Page 13 of Here We Go Again

From the outside, it looks like my hand is completely healed. And it’s definitely better than it was. But every so often, a nerve will misfire, and suddenly I’m dealing with anything from mild discomfort to white-hot pain radiating up my arm. It’s frustrating, but my physical therapist insists that dealing with neuropathic pain is better than feeling nothing at all.

Either way, I’ve never spent so much time considering how much my hands impact my gameplay, how the pads of my thumbs make all the difference to my stick handling.

I take a long swig of beer. “They probably just think I’m you,” I say to my brother.

“Nah, that’s definitely not it,” he says with a good-natured grin. “They love me too much to make that kind of mistake.” He nods toward my hand. “Are you hurting?”

“Nah. It’s fine,” I lie. “Not half as bad as it used to be.” I’m not sure why I don’t want Carter to know I’m still dealing with nerve pain. Maybe because he and the rest of the team expect me to be back when the season starts, and I’m not ready to consider the possibility that I won’t be.

Carter sets his beer on the pool deck before lifting his sunglasses and pushing them into his hair.

He looks tired, but that’s hardly surprising. He and Sarah have been babysitting for Sarah’s brother, Miles, and his wife, Anna, all weekend. Their youngest is only four months old, so the parents didn’t go far. Just down to Oakley Island for a couple of days. But three kids for any amount of time is more than I could handle. I have no idea how Carter does it.

When my brother married into our team captain’s family, I was surprised by how easily he adapted to having a larger inner circle, including three kids, aged six and under.

But he’s clearly a natural. He even carries his youngest niece, Fiona, around like it’s no big deal to have a football-sized human in his hands. Which is good because he might be our mom’s only chance at grandchildren.

I glance to where my phone is sitting on a lounge chair behind me.

It’s been a week since I saw Becca in the parking garage of Atlanta General. Long enough that I’m no longer actively looking at my phone every two and a half minutes wondering if she’s going to text. But hanging out with Carter, seeing the reminders of just how blissfully happy he is in his new married life, it makes the sting of her not texting a little more potent.

Not that I have any hope of marriage when it comes to Becca. My therapist made it clear I was setting myself up for failure if my expectations extended anywhere past wanting to apologize.

It was solid advice. Grounded in reality. And I assured Dr. Michaels he didn’t have anything to worry about. I only wanted to clear the air.

But then I saw her.

Blue scrubs, hair piled on top of her head, eyes heavy after a long day, but still looking impossibly beautiful. The moment she appeared, all those feelings I thought I’d put behind me came crashing back with the force of a semi-truck.

She was the same in so many ways, but she was also more. More grown up. More settled into herself. I found myself itching to pull her into my arms, to take her somewhere to talk, to ask her a million questions. Everything I missed. All the moments that led her to working in a hospital so far away from home.

Behind us, the patio door opens, then a streak of red hair comes flying across the pool deck.

“Here I come, here I come, here I come!” Charlie calls, then she cannonballs into the water directly between Carter and me.

“Charlotte Hollifield,” Holly says from the door, arms full of beach towels and a glittery pink backpack. “Get back over here. You don’t have any sunscreen on yet.”

Charlie looks up at me, eyes sparking with rebellious glee, then takes off in the opposite direction, swimming remarkably well for someone so tiny.

Carter quickly jumps into the water and catches her by the swimsuit strap. “Not so fast,” he says, pulling her up short.

She lets out an indignant huff, arms and legs still flailing like tiny propellers despite her lack of progress. “Let me go! I don’t need sunscreen.”

“Pretty sure you do, kiddo,” Carter says.

Charlie looks over to me. “Help me, Uncle Theo.”

Three months ago, I’m not sure Charlie would have felt comfortable calling on me for help. Carter and I have been close to her dad since we started with the Jaguars. We lived with him and his late wife, Claire, for a few months right after we moved to Atlanta. But even before he became an uncle, Carter has been better with kids than I am.

“You just have to be present,” he told me once. “Stop thinking about what you could be doing instead and enjoy the moment in front of you.”

It was good advice, and I’ve been making more of an effort. I’ll never be the favorite for Poppy or Olive or Fiona, but there’s still a chance with Charlie.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” I say to her. “If you dry off and put some sunscreen on, then when you’re back in the water, I’ll throw you into the deep end six times.”

She scrunches up her forehead. “How about ten times?”

“Deal,” I say, then Carter launches her toward the pool stairs. She glides to a stop—she really is a good swimmer—and climbs toward her dad, who is waiting for her, towel held open.