Page 7 of Everywhere You Look

“I don’t know why you didn’t hire a moving company like any other sensible man of a certain age would do. Does American football not pay enough? Or have you blown through your entire retirement fund already? Dean, darling, you know if you need money, all you have to do is ask your big brother, right?” Warren says, his voice shifting into a sort of baby talk that sounds infinitely more patronizing in his London accent than anything I’ve ever heard. I flip him off, but we’re both laughing.

I like to give the guy shit—I mean, he’s banging my little sister, for fuck’s sake—but Warren is a good dude. He’s a billionaire who treats my sister like shehung the fucking moon and loves our family fiercely. He also has stepped in to help Kira and Luke wrangle all the kids over the last few weeks while I closed down shop on my life in Tennessee. I couldn’t ask for a better man to marry my sister and become my brother-in-law, even if he is fifteen years older than me—and pestering me for being too frugal and prideful to hire movers.

Kira pulls an ice cube out of her glass and tosses it at my head.

“¡Cállate! Stop busting my husband’s balls and get back to work.”

And just like that, Kira laid down the law, and I’m officially on my own.

It takes me another hour and a half to unload the rest of my boxes into the house. By the time it’s all said and done, I’m beat. I’ve got a bed, a few pillows and a fresh set of clothes for tomorrow. The rest of the unpacking can wait. I even bite the bullet and call someone from the rental company to come pick up the moving truck, so I don’t have to return it myself. I like to do things on my own. Call it a need to prove myself honed from years of following in my father’s footsteps as the quarterback to the Knoxville Crushers and desperation to prove that I was there on my own merit, not just my last name. Even so, I’m not too prideful to admit that I have no desire todrive a Class 4 moving truck up San Francisco’s hills again.

I check the time on my phone, and it’s creeping towards dinner time. Luke and the girls will be home soon, and I’m sure they’ll all be tired and hangry.

Especially Luke. He has a tendency to forget to care for himself when he’s got the kids in tow, and he’s a bear when he’s hungry.

I check the fridge to see if there’s anything I can throw together for dinner but come up short.

Not that there isn’t food. The damn thing is stocked like grocery stores are going out of style, but everything in there is just…ingredients. Eggs. Vegetables. Raw meat. All things that require preparation and cooking, two things I don’t know how to do.

Okay, that’s not completely true. I can cook a mean pancake, and I know how to throw a couple slices of bacon onto a baking sheet and cook them until they’re crispy, but that’s about the extent of my cooking knowledge.

Does Luke know how to cook? Did I not know that about him? I just assumed every pro-athlete had a chef or a meal delivery service on standby.

How am I supposed to help Luke raise Lemmie, Mellie and Ollie if I don’t know how to prepare a meal for them? I’m pretty sure keeping children fed is like…rule number one in the parenting handbook. Idon’t know if I can handle this. I’m too young to have three kids. I’m basically a teen dad.

You almost were a teen dad, idiot.

A pit forms in my stomach at the errant thought. Alright, maybe I wasn’t almost ateendad, but at twenty-one, I might as well have been sixteen for how mature and prepared for the real world that I was.

It’s been a long time since college and Samantha and the family I thought I was going to have. So long that the whole debacle is something I rarely think about anymore. Until recently, that is. Apparently volunteering to become insta-guardian to three kids is just the thing to keep bringing up memories of the worst time of my life.

I shake off the runaway train of thought. This is a completely different situation. I’m just Dean, here to help Luke keep his head above water while we keep three girls alive.

And, apparently, I’m going to need to learn how to feed them, too.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and then pull my phone out of my pocket and tap a few buttons. Sixty seconds later, I’ve got an order for a couple of pizzas placed and a text message sent to my Tía Camila. She’s the only person in my family who actually knows how to cook, and I’m going toneed some help if I’m going to be a proper caretaker.

I crack open a can of grapefruit sparkling water and plop my ass on the couch in the living room while I wait for Luke and the girls to return from the zoo. I thought I’d relish the moment of quiet alone time, the calm before the storm on my first night here at casa de Cannon. After five minutes of scrolling through endless viewing options on half a dozen different streaming services, I’m already itching for the noise and chaos that those kids bring to the house.

I’m greeted by that noise a moment later when Mellie comes charging in through the front door with a stuffed panda twice the size of her slung over her shoulder and Lemmie hot on her heels. Luke waltzes in next, Ollie strapped to his chest in a baby carrier, a stroller and a giant San Francisco Zoo tote bag in one hand and a plastic bag with the scent of lo mein wafting from it in the other.

“Lem, Mel, calm down, please,” he calls after the girls, who have already started running circles around the couch. I stand, moving towards the door to unload some of the crap from Luke’s hands.

“Cotton candy?” I ask, nodding over my shoulder to the twin terrors burning a hole in the carpet with their feet. I take the stroller from Luke and prop itagainst the wall by the door next to the pile of kids’ shoes.

“And slushies. Rookie mistake. They’re never going to sleep tonight,” he says. I take the bags from him, and he gets to work unstrapping Ollie from his chest and setting her in the pack-and-play.

“Fuc—fudge. You picked up Chinese food; I ordered pizza. It’s already on its way. We have two dinners and two sugared up five-year-olds. What a waste.”

“That’s alright. We’ll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow. Once less meal to stress about.” Luke looks around the living room, taking in the few stray boxes I left down here filled with things that don’t belong in my room—books for the shelves, some of my favorite coffee mugs, and of course my collection of throw blankets because I’m always cold.

“The movers didn’t finish unpacking?” he asks, gesturing to where Lemmie has crawled on top of a box while Mellie swats at her legs.

“Why does everyone keep asking about movers? I’m a professional athlete; I can unpack my own damn boxes.”

“Swear jar!” the twins call out in the same high-pitched shriek. I give the girls a confused look, and Luke shakes his head while he fishes in his pocket,pulling out two one-dollar bills and leaning over the couch to hand them to the kids.

“You gotta practice softer words to use around Lem and Mill. Darn, fudge, shoot like that. Either that, or go to the bank and request some ones, because their little ears don’t miss a fudging thing. And yeah, Dean, you’re a professional athlete. You can afford to hire movers. You’re telling me you did all this yourself?”

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