Page 72 of A Game Plan for Love

The water shuts off, and the door to the bathroom cracks open, steam pouring into the bedroom. Declan saunters out with a towel wrapped around his waist.

My mouth dries at the sight of him, his muscles rippling as he works his way around the room to his duffel bag. His shoulders undulate as he digs through his bag, and I track a water droplet that travels along his spine.

So. Fucking. Hot.

The bright pink towel wrapped around his hips pulls a small smile to the surface, and I pull my knees to my chest, content to watch him get ready for the day.

I’ve always been nervous to let anyone into my life—into Nora’s life—in fear it will create imbalance, or we’ll grow attached and everything will change. I don’t want Nora to ever experience the pain of having someone you love leave you.

But, as Declan moves around the room, it’s easy to imagine how he would fit into our lives. Dinner after work. Dishes. Putting Nora to bed. Falling asleep beside each other.

It’s not a life I’ve ever allowed myself to imagine, because I know if I let myself dream, I’ll be crushed in the end.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was scared and unsure, but past all the uncertainty, I had allowed myself to form an image of what our lives would look like. Holidays at my parent's house where Nora would rip open presents on Christmas morning. Sleepovers with her grandparents. Teammates who would turn into family and become Nora’s metaphorical aunts.

I gave myself the space to dream, and reality squashed it with brutal efficiency.

I haven’t let myself dream since.

But Nora, she’s a dreamer. One with a grand imagination and wild hopes. She dreams of amusement parks and dinner with princesses. Riding the rides and eating a fun-shaped pretzel. She wants to be a princess, and an astronaut. An artist, and a baker.

There’s no dream too far-fetched for my daughter.

I’ve learned to make her dreams my own.

I’m afraid I’m beginning to hope again for myself. And I’m terrified the rug may be pulled out from under me.

“What are you thinking about?” Declan asks softly, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.

He’s impeccably in tune with other people's emotions. I’ve begun to wonder if it’s a natural trait or something he was forced to learn growing up at the whim of the system, moving between foster homes and group homes. What did he have to learn in order to survive?

“Dreams,” I admit. His head tilts. “When you were a kid, what did you dream about?”

The shift in his demeanor is instantaneous, and he releases a deep sigh, sitting at the edge of the bed. He rests a hand on my knee, but he faces away from me, like it’s too difficult to face me and speak at the same time.

“Family. Being part of one,” he whispers, “A mom and dad. A dog and a backyard. A room of my own. I wanted what the kids at school had.” I rest a hand atop his, tears brimming in my eyes. “I was a safe haven baby. And by some stroke of bad luck, I was never adopted as an infant. An older couple took care of me for a long time, but I wasn’t their child. They cared for me, but they didn’tloveme. The husband got sick right before I turned twelve, and then I was placed into a group home. But I never stopped wishing for a family. ”

“Your football coach?” I ask, hoping with every fiber of my being that he found that family with him.

“Alan.” He sighs, the sound long and heavy. “He was my—” He chokes on the word, “Dad. In every way that matters, he was my dad.”

The pain and grief etched on his features is like a knife sliding between my ribcage. I rise on my knees and wrap my arms around his shoulders, and they shake with suppressed tears.

“I never called him that. I wanted to. Never knew if I could. Now that he’s gone, it’s my one regret; that he never knew he was a dad to me.”

“He knew,” I say with certainty, the declaration burying itself into my soul. “He knew how much you loved him.”

Declan drops his head onto my shoulder, and we exist in the silence. He reaches a hand up and clasps a palm around my wrist, thumb swiping against the inside of my wrist. He smells like a cocktail on a beach—coconut and mango—and a kernel of warmth settles beneath my diaphragm.

“What did you dream about?” he asks.

“The Olympics.” He’s the only person I’ve ever admitted this to. I’ve never regretted my choice, but I have grieved that dream, and all I lost. “I wanted to be an Olympian. Now, my dream is to be a good mom.”

He finally looks at me then, and the concern in his gaze is jarring. “Let your dreams be your own, Addie. Youarea good mother. But that’s not a dream. A dream is something you hold onto tightly in the darkness, and it helps guide you back to the light.”

The words slam into my chest more forcefully than he intended. “What’s your dream, then?”

His deep blue eyes sparkle. “A family. A house full of love and drawings on the wall. Picnics in the park and weeknight dates. Family dinners with friends, and summers spent exploring.” The air is snatched from my lungs, and he reaches out and drags his thumb across the seam of my lips. “Never stop dreaming, Adeline. Because you never know when life is going to guide you toward exactly what you’ve been hoping for.”

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