Page 53 of Play Maker

“She’s nesting.” Mom flips a onesie inside out. “Hormones plus Amazon Prime equals clutter.”

I hold up an unopened tube of nipple cream. “She could open a black market maternity shop. Niche but probably profitable.”

Then we hear the front door. Keys hit the floor. Fast footsteps.

I stand. “Call out, soldier. We’re on high alert here.”

“I’ll be next-door, okay Brooksie?” Hart says.

She doesn’t reply.

Moments later, Riley storms in like a pregnant tornado. Her face is red, eyes already brimming, lips trembling. “No one warned me about this part in the group chat!” she snaps, voice cracking. “That pregnancy turns you EMO!” And just like that, she’s crying. Not soft, single-tear movie crying—this is full-body, gulping, hands-flailing crying. “I bawled at a jelly commercial!” she continues. “It was just a guy making toast for his wife! He loved her and made her toast, and I’m over here, sobbing like I’ve never had jam in my life!”

I blink. “Okay. That’s … new.”

“Don’tokayme!” She hiccups. “I looked at a burp cloth and got emotional! A burp cloth, Lo!”

I catch Mom trying so hard not to laugh that her shoulders are shaking.

“This might be your origin story,” she says. “Riley, mother, feeler of all the feelings.”

Grandma doesn’t miss a beat, just wraps Riley up in a hug like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Welcome to the club, sweetheart. We cry, we scream, we keep the world turning, and we love.”

Riley lets out a soaked, snotty laugh against her shoulder. “I used to be cool.”

I walk over and brush her hair back from her damp forehead. “No, babe. Youthoughtyou were cool, but you’ve always been this dramatic. We’re just blaming it on hormones now.”

But honestly? It’s kind of nice seeing her feel everything this deeply.

“Here, have some nipple cream.” I smile, holding it out to her.

She snatches it away. “I need beer, not nipple cream.”

“Well, you screwed that up, didn’t you?” I hug her, and we both laugh … but she cries, too.

Chapter11

Just Wait

Kolby

We load up in Hart’s SUV just after nine. It’s early, but not quiet, not with Skinner riding shotgun, legs kicked up on the dash like he owns the road and the rest of us are just borrowing it.

“You ever seen someone cry that pretty?” Hart says, eyes still on the rearview, like he left half his soul in Riley’s kitchen. “I mean, she waseating toastand crying about a baby we haven’t even held yet.”

Skinner tilts his head. “Kinda poetic, honestly.”

“The hell do you know about poetry, Robert Frost?” I mutter.

He doesn’t hear me, which tracks, since Hart doesn’t hear him.

Hart sighs. “I just wish I could do something.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.“You did. You showed up. You’re showing up every day.”

He nods, jaw flexing. Doesn’t say anything else.

We fall into a lull for a second … until Skinner slaps the dashboard. “Okay, butmore importantly, you get your contracts yet?”

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