“Good. How’s my little guy?” I rub my hand in a slow circle over her belly. When she was pregnant with Rowan, I talked to her. And with this baby, it’s no different. Only earlier. I didn’t start talking to Rowan until we were four months along. This time, I started the second he was conceived. You can’t love them up too much.
“He’s fantastic. How was practice?” She turns to watch Rowan, and I wrap my arms around her waist, hauling her to my body. Rowan twirls a stuffed teddy bear around the dance floor. God, she’s adorable.
“It was great.” I only have two years left on my contract, and I’ll be leaving football behind. Because of how fleeting it all is, I’m relishing every second of it. The comradery. The excitement. The appreciation of the fans. It’s all seared into my brain to pull out when I’m sitting behind a desk writing code. I’ve already started my own software company and went in with Knox to co-own a sports brewpub in town.
Rowan comes to a stop, and her slippers slide on the shiny floor.
“What’s up, buttercup?”
She runs in the opposite direction from where we’re standing with her arms pumping like she’s just remembered something. She stops in front of the toy box, reaches inside, and digs through the items until she finds the one she wants.
When she turns to face us, she tucks a foam football under her arm and barrels across the floor in our direction with the same determination I do.
Lord, these girls are going to kill me. Tears fill my eyes. I’m the luckiest guy in the world. Rowan bounces into my legs, and I scoop her up. “Touchdown.”
“Yay!” She drops the ball to the ground with a thump and claps.
“You’re a big softy.” Charlotte pats my back.
So what? I’m a big softy. Too fucking bad.
But nobody had better call me that on the field.
*****
