“Violet wants marriage and children.” I glance up, smiling. “He’s the first man she’s ever been able to see herself sharing those things with.”
Malie hums, and I can see that she’s pleased.
Oh, what the hell. This is Violet we’re talking about. She’s not known to be subtle.
“She took one look at him and decided then and there she wanted to have his babies,” I add with a laugh.
Malie lets out a full, rich laugh of her own. “Then maybe we’ll have another wedding soon.”
I bump her shoulder with mine. “You’ll have another palagi to teach weaving to.”
Her laughter softens, turns fond. “I wouldn’t mind having another palagi around.”
Malie nods, eyes bright with a pride that only comes from seeing your children on the edge of something good.
She leans her head back against the chair, eyes half closed, smile still playing at the corner of her mouth. “You weren’t born into this family. But you choose us, and we choose you. We claim you as ours.”
Here on this porch, I realize something simple and deep: this family isn’t only something I’m marrying into. It’s something I’m becoming part of.
Line by line. Word by word. Thread by thread.
Not by blood.
But by love.
Chapter 22
Alex Sebring
Practice ends with the familiar ache in my legs and sweat clinging to my skin. The pitch is quiet now, boots clicking against concrete as the guys head for the showers, laughter trailing behind them. I roll out my shoulders, grab my water bottle, and start toward the locker room.
“Sebring.”
I glance up at the sound of my name.
David stands outside the admin building, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not stern. Not casual either.
“You got a minute?”
My stomach doesn’t drop—at least, not yet. We’ve had plenty of conversations since I got back: salary renegotiations, captain responsibilities, preseason PR. All standard stuff. But there’s something off about the timing of this one.
“Won’t keep you long. I know home’s calling with a new fiancée waiting for you.”
I follow him in, wiping sweat from my brow, bracing for some sponsorship obligation or media request I’ll have to fake enthusiasm for. But the second we sit, I sense it—he’s uneasy. And David is never uneasy.
He leans back in his chair and folds his hands together. “Have you spoken to Tyson McRae?”
The name is a punch to the ribs.
I answer flatly. “No.”
David nods once, slow. “I figured as much. He called me this morning.”
Every muscle in my back tenses. Of course, the fucker called.
I wait for the other shoe to drop—for the formal complaint, the legal jargon, the veiled threat dressed in athlete-friendly language. It would be classic Tyson. Throw elbows in the game, and cry foul when someone hits back harder.
“He requested a meeting with you.”
