Page 2 of Undisputed Player
The city was starting to wake up by the time Leo shuffled into the kitchen, light brown hair sticking up in six different directions and green eyes still soft with sleep.
He looked like Giselle had at that age, wild hair and adorable, and my heart performed its daily routine of breaking and mending simultaneously.
Giselle was my beautiful sister, only three years older than me. Though she always managed to wind up with the wrong people. Evenas the younger one, I was always lecturing her and getting her out of trouble she had a knack for getting into.
But it wasn’t enough this time, I’d failed. She left us three years ago, and now I have her baby in my care.
"Morning, Elle," Leo mumbled, climbing into his chair and hugging his knees to his chest like a tiny, adorable teddy.
He'd never called me "Aunt"—not before we lost Giselle, and certainly not after. It was always just "Elle," like I was his friend, his equal, his person. I thought he understood our situation better than I gave him credit for.
"Morning, little guy,” I greeted, voice rough with sleep and instant coffee. I ruffled his soft hair and pressed a kiss to his cheek, stealing a moment of warmth in our cold, damp world. "Sleep okay?"
He nodded, but I caught the way his eyes darted toward the window, toward the street where strangers might park cars that didn't belong. He'd learned to be watchful, too. Another thing I'd failed to protect him from.
"Breakfast sandwich or oatmeal?" I asked, already knowing the answer but needing the routine, the normalcy of choice in a life where we had so few.
He turned to survey our sparse kitchen counters, the same counters that reminded me daily of everything I couldn't provide, and guilt twisted in my gut.
"Oatmeal with the brown sugar?"
"The special kind," I agreed, because even if we couldn't afford much, I could at least make his oatmeal feel like a luxury. Small victories in a war I was slowly losing.
I measured oats into our dented pot while listening to the soft whisper of his crayons against construction paper. He'd been drawing constantly lately—elaborate castles and fantastical creatures in colors that didn't exist in our gray world.
"It's a castle," Leo announced, holding up his latest creation. Crayon turrets pierced a sky streaked with sunset colors, and a lone yellow stick figure waved from the highest window.
“It’s for you. So you can be the queen and make all the rules."
The wooden spoon clattered against the pot as my hands started shaking.
Don't cry. I couldn’t cry. Do not cry in front of him. But the drawing was so hopeful, so beautifully naive, and he'd colored the stick figure's hair brown just like mine.
“Queens need dragons to guard their treasure," I managed, pouring brown sugar over his oatmeal in a swirl pattern. "What's your rate for fire-breathing services?"
His giggle was the only sound in the world that could untangle the knots in my chest. I could pretend we were okay. That we were more than just two people clinging to each other in a world determined to pull us apart.
But moments like these were dangerous. They made me hope, and hope was a luxury I couldn't afford.
We ate in comfortable silence. Leo, because he was still half-asleep, and I, because I was calculating how many days until our next court date and whether I'd have enough money for both the lawyer and rent.
I packed his backpack with the same meticulous care I'd learned to apply to everything: double-checking his pencil case, making sure his shoes were tied tight enough to last the day, and ensuring there were no holes.
Control what you can control. Everything else was just chaos wearing a schedule.
I'd learned to be hypervigilant since Damon's lawyer had started sniffing around. I often caught glimpses of unfamiliar cars parked too long on our street and his men hanging around.
Pepper spray lived in my jacket pocket, and I'd installed security cameras with money I couldn't spare because paranoia was cheaper than tragedy.
The walk to the bus stop felt longer every day. Leo’s small hand was warm in mine while my eyes scanned every face, every car, every shadow that might hide someone sent to watch us.
After our long commute, Seaside Academy rose ahead of us like a monument to everything we'd never have in its manicured perfection. The pristine lawns alone starkly contrasted our neighborhood's cracked sidewalks and graffiti walls.
Every time I walked through those doors, I felt like an impostor: thrifted jeans and scuffed sneakers among designer handbags and luxury cars.
But I held my head high anyway, because I was here for Leo, and because I'd learned that pride was sometimes the only armor you had left.
Just another day. Just another day of pretending I belong here until it becomes true.
