Page 84 of Pieces

“Then why does it feel like you’re making this a test he didn’t sign up for?” My voice wobbles, and I hate it. “He cares so much, and he’s a good guy.”

“You have to understand that all I’ve ever known him to be is one of my best players, sure, but also a serial ladies’ man.”

I scoff. “Ladies’ man. That might’ve been who he was before, but he’s not like that. He’s kind and sweet. Caring and supportive, and all you’ve done is push him away. And me with him.”

He swipes a hand over his jaw. “I’m trying to protect you.”

I laugh, but it’s short and unsteady. “From what, Dad? Being happy?”

“No,” he says firmly. “From getting hurt.”

His words hit hard, and my throat burns. But isn’t he aware of how much hurt I’ve been in? “Dad,” I start. “Do you not see that you’re the one hurting me? The way you’ve acted since we told you about the baby, how you made us feel—”

His phone rings, cutting me off, and he pulls it out with a sigh, muttering a curse under his breath. “I’m sorry, I have to get this.” I think he might hug me, but instead, he just places a hand on my shoulder. The gesture is so far from what he’d usually do, and taking the phone call over talking to me… it all makes my eyes burn. And then he leaves, walking back to the front of the stadium.

I have no idea how much time passes, but I’ve managed to hold back the tears for now. Maybe things aren’t ready to be resolved between us yet, and I need to accept that.

The door creaks open, and Hudson, along with a few other guys, file out, some of them spotting me and shouting hey. Hudson laughs but waves off his friends and jogs over to me. “Everything okay?”

“I’m good,” I say, giving him a small smile. He tracks the movement and frowns.

“Then why do you look so sad?” He hardly hesitates before pulling me over to him, wrapping me in his arms. His fresh scent is a comfort that I need.

“I talked to my dad,” I mumble against his sweater.

As he raises his thumb to brush my cheek, chasing the last trace of tears, I pull back to look up at him.

“You did?”

I nod, my fingers seeking his warm hands. “It’s fine, we talked. Nothing was resolved.”

“I’m sorry, Daph. He’ll come around.” His hand squeezes twice around mine as he looks directly at me. For whatever reason, I think I needed to hear him say that, to affirm the hope lingering within me. My heart settles, anchored by him. He dips his head, nose brushing mine. “Ready to go?”

I breathe out a little laugh. “Yeah, it’s getting late.”

He grins, tugging me toward the car, then stops suddenly. “Oh, I forgot, I picked this up for you.” Reaching into his gym bag, he pulls out another plastic bag and pushes it toward me.

I blink, caught off guard. The bag rustles as I open it, and inside, there’s four different types of candy. Sweet, sour, hard, soft. He’s thought of everything. All because I said to him once last week that I was craving something sweet.

The emotion swells too fast, too big. I drop the bag and grab his face, pulling him into a kiss that mixes with my tears.

He meets me halfway, his lips firm and sure. His hands find my hips, gripping like he’s holding me together and holding me close all at once.

When we break apart, he smiles, eyes half-closed. “All that for candy?” His smile is endearing, and that knot in my stomach loosens again. “Come on, princess. Let’s go.”

Earlier, I was nervous about meeting his mom and sister, but now all I feel is content because he’s with me.

When we get to his mom’s house, it’s late, and it’s clear everyone’s already sleeping. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door as quietly as possible. Inside, the house is warm, the faint scent of vanilla and something homey lingering in the air.

“Come on,” he whispers and waves me inside.

I follow him down a short hallway, my sneakers muffled against the carpet. He stops at one of the doors and pushes it open, flicking on a small bedside lamp.

“This is my old room,” he says, then steps aside to let me in.

It’s everything I expected, football posters, a shelf of trophies, and a bed that looks a little too small for him now. The comforter is navy blue and slightly faded, and there’s an old high school jersey draped over the back of a chair in the corner.

“You’re sure this is okay?” I ask, glancing back at him.

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