Page 36 of Kiss Me Tonight

Wrenching my gaze away from his bulky form, I tuck the whistle between my lips and blow.

Tweet-tweet!

The kids nudge each other as they tromp over to the cooler setup by the bleachers. Each morning, I’ve arrived early to put together a snack station for the team. Granola bars on the first day. Veggie sticks on the second. Back in Pittsburgh, I came across too many of my players whose parents either didn’t have the funds to send their kids to practice with something to eat or who simply couldn’t be bothered.

Either way, my heart couldn’t bear watching some kids snack away while others sipped water from the cooler and pretended they weren’t as hungry as their teammates.

It was a nonnegotiable tradition that I couldn’t give up in returning to London.

Satisfaction skips through me now as I watch Timmy reach into one of the cardboard boxes for a bag of carrots and a bottle of blue Gatorade. I hide a smile behind my hand.

“Timmy’s mom works two different jobs,” says a familiar, dark voice to my left.

Dominic.

My chest expands with a sharp breath. That’s four more words than we’ve exchanged at any given time since the other day. Keeping my attention on the team—and noting the way my baby boy takes a seat next to Timmy—I strive for complete nonchalance when I reply, “Being a single mom isn’t easy.”Don’t look at him. But I can’t not, especially when I catch the delicious scent of aftershave and sandalwood. His bicep brushes my shoulder, he’s so much taller than me. “Did you—”

“Ask him?” He slips his hands into the pockets of his black mesh shorts. “I pushed him to elaborate after he dropped a hint on granola-bar day. Casually mentioned how his mom works at a late-night joint over in Bar Harbor in addition to waitressing at Cookies and Joe Diner in the mornings. I didn’t get much else out of him before he asked if he could have two bars since his mom hadn’t had time to make him anything to eat before she dropped him off at practice.”

And there goes my heart.

I glance over to where Timmy and Topher are laughing together. My son’s resting his forearms on his thighs, head bowed as he shoves a baby carrot into his mouth. As if sensing my stare, he looks up and gives me a short wave.

It’s hiswe’re-at-practice-but-I-still-want-to-acknowledge-youwave.

I kick my chin up in return, my silentI-love-youall he needs before he grins happily and turns back to his conversation with Timmy.

“Thank you for letting me know,” I tell Dominic softly. “About Timmy, I mean. It breaks my heart to know that not all of these boys have it the best at home, though I’m sure Timmy’s mom is doing everything in her power to give her kid whatever he needs.” Despite her brash attitude on the first day of camp, she’s never been late to pick her son up from practice, and I’ve even overheard her suggesting that Harry, a redheaded junior, spend the night when Timmy mentioned Harry’s mom being out of town. “Raising him alone can’t be easy for her, and I really appreciate you looking out for—”

“I was the Timmy back in grade school.”

I jerk back, caught off guard by the gruff note in Dominic’s voice. “I don’t understand.”

“Except that I didn’t even have an overworked mom on my side. I won’t bore you with the details.” He lifts his hat up by the brim, then settles it back down over his head. After being outside in the sun every day, his olive skin appears even more golden now than it did a week ago. “Back then, I would have done pretty much anything to have a coach like you bringing in snacks and drinks. It would have appeased the hunger, especially during some of the rougher years.”

Something tells me I’m not sure I want to know what he means by the “rougher years.”

I remember reading something online about how Dominic grew up in the foster-care system out in California. Back in Pittsburgh, one of my best friends, Mariah, takes in kids. She dotes on them all and has even adopted three—a little girl and two teenage boys—and still continues to do as much work in that world as she feasibly can, considering her day job keeps her continuously busy. The boys, especially the eldest, Zach, has been Topher’s best friend since his adoption four years ago.

But I’m not so naïve as to think that all situations are as good as Zach and his foster siblings have had it with Mariah, and I can’t quite stop my heart from plummeting at the thought of Dominic struggling as a child.

Without thinking, I loop my hand around his muscular forearm. “You can be that coach, too.”

He grunts out something beneath his breath before his big hand slips over mine. His palm is rough, calloused from years of playing professional football. Once upon a time, mine would have been a perfect match. I never had been all that good about wearing my gloves, unless it was game time. Even now, if you look closely, you can see the scarred, bubbled tissue from years of lifting dumbbells and grappling with knotted, weighted ropes for conditioning.

Then Dominic’s knuckles slide between mine, and I forget all about training and exercise as I stare at my paleness interlocked with his bronzed skin. The two of us are quite a pair—opposite in every way and yet forced to unite in order to lead a team of forty-plus teenage boys.

The team.

In touching him at practice, however unintentional, I crossed a boundary. I know it. He knows it.

And then he slips out of my grasp, putting respectable space between us again.

Right.

Right.

I sneak a peek to see if any of the kids witnessed our exchange, but they’re all too wrapped up in their own conversations to notice. I swallow, hard, and peer up at Dominic’s face. Cynical, dark eyes. A firm, unsmiling mouth. Sharp-as-glass cheekbones. I wonder if there’s a soul out there in the world whom he freely gives his smiles to.

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