My chest tightens. I jerk my attention back to the field.
Beckett has the ball now, nudging it forward with careful, clumsy kicks, his face screwed up in determination. Blake always said I looked constipated when I concentrated too hard.
I smile to myself at the goofy resemblance.
"Go, Beckett!" The words escape before I can stop them.
The ball connects with the back of the net. Beckett throws his arms up, face splitting into a grin that punches me square in the gut.
Then he's running, not to me, but straight to Janie. Her arms open wide as he crashes into her, their laughter carrying across the field. She lifts him, spinning once before setting him down and ruffling his hair.
Something breaks open inside me. That should be us. All three of us.
I turn away, swallowing hard against the knot in my throat.
The referee's whistle pierces the air. Game over. Parents begin folding chairs, gathering stray water bottles. I should leave. I've seen enough to keep me awake for another week of what-ifs.
I take three steps toward the parking lot when a small voice stops me cold.
"Warren! Did you see my goal?"
Beckett stands before me, cheeks flushed, eyes—my eyes—bright with excitement. Grass stains streak his knees, and his jersey hangs off one shoulder.
"I did." My voice comes out rough. "Great follow-through on that kick. You're really getting good at that."
He bounces on his toes, just like his mother. "Youshould come over for dinner tonight. Mommy makes the best basketti. And after we can practice kicks in the yard!"
The air leaves my lungs. Over his head, I see Janie freeze, snack bags clutched in her petite hands. Her eyes meet mine, wide with panic.
"I don't think—" she begins.
I know she's trying to save me from saying no. All I have to do is hitch onto that, to brush it off as a bad time.
“Please?” Beckett grabs my hand. His small fingers wrap around mine, and something fierce and protective surges through me. “I’ve been practicing that special kick you showed me. I want to do it with you some more.”
How do I explain this to him? That his mom and I aren’t destined to sit around a dinner table like he wants? That there’s too much wreckage between us for something as simple as spaghetti and laughter?
Once, before everything imploded, Janie and I had an easy friendship. We cut up when Blake was the serious one, teased until we cried laughing.
Now, we can hardly stand in the same room without choking on the silence. And in the middle of all that distance stands this boy who wants nothing more than for two people in his small world to be able to be civil.
Looking down at his hopeful face, a reflection of myself in his eyes, I know I can’t hand him the weight of all that.
I nod once, decisively.
“Spaghetti sounds great. If your mom's okay with that?” I look up at Janie.
She swallows hard, resignation settling across her features as she gathers Beckett's gear.
"Mom! Can Warren please come for basketti?" Beckett races back to her, victory in every step.
I can see her throat working before the words come out. “Of course.”
Her voice is even, but her eyes flick away, and she grips Beckett’s bag a little too tightly as she slings it over her shoulder. She’s not saying yes to me. She’s saying yes to him.
Letting me come isn’t about wanting me there. It’s about giving Beckett the night he wants, even if it means inviting frost into the comfort of her home.
The thought lands heavily in my gut. I’m the reason her easy night at home just got less appealing. The notion softens my anger toward her ever so slightly. She's willing to allow herself to be uncomfortable to give her son what he wants. To allow me to be with my son.