Page 33 of Falling Offsides

Always.

Ten minutes later, I climb into the passenger seat of his truck, greeted by the familiar scent of pine air freshener and the rumble of the engine beneath us.

“Hey,” he says, glancing over with a smile. “Wasn’t expecting this, but I’m glad you messaged.”

“I figured I owed you one,” I say, tugging my seatbelt across my chest. “For the last few days. For this whole opportunity, actually.”

His brow lifts a little.

“I know it probably wasn’t easy pulling strings for me,” I continue. “But I really appreciate you going out on a limb. It means a lot.”

“Court,” he says, his voice going soft, “I didn’t go out on a limb. You’re talented. You’ve got the eye. The position was open, and you earned it. But…” he smiles, “it’s good to hear that.”

We drive in silence for a few blocks. It’s not awkward—just easy. Calm. And strange, in a way, how natural it already feels to be back in his world.

When we pull up to his place, he tosses me a look. “You want the nickel tour?”

I grin. “Lead the way.”

He shows me through the entry, the spacious kitchen with sleek counters, and the living room with high ceilings and team memorabilia scattered around like museum pieces. Pictures of me from when I was younger sit tucked between team plaques and championship medals.

“You’ve got some serious decor taste,” I tease.

He smirks. “Don’t let the framed jerseys fool you. I’ve been meaning to hire someone to help me make this place feel less like a locker room.”

I laugh. “You? Let someone take over your space?”

He shrugs. “Depends on the person.”

Then he turns, rubbing his hands together like he’s got a secret. “You still like dessert before dinner?”

I blink. “Obviously.”

With a laugh, he pulls open the freezer and retrieves a Tupperware container lined with parchment. “Look familiar?”

Inside: cookie ice cream sandwiches—our old homemade kind. Frozen whipped bananas and peanut butter between soft-baked cookies.

I smile so wide my cheeks ache. “You made them?”

“Of course, they’re a staple in my freezer.”

We head outside and sit by the pool, each holding a tall glass of sweet tea and our ice cream sandwiches while the grill warms up.

It tastes like memory. The easy kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

He watches me between bites. “For the record, you never have to thank me for being your dad. That’s the one certainty in my life—I’ll always be your dad, Court. And I’m proud of you.”

My throat tightens. “You sure? Even after I didn’t move in with you this summer?”

He chuckles, warm and quiet. “Especially after that. You’ve grown into the strong, resilient woman I always knew you’d be.”

We fall into silence, sweet and slow.

The grill crackling as it heats. The pool filter humming gently behind us.

Then, he says, “Have you thought about coming back west? Maybe staying longer?”

I pause, watching the way the light shifts over the surface of the water.

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