Chapter 13 #3
She nods like she’s filing the information away somewhere important. “Are they the ones you always curse at?”
I snort. “Yep. Those idiots.”
She smiles—small, sleepy, soft—and shifts Leon just enough so he’s not slipping sideways. She’s holding him like she was born doing it. Like the kid’s weight is familiar now. And he looks so damn peaceful on her, cheek rising and falling with her breaths.
I sip my beer and she watches me do it, eyes half-lidded but bright with interest. “Are they winning?” she asks.
Her voice does that thing where it cracks open a space inside me I didn’t know was empty.
I shake my head. “Not even close.”
She laughs under her breath. Quiet. Delicate. Like the air between us matters.
Then she says, “I’m sorry,” like my poor sports luck is something worth sympathy.
And that’s when it hits me hardest:
She’s not asking to fill silence. Not asking because she feels like she should.
She’s asking because she cares.
Because she’s paying attention to me sitting here with my beer and my aching shoulders and my stupid team that never wins.
Because somehow in all this—after two weeks of disaster and one night of losing my mind inside her—she’s still gentle. Soft in a way nobody’s ever been with me. Sweet in a way that makes me want to put the world on a plate for her.
I watch her adjust Leon again, her fingers brushing the back of his tiny neck, and something tightens in my chest.
She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
Doesn’t realize how natural she looks right there—tired but glowing, holding my kid like he was born in her arms, wearing my damn flannel like it’s hers, asking me soft questions while I pretend to watch the game but really just watch her.
She’s got her knees tucked up, Leon curled between them, one of his feet resting in her lap, sock half-fallen off.
She keeps nudging it back up with her thumb without thinking, her focus mostly on the screen, but not really.
Her hair’s a mess, her tank top’s riding low on one side, and she’s got this relaxed curve to her mouth like she’s content and doesn’t even know it.
“I don’t know much about football,” she mumbles finally, after a long pause. Quiet. Maybe a little guilty, like that’s something she’s supposed to apologize for.
I glance over the rim of my beer and snort. “Yeah? I figured when you called a field goal ‘that three-point kick thing’ last week.”
Her nose wrinkles, just a little. “It is a three-point kick thing.”
“It’s a field goal,” I say, shaking my head. “Not ‘the kick thing.’”
“You knew what I meant,” she fires back, lips twitching.
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt my soul to hear it.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, then nudges Leon’s sock again. “Is that why you always mutter at the TV like you’re coaching from the couch?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I say, taking another sip. “Coach in my soul. Can’t help it.”
She smirks. “You talk to them like they can hear you.”
“They should hear me. Maybe then they’d stop throwing the damn ball straight into triple coverage.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Triple coverage?”
I nod. “Yeah. That’s when—” I pause, brow furrowed, trying to find the words that’ll make it make sense without making her eyes glaze over. “Okay, say you’re the guy with the ball.”
“I’m always the guy with the ball,” she deadpans.
I crack a grin. “Damn right you are. But say you’re about to throw it, and three defenders are all over the guy you’re trying to throw to. That’s triple coverage. It’s stupid. Don’t do it. Basic shit.”
She hums like she’s considering it. “So… throwing into triple coverage is like… texting your ex when you’re already drunk and sad?”
My mouth opens.
Then shuts.
I blink at her.
“That is… shockingly accurate,” I admit.
She grins, proud of herself.
“See?” she says, eyes dancing. “I do know things.”
“I take it back,” I mutter, tipping my bottle toward her in mock salute. “You’re a football genius.”
“Damn right,” she says, reaching down to tuck Leon’s blanket up over his shoulder. He shifts a little, sighs, settles again.
She looks at him like she can’t believe he’s real.
And then she glances at me, softer now.
“So… your team any good this year?”
I bark a bitter laugh. “Not a chance in hell.”
She giggles into her hand, trying not to wake Leon, and I catch myself smiling again, just watching her.
Watching how easily she fits here.
How easily this fits.
“Why do you root for them if they’re bad?” she asks after a second.
I shrug, leaning back, letting my arm drape along the back of the couch behind her. “Cause they’re mine,” I say simply. “You don’t stop showin’ up just ’cause something’s not perfect.”
She looks at me too long for it to be about football.
Then murmurs, “No. I guess you don’t.”
And we don’t say anything for a while.
Not because there’s nothing to say—but because this feels… full. Like the quiet is supposed to be here.
Like we’re not filling space—we’re just in it.
Me, her, Leon, this stupid game I’m not watching, and this woman beside me who calls field goals “kick things” and wears my flannel like she was born in it.