Page 91 of Checking It Twice
I stare at the message for a long moment, trying to decode the subtext. Because it sounds like he was worried about me, like my well-being matters to him in ways that go beyond professional courtesy.
You too,I send back, then immediately put my phone face-down on the table before I can say something stupid like how much I’ve missed him, how empty everything feels without him in it.
“So?” Bryn prompts.
“So maybe it’s not over.”
“Maybe it’s just getting started.”
The possibility sits between us like a live wire, dangerous and electric and full of potential. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe some things are worth fighting for, even when they scare you. Even when they could change everything.
Maybe especially then.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
House Rules
Mitchell
Bennett and Lucy’s house screams, “We have children and gave up on having nice things.” There are toys scattered across hardwood floors, sippy cups on every surface, and the faint aroma of what might be mac and cheese mixed with baby powder.
“Mitch!” Lucy appears with a three-month-old strapped to her chest and pure relief in her eyes. “Thank God you’re here. Can you take Emilia? She’s been fussy all day, and I need five minutes to set up snacks without Shepherd trying to help.”
Before I can protest, she’s unstrapping the baby and depositing her in my arms like she’s handing off a football. Except footballs don’t squirm and make tiny grunting noises that could either be contentment or impending disaster.
“Uh, Lucy, I don’t really—”
“You’ll be fine. She likes you.” Lucy’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “Just find her pacifier if she gets fussy!”
The baby—Emilia—stares up at me with those impossibly blue infant eyes, and I’m struck by how small she is. Her entire fist can’t wrap around my finger, and she smells like that clean baby scent that makes women go crazy and men panic.
“Don’t do anything weird,” I tell her seriously.
She responds by making a face that suggests she’s either thinking deep thoughts or taking a massive shit.
“Uncle Mitch!” Three-year-old Shepherd comes barreling into the living room wearing nothing but a superhero cape and what appears to be strategic underwear placement, which is to say, they are on top of his head. “Look! I’m Superman!”
“That’s great, buddy, but where are your pants?”
“I don’t need pants! Superman doesn’t wear pants!”
“Superman definitely wears pants. That’s like his whole thing.”
“DADDY!” Shepherd shrieks at a volume that makes the baby startle in my arms. “UNCLE MITCH SAYS SUPERMAN WEARS PANTS!”
Bennett appears from the kitchen, beer in hand, looking like a man who’s had this exact conversation seventeen times today. “Shep, we’ve talked about this. Superman wears pants. Batman wears pants. Even the Flash, who literally runs so fast his pants should catch fire, wears pants.”
“But I don’t want pants!”
“Join the club, kid. We all have pants-related regrets.”
Bennett manages to get the kid to at least put his underpants where they belong as the other guys start filing in—Hayes, Chase, Ty, and a couple of the younger players who worship Bennett like he’s some kind of domestic god. The sight of me holding a baby while trying to balance a beer seems to cause universal amusement.
“Look at Drake,” Hayes says, pulling out his phone. “Getting practice for when he settles down.”
“I’m not settling down,” I grumble, which would sound more convincing if the baby hadn’t just wrapped her tiny fingers around my thumb and made my chest do something complicated.
“Right,” Ty says, cracking open a beer. “That’s why you’ve been moping around like someone stole your favorite stick.”
