The front door slams, and McGinnis thunders up the stairs, his sneakers pounding the wooden treads.
The kid never slows down. He’s always on the move, going full tilt. It’s an admirable trait on the ice, but at home? Not so much.
He wanders into the kitchen, and his eyes light up the instant he sees the plastic container on the island.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn. “Those are for the new neighbor.”
McGinnis frowns. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I stare pointedly at his feet. “How many times have I asked you to take your running shoes off before you come upstairs?”
I hate being that guy, but he has a habit of going off-trail, and Georgia clay is a bitch to get out of the carpet.
“Sorry, Dad.” He pulls a face, stopping just short of rolling his eyes. “So, this new neighbor. Is she hot?”
My shoulders stiffen. “Why would you automatically assume it’s a woman?”
His gaze slides back to the storage container. “There’s no way you baked ‘Welcome to the Neighborhood’ cookies for a dude.”
“I bake for your dumbass, don’t I?”
“That’s different.” He smirks, unfazed by the jab. “You love me.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” I check the time. Five minutes to go. “Listen, I’m going out for a few hours. Do you think you can manage to stay out of trouble?”
“Probably.” He grabs a can of Coke from the fridge and flashes me a shit-eating grin. “Where are you going? Maybe I’ll tag along.”
“That’s not happening.” There’s no way I’m going to spend the evening watching him hit on Ava. “And where I’m going is none of your business.”
“Damn, Cap. If you’re worried I’m going to mess with your game, you can just say that.” He pops the top on his soda anddowns half of it in one go. “But for the record, my mom says the best way to keep me out of trouble is to keep one eye on me at all times.”
She’s not wrong, but two can play at this game.
“Okay, you need a babysitter?” I pull out my phone and start tapping. “I can have D-Vo here in fifteen minutes.”
“Pass. He always hogs the Xbox.” McGinnis chugs the rest of his Coke and tosses the can into the recycling bin. “Word of advice, you might want to change your shirt if you’re going on a date.”
I glance down at my navy polo. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I didn’t realize you were going for the middle-aged look.”
He’s messing with me. I know he’s messing with me, but now that he’s put the thought in my head, I’m going to spend the entire night wondering if I look like a soccer dad.
I check the clock. Four minutes.
“Asshole.” I narrow my eyes at him. “For the record, I’m not that much older than you.”
“Maybe try something with a pattern,” he calls out as I race up the stairs for a last-minute wardrobe change.
In my bedroom, I tear through the closet in search of something light and breathable.
My phone buzzes, and I grab a cotton button-up with a geometric print, because apparently I’m not above taking fashion tips from a twenty-year-old rookie.
I peel off my polo and slip the new shirt over my head as my phone vibrates several more times in quick succession.
That’s never a good sign.
I unlock the screen to find the team chat blowing up.