Page 5 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

Nita shakes her head. I always hang out with Nita and Lisa at the soccer games. Our kids are about the same skill level–about mid-range.I got tired of standing with the mothers of the kids who should be looking forward to tryouts for Toronto FC.

This is Toronto; there are some really good soccer players, even at this age.

″I’ve never even heard that rule,” Nita says, clapping her hands as her son kicks the ball.

″It’s a good rule,” I concede. “But they’resix. It’s not like they were going to walk out with a bottle. Actually, I wouldn’t put it past Sophie.”

″They must have looked so cute, each with their own bottle,” Lisa smiles. “Would they have made a fuss if you only had bought one bottle?”

″World War Three,” I sigh. “It’s not like it was going to go to waste. I’m meeting my girlfriends tonight, so that would have taken care of a bottle. Or maybe two.”

″So J.B. is home tonight with the kids?” Nita asks, trying to actcasual and failing miserably. “Is he coming to the game?”

My friend Nita, mother of Ben’s best soccer friend, Tanner, has a thumping big crush on my husband.

J.B. says it’s flattering. I’m fine with it. I kind of have to be since I have a teensy little crush on someone myself.

″Casey doesn’t Dirk look amazing in those shorts,” Lisa murmurs. Dirk is the twenty-five-year-old coach of the kids’ team. A soccer player himself, Dirk has a great rapport with the kids and an even better one with the parents since all the mothers are too busy ogling his calves and thighs to bother complaining about the lack of playing their darlings receive.

Since I’ve become a mother, I can’t help but notice some parents can be really annoying.

″Lovely,” I murmur to Lisa before answering Nita. “And no, J.B. is at work, but he’ll come home early. I’ve got a babysitter.” I do a little dance to show my excitement.

″Lucky,” Lisa sighs. “I can’t seem to keep a babysitter. I find someone to watch Angelique for a night, but they’re always too busy when I call again.”

I don’t respond. I like Lisa a lot, but I’ve had Angelique over for a play date and there would be no way I would ever agree to babysit her. There are still fingernail marks on the doorframe from where she tried to climb it.

″Doesn’t J.B. ever get time off to come to the games?” Nita wonders.

How I deal with my husband’s schedule is a mystery to most people. J.B. is the co-owner ofThricerestaurant, which means he works most nights. But since he owns it with our best friend Cooper, it makes it more manageable. Both of them work long hours, sometimes even twelve-hour days, but can always count on each other when they need time off.

J.B.’s time with the kids is in the mornings. He’s in charge of dressing, feeding, and getting them to school, a bonus for me because I’m not much of a morning person. While he amuses the kids, I’m able to get ready for work.

″He’ll come to the tournament,” I say to Nita. I don’t tell her that while J.B. loves to see the kids play, most of the other parents annoy the poop out of him.

″They’re always trying to get reservations and free meals,” J.B. had complained the last time he came to a game. “And their kids suck at soccer, so they should stop pretending they’re going to be the nextLionel Messi.”

″It’s hard for him to get a whole night off,” I continue. “Especially when Cooper–”

″Casey!” Lisa interrupts, pointing to the field. “Ben just fell.”

″He didn’t fall; that kid tackled him!” Nita exclaims, following me onto the field. Dirk is already running over to where Lucy is helping her brother to his feet.

″Where’s Sophie?” I call with dismay. If Lucy is with Ben that means–

My second youngest triplet marches out from where she had been sitting on the sidelines, her curly, red pigtails bouncing with every step. The rest of the team follows her like she’s the Pied Piper.

Her face is like a thundercloud.

″Sophie, don’t!” I cry, but either she doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me because she breaks into a run.

″Don’t you ever hurt my brother!” she screams, making a beeline to the towheaded little brat who’s laughing at the sight of poor Ben on the ground.

Sophie runs straight to the kid and drills a fist into his stomach.

″Oh no,” I groan.

″Whose child is that?” The voice screeches across the soccer field, still dotted with the brightly coloured jerseys of the kids. “Whose daughter just did that to my son?”

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