"You should try talking to your daughter about school once in a while," I tell Danielle.
And then I leave her there.
Harper's next game is mostly the same. My ex and I stand shoulder to shoulder while she complains that she knew everyone from club soccer, but doesn’t recognize anyone here. I'm still not interested in a fight, especially not when it would draw attention to me so far frommy backyard. I mumble a suggestion that she introduce herself to other parents. She goes nowhere, and when Harper subs in for the last ten minutes of the game, Danielle's comments about her lack of play time are unsurprising.
"I know he's gay," she adds after her little fit. That catches me off guard, no matter how much I'd led her there before. "You could've justsaidthat."
I shrug, forced nonchalance something I’ve practiced. "Now you're all caught up."
"Lucky me."
The team loses that game. Whether it's that result or a lack of friends or the disappointment of not being able to seduce Coach Mateo Zavala, Danielle doesn't show up for the next one. Harper and I get separate but equally blithe texts with an excuse that means little. Danielle will make up for it by taking Harper shopping with my money. While Harper isn't stupid, sheisa 14-year-old who enjoys having her mom's attention and something new to wear to school.
I'm just the ex, and I wouldn't care much about her absence except for how it leaves me exposed. It's early December now, so my hoodie—mine—gives me some cover, but more parents wave hello to me, and Mateo can’t help but look my way. I wave back to strangers who will become familiar, if not friends. Then, from several feet away, I mourn the distance between me and a man I should've woken up next to weeks ago. His hair is pulled into a tiny bun, and it only makes his profile more striking as he moves up and down the sideline to yell a dozen different things to a dozen different players. Even ignoring my more complicated interest in him, I can tell Mateo is an excellent coach. It tugs at a different desire before I ignore it with the rest of them.
Harper’s team wins that one, and two of the next three. Danielle stays away, and I make small talk with a few other parents. With aneye roll I know well, Harper reminds me I’m allowed to say hello to Mr. Z. I wave her off with the excuse that I don’t want anyone to think I’m a hotshot athlete overstepping my bounds if I spend too much time chatting with the coach. She rolls her eyes again.
In the next game, Mateo calls Harper's name with about fifteen minutes left, and I smile at her while she stretches. Once she's subbed in, she makes a great defensive play, clears the ball, and her teammates score within seconds. When the whistle blows, they’ve won again. And after the post-game celebration, when the team wanders off to greet family and friends, I hear my favorite voice in the world.
"Dad! Think fast!"
She's struck the soccer ball hard, and it's headed for a space about ten feet to my right. Her shout obviously helped, but I think instinct moves me as much as anything. My water bottle is still in my hand when I run to stop the ball with the same leg that once shattered under pressure. It's cold out, and the contact hurts, but the pain isn't new, so I grin and dribble toward Harper. She doesn't hesitate to come after me—I assume it was her plan all along—and we battle for control of the ball for a minute or two before the applause starts.
Harper traps the ball beneath her cleats and giggles. I carefully turn toward Mateo.
"Hey, don't let me stop you," he says. "You're only in danger of inspiring me to hold an official parent/player scrimmage this season."
"I'm gonna pretend you're joking. It's been years since my very public retirement, and I think I'm finally adjusting to being a spectator."
Mateo nods, subtle conflict blinked away. "Ah, yes, Harper told me you two have already been to several hockey games this season. Maybe we'll put the scrimmage idea on hold."
I'm not surprised he knows about my time with Harper. They talk five days a week—in class and at practice or games—and I’m toblame for making her tired on at least a few mornings. I'm not sure whether he also knows about the nights I make more professional appearances, but as Mateo's noted, we've driven up to L.A. more than usual. I'm not prepared for him to dissect the reasons why.
I don't think I'm ready formeto dissect the reasons why.
Looking for a way out of this conversation, I reach toward Harper. Then a couple of friends yell for her, and she runs off before I can figure out how to explain that I’m in a hurry to be anywhere but here. A second later, I hope Mateo might be in a hurry too, because I know how to watch him go.
He’s left me at the bench twice.
He stays now.
“Wasn’t sure you’d ever come close enough for a hello. Harper said you didn’t want to be allJameson Sinclairabout it.”
“It was easier than explaining how badly I want to kiss you.”
“Of course,” he says, glancing around to see whether anyone’s overheard me. They haven’t. I’m not a stranger to this kind of caution. Mateo changes the subject. "Did Harper ever play hockey?"
"Nope. She skated around with me when she was tiny, but grabbed a neighbor's soccer ball when she was about four, and that became her passion."
"I guess she was probably too young to choose it out of spite," he teases.
I smile because he does. "Probably."
The ball Harper and I had been playing with is still close to me, and Mateo moves for it now. His practiced footwork means he's got full control when he slips behind my back, but I react before I can think it through, spinning to meet him there and strip the ball. He laughs, a sudden and beautiful thing, and easily steals it back, dribbling further away to see if I'll follow.
I don't, only because I can't. Not for another four years. I distractmyself with my water bottle and wait to see if he'll be the one to close the distance between us again.
He doesn't, maybe because he can't. Not for another four years.