervously.
“I’m Logan,” the older brother says, sticking out his hand. I give him a firm shake.
“I’m Gabe,” the other one says, sticking his hand out as well.
“Max Hunter,” the dad says, but he just nods at me. He’s definitely more nervous than the boys, which is why ten-year-olds are so cool.
“So,” I say, folding my arms and looking between the two boys. “Do you guys think I could get a picture with you or something?”
The boys erupt into excitement, and I can’t hold back the laugh anymore. Ivy’s shoulders shake. She grabs the dad’s phone and I hand her mine, and she gets busy snapping a few photos. The boys go first, and then we coax their dad into the picture with us.
“Thank you so much,” Max says when we break apart after the pictures. He nods his thanks at Ivy too, who hands back his phone.
“Of course.” I turn back to Gabe and Logan. “So, are you guys football players?”
“Yeah, we are,” Logan answers for both of them. “We’re going to play for the Blues someday.”
I grin wider, but I can’t help the prick of pain in my chest. At that age, I thought the same thing. I thought I’d be able to control it all, that if I played my heart out, I’d get what I wanted.
“How come you don’t play for the Blues?” Gabe asks.
It’s like a punch in my gut, considering how badly I’ve wanted that most of my life. I force out a laugh and share a look with their dad. He opens his mouth, but then falters.
“The Pumas don’t think they can win another championship unless they have me.” I shrug, pushing away any bitterness leaking in because I keep wondering the same thing. These boys don’t want to see a jaded football player.
“The Blues are going to win this year,” Logan says authoritatively. “The Pumas will never beat them.”
I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing, but it’s Max who answers. “They beat us last year,” he points out.
Gabe drags two hands down the side of his face in a scary imitation of the Blues coach on the sidelines of that game. I’m not going to be able to hold my laughter at bay for much longer, especially with Ivy laughing silently behind my back.
“We had that game,” Gabe says mournfully. “Jett McCombs threw two interceptions!”
I can’t help thinking about how Jett told that story as his most embarrassing moment, and I chuckle. “Believe me,” I say, “Jett McCombs knows it.” I wink at them.
“You know Jett McCombs too?” Gabe cries.
Logan nudges his brother again. “Of course he does. They’re on the same team now.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Come on, guys.” Max puts his hands on their shoulders and nods at me politely. “Your mom’s waiting for us.”
“Not a football fan?” I say under my breath, looking up the beach to a woman who’s taking pictures of the ocean.
“She’ll probably have to ask the boys who you are,” Max whispers back apologetically. “Thanks again,” he says in a louder voice, and he squeezes the boys’ shoulders.
“Thank you!” they both echo excitedly.
“One more thing,” I say, pulling off the Pumas T-shirt I’m wearing. “You got a Sharpie?” I ask Ivy, already knowing the answer. She always has a Sharpie. I always say it’s because she’s the one with a purse. She says I should have to carry one because I always have legitimate pockets.
“Of course.” She pulls it from the bag she’s been carrying over her shoulder.
“Turn around,” I tell Logan, and he obeys. I put the shirt on his back, using it to sign my name across the Pumas logo. I hand it to Logan and grimace a little. “Sorry, wish I had two.”
“Holy smokes!” Gabe cries, looking over his shoulder at the T-shirt in awe. “Thank you!”
“This is so awesome.” Logan holds up the T-shirt in front of him in awe. “Even if it is a Pumas T-shirt.”
Ivy snorts with laughter behind me. Max looks mortified and opens his mouth, probably to lecture Logan about gratitude, but I wave him off. “I get it, man,” I say under my breath with a grin.
As Max leads them back toward their mother, the boys keep glancing over their shoulders. I wave every single time while digging through my backpack for the swim shirt I brought along, and then pull it over my head.
“They’re adorable.” Ivy loops an arm through mine, and we finally continue our walk to the sea arch.
“Yeah. They remind me of me at that age.” I look over my shoulder again, and this time it’s Logan and Gabe waving back at me.
“Jordan Wake would be so proud of you.” Ivy bumps me with her hip, looking up at me with her own proud smile. “Plus you handled their Blues questions like a champ.” She smirks. She coached me so much after it was announced I was going to the Pumas.
“Ten-year-olds are easy compared to sports journalists.”
“Touché.” She chuckles. “But I think you should use that answer next time you get asked, the one about the Pumas not being able to win another championship without you. That’s gold.”
“Yeah, I bet Jett would love it.”
“Too bad Carlie wasn’t here to see the show,” Ivy adds with a smirk.
“Me showing off to ten-year-olds or me taking my shirt off?” I ask.
“Both,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. I shake my head at her.
I open the photos app on my phone and flip through the pictures Ivy took of me and the boys. I can’t wait to tell Jett about it. That’s when I realize that I am friends with Jett McCombs, and maybe being a Puma isn’t going to be so hard.