5. Cecelia #2
If he does, I’ll take care of it myself. And me kneeing him in the balls will be the least of his worries. But I don’t tell my brothers that.
A muffled shout draws our attention back to the grill. Uncle Lennon has Dad in a headlock while Uncle Reed and Uncle Daltrey laugh. I barely bat an eye—they’re always like this.
“They’re children,” Wyatt says fondly.
“Maybe one of you should go over there and be the adult,” I say. “Make sure they don’t burn the food while they’re acting like kindergarteners.”
“It would be good to feed my kids sometime in the near future,” Will says, standing.
“Pretty sure Theo has already eaten his weight in Doritos.” I point to where my nephew is happily sticking half his arm into the chip bowl on the buffet, his face and hands covered in bright orange powder.
“I took my eyes off him for two seconds,” Will mutters, already striding across the patio, while Wyatt and I laugh.
After lunch, I take Theo out back to kick around the soccer ball.
My parents had a mini field installed years ago, since all three of my brothers played through high school.
My mom played, too. According to my brothers, she could have played at the college level if she hadn’t gotten married and had Wyatt at such a young age.
Theo’s idea of soccer mainly consists of me chasing him around the field and occasionally kicking the ball while Wyatt’s dog George runs circles around us, barking excitedly.
Eventually Eva, Will’s wife, comes to wrangle him into taking a nap.
The kid must have worn himself out, because he actually agrees, instead of throwing the full-blown tantrum that usually occurs at nap time.
“You wanna run some actual drills?” Will asks once Eva has taken the baby inside.
I grin up at him. “How about we play some one-on-one?”
He groans. “I don’t really feel like getting my ass kicked today, Ceece.”
“Aw, come on,” I urge, already dribbling the ball around him. “You can keep up.”
He makes a face, but turns back to the patio. “Mom!” He shouts. “Wyatt! Come play.”
“What about me?” Dad calls back.
“You stay right where you are, old man,” Wyatt says, handing the baby off to Dad as he stands to join us. “We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Dad grumbles but I know he’s happier holding a baby than playing soccer. Cash Ransome’s version of athleticism is jumping around a stage with his guitar.
We split into teams—Wyatt and Mom versus me and Will.
The boys, particularly Will, are big, and they’ve always played a physical game, never going easy on me just because I’m a girl.
Especially not after I started getting faster than them.
Mom and I have the advantage in footwork so the teams are pretty evenly matched.
“Need to work on that cross,” I chide Wyatt as he tries and fails to block my shot.
“You’re so damn annoying,” he pants, and I laugh before passing the ball across to Will.
I can’t wipe the grin off my face as I dart around Wyatt to move down the field. This is my happy place. A soccer field. My parents’ back yard. My brothers. The rest of the family scattered around on the patio and in the pool.
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Nowhere else where I feel more like myself.
Predictably, the boys get tired first. They try to cover with the excuse that they need to help their wives with the kids, but no one is buying it. Mom stays out with me, helping me run a few drills.
“Come here,” she says after a while, pulling me down to the grass. I collapse beside her, breathing hard, and don’t object when she takes my foot and lifts my left leg. She pushes back, helping me stretch, her eyes on my face for any sign of discomfort.
“My knee is fine, Mom,” I say softly. “Really.”
“Hmm,” is her only response.
I struggle to keep my defensiveness in check. “Did I look like I was favoring it?”
“No,” she admits, now pushing my leg in gentle circles. “How’s practice been feeling?”
She’s careful to keep her tone even, but I can read the concern from a mile away.
I sometimes wonder if my mom would have preferred me to quit soccer after my injury. She’d never admit it—unlike Dad, who flat out begged me to stop playing after my surgery—but it was there in her eyes all the same.
Quitting was never an option for me. Did the injury suck? Absolutely. The ACL tear was a pain like I’d never experienced before. The surgery was just as rough, and the subsequent physical therapy had been a bitch.
But none of the physical pain had compared to the emotional gut punch of sitting out the conference tournament last year.
Or having to forgo my place on the national U-20 team.
Ever since I first touched a soccer ball, my goal was to make the Women’s National Team someday.
To play for the World Cup and the Olympics. Maybe go pro after college.
I didn’t blame the coaches or management. Competition for spots on the U-20 team is extremely high, and everyone who plays at that level is hoping to make the senior team and play for their country. Of course they couldn’t hold a spot for a girl who could barely walk, let alone play.
But I refused to let that be the end of my story. I worked my ass off in PT. Convinced Mom and Dad to hire private rehab. Fought my way back into my starting spot on my college team.
I’ve been single-minded in my determination to get back to the level I was at before the injury. And there’s no way I’m going to let the occasional little twinge get in my way.
“Practice has been fine,” I tell Mom. “I have some soreness.” I shrug. “That’s what ice is for.”
She sets my foot back on the grass, her gaze never leaving my face. My mom has a way of looking at me like she can read my every thought. It doesn’t usually bother me, but today I’m feeling on edge.
“What?” I snap, then immediately feel bad.
“I’m not worried about your knee, CeCe,” she says calmly. “I do worry, however, that you’re too stubborn to tell me if something was wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong,” I insist. “It feels fine.”
I can tell she’s unsatisfied by my answer, but I don’t know what else to tell her. If I was feeling real pain, I would admit it.
Probably.
“Okay,” she finally says, when it’s obvious I don’t have anything else to add. “Shall we talk about the other issue?”
I meet her gaze to see her eyes are shining in amusement and I groan, knowing what’s coming.
“That kid was a punk,” I say. “He had it coming.”
“You can’t go around kicking people, Cecelia. You know this.”
“Mom—”
“It might have been cute when you were a kid,” she presses on. “But you’re an adult now. Dad and I can’t get you out of messes by coming in and talking to the principle.”
“He deserved it!”
“I’m sure he did,” she agrees, and I can’t help but laugh. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you have a temper, baby girl. And one of these days it’s going to get you into real trouble.”
I grumble under my breath, but I have no response for that. Should I have kneed Travis the Asshole at that party? Probably not. Would I do the exact same thing if I had the chance? Definitely.
She laughs, and slings her arm around my shoulder. “Just try to control yourself, okay? I’ve managed to raise three boys without any arrests. I don’t want you messing with my streak.”
“Not my fault the boys are sissies,” I shoot back, making her laugh again before placing a kiss on the top of my head.
“What am I going to do with you, girl?”
I lean into her. “I have no idea, Momma.”