Page 8 of A Match Made In Evan
“Of course,” I smile warmly, and Bronwyn lets out a sound of irritation.
She forces a smile and nods. “Noted. Ms. Davies—”
“Mrs,” Marta corrects her with a bit of steel in her voice. I decide that I really like this woman, and the casual fondness is compounded by sympathy when she adds, “my husband died, Ms. Michaels, and I still consider myself married.”
The air in the room takes on a decidedly uncomfortable feeling after her declaration, and Ev leans over whisper, “We’re adopting her,” into my ear. His breath ghosts over me, eliciting goosebumps over my skin, but I ignore that in preference of paying attention to his words.
Affection swells inside me. Ev’s such a softie, even if he can be a pain in the arse sometimes. Already planning on getting Marta’s number so we can communicate about school issues behind Bronwyn Michaels’ back, I nod. “I’m way ahead of you, bud.”
It seems like this school —and its principal— will be quite the challenge, and having as many allies as possible will be our only way to survive the next two years.
It’s not until I’ve gotten home and I’ve crashed on the couch with a beer in hand, processing everything that happened, that I realise I’ve started to include Evan in those thoughts.
Ouronly way to survive the next two years, I’d told myself. Notmyonly way.Ours.
I guess I’m coming to accept the semi-permanence of our charade.
It’s funny, though, because something about that makes me uneasy, and I’ve never been uneasy about Ev before. Well, not since I was a teenager.
Chapter Four
Evan
“You know soccer isn’t a contact sport,” I tell my teammate, Connor, as I bandage his ankle.
We’ve been playing together on the same social indoor soccer team for the past few years, after another teammate, Jack, invited him to join us. At the time, Connor was dating Jack’s dad, and I hadn’t known what to think of that. Not because he’s gay or anything dumb like that, but would it make things weird if Jack’s dad broke up with the guy? At worst, we’d be down a player. At best, things would be guaranteed to be weird between him and Jack. But I needn’t have worried: Connor ended up engaged to Jack’s dad, and he has stuck with the team and has also become someone I’d even go as far as to call a friend.
Connor doesn’t give off the kind of vibes that suggest he’s into sports in general. He’s an events coordinator by trade, and a bit more effeminate than most of the guys on the team. But he’s fast on the pitch, and surprisingly brutal for a guy with a build so slim.
He scoffs. “It was a bad tackle. I rolled it as I went for it.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t break,” Jack —the polar opposite of Connor, with broad shoulders and huge, tattooed biceps— squats to inspect my first aid work. He’s a fireman, so I suppose he’s got more training in this kind of thing than I do. His American accent sounds so much smoother than ours when he adds, “Dad’s going to lose his shit when he realises you’re hurt.”
“It’s just a fucking sprain,” Connor snipes back at him. “I’ll ice it for a couple of hours and it’ll be right as rain.”
“Uh-huh. You know what Dad’s like. You’re spending at least a week on the couch.”
“Oh no,” Connor deadpans, “however will I cope?”
Jack arches a dark eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be going suit shopping this week? You’re the wedding planner—”
“Events coordinator,” Connor interrupts him.
“Sure. Anyway, you’re the one who is supposed to be on top of all that shit, not me.”
“Maybe it’s your parent-y responsibleness kicking in,” Connor suggests playfully. “Wrangling your twins” —who, at three-years-old, only recently appeared as ahugesurprise to Jack— “is forcing your brain to join the rest of us grown-ups in being organised.”
“That would be Leo doing the bulk of the organising,” Jack admits, referring to his live-in nanny. “He’s the organised one. He’s got a proper routine with the boys and everything.”
“It’s almost like it’s his job,” I joke, lamely. Then I look at Connor. “Can you walk like this?”
Jack and I help him to his feet and, after a wobbly second, he manages to limp around. “Like I said, it’s just a sprain. And,” he adds, pointing a finger at Jack, “before you go getting any ideas, it’s my left foot, so I can drive myself home.” Before Jack can protest, Connor points at my left hand, arching an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise you were married.”
“Oh.” I blink down at the shiny monstrosity on my ring finger, surprised to see it still there. I joined James at the school earlier this afternoon as part of our rostered parenting duties, assisting with set up for the school disco. At least we weren’t on the list to chaperone the dance itself.
After doing our bit, I came straight here, got changed into my soccer kit, and completely forgot I was still wearing my gaudy fake engagement ring. It’s funny how used to wearing it I have become over the past few months.
Chuckling, I wave my ring-clad hand dismissively. “Not married. It’s a long story.”
