I belong to someone.
My stomach flips. He's never said that to me, not out loud. Not in so many words. And hearing it now, delivered to a stranger like it's the most obvious fact in the world—
Cazzo. What is he doing to me?
The blonde retreats, looking vaguely offended.Good.
Wait. Good? Since when is 'good' the appropriate response to—
She doesn't even glance at Xander, which seems like an oversight. At six-three, shoulders like a linebacker, warm brown eyes that probably do very well for him when he's not wearing mirrored glasses at a children's soccer game, he's not exactly invisible.
Not that I'm noticing. I'm just observing. Professionally.
Xander turns to me and raises an eyebrow. I look away. He coughs and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Fantastic. The giant with the explosives expertise is laughing at me.
On the field, Chesca gets control of the ball, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in pure concentration. She dribbles past a defender who seems more interested in picking grass than playing defense, winds back her leg, and kicks.
The ball sails into the goal.
"GOAL!" I'm on my feet before I've moved. "That's my girl!"
Chesca's head whips toward us, face splitting into a grin, but not toward me.
Toward Cole.
He gives her a thumbs up, and something twists in my chest.
Both. It terrifies me and breaks my heart and it's definitely both.
When the first half ends, Chesca races over, grass stains already decorating her knees, cheeks flushed with exertion and joy.
"Cole! Did you see? Did you SEE?"
"I saw, Hime."
Hime. Japanese for princess. When did that start? When did my daughter get a Japanese nickname from my—from the man who—
Chesca throws her arms around his waist, completely unselfconscious, completely trusting, and Cole's hand comes to rest on her head for a moment, long enough for my throat to close.
I belong to someone.
Part of me wants to correct him, to be angry about the presumption, but Chesca pulls back chattering about the second half strategy and whether she'll score another goal, and the moment passes. Cole listens like she's briefing him on a military operation. Xander produces a juice box from somewhere. The man came prepared for an eight-year-old's soccer needs.
My hand drifts to my father's medal, thumb running along the familiar edge of St. Christopher's face. The metal has gone warm against my skin.
Chesca runs back to her team. The breeze carries the smell of fresh-cut grass and someone's too-strong perfume from two chairs down.
Xander's posture changes. Subtle, but his hand goes to his earpiece.
Cole's attention snaps to him immediately. They communicate without words, some signal I can't read but recognize as significant.
I turn to look where Xander's focused, scanning the parking lot beyond the field. Too many people, parents and siblings and coaches all blending together. My fingers find the medal again.
"What is it?"
"Probably nothing." Cole's gaze sweeps the lot, never landing on me.