Page 46 of Between Love and War
“Correct. Because if I stayed five more minutes, I might’ve also started biting people.”
I laugh, and she shakes her head but smiles too, letting herself relax.
Just then, the door to the gym opens. “Mike!” I whirl to see Tricia running over to us. “Oh, hi, Miss Kate!” she adds.
“Hi, Tricia,” Kate replies smoothly, flipping into professional mode with that warm, practiced teacher smile.
“Sorry, we’re late. We were still packing and Polly couldn’t find her favorite water bottle—well, it was actually in the fridge the whole time, but, you know—” She gestures vaguely like that explains the chaos of raising a six-year-old. Then she turns back to me. “Anyway. Mike, here’s all of Polly’s stuff. Snacks, change of clothes, pajamas, books, a stuffed dog named Waffles, and possibly half the contents of my kitchen.”
She hands over the bag like she’s passing off a ticking bomb. I glance down at it, then at her.
“She eats dinner before seven, hates itchy socks, and sleeps withFrozenplaying in the background. Got all that?”
I blink. “Sure.”
“So sorry to drop all this on you!” Tricia says. “But we really have to go. Bye, miss Kate!” She doesn’t wait for a response as she runs back outside.
“What was that?” Kate asks, staring at me and the backpack.
“Polly’s staying over for three days,” I say, trying—and failing—not to sound proud. Honestly? I’m kind of thrilled. I love Polly. She’s chaotic and stubborn and once tried to sell me a single crayon for fifty pesos.
Kate raises both brows. “You? Alone? With a tiny human? For three days?”
“She’s six, not a grenade.”
Kate snorts. “We’ll see.”
I spend more minutes helping Kate set up the cones, until she has to go back inside to prep the kids for Little Leagues. I stay behind just waiting for them.
When they return at exactly 4:15, Kate is now dressed in her usual athletic leggings and a loose shirt.
“COACH MIKE!” a group of tiny voices shrieks in unison, led—of course—by Polly.
“There’s your grenade, coach.” Kate winks.
I chuckle and blow my whistle. “Okay! Warm-ups! Come on, little athletes. Dribble.”
The kids scatter to their spots with varying degrees of focus. One is tying their shoes. Another is pretending the basketball is a spaceship. Polly is already executing her “signature move,” which involves a spin, a jump, and no actual dribbling.
Kate rallies half of the kids on the other side of the gym and helps them warm up too. But then one kid launches himself out of the group, then bumps into Polly, and they both fall on their butts and cry.
We lock eyes across the gym like co-commanders witnessing a mission go down in flames. And then—at the exact same time—we break into exhausted smiles. Not because it’s funny (okay, it’s a little funny), but because this is just normal for us now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kate
“You guys ready?” I ask Michael and Polly.
Michael is drying his face with a towel, and Polly is bouncing beside him, her energy through the roof. It’s hard to believe that she didn’t just launch herself headfirst into the foam wall five minutes ago.
“I told my co-teachers I’m heading out early today,” I say as I gather the last stray ball. “They all said yes immediately. I suspect it’s less about me and more about not wanting Michael Lee hovering in the preschool hallway like some six-foot-four celebrity dad.”
Michael raises a brow. “Celebrity dad?”
“You know the type,” I say, slinging my tote over my shoulder.
He just shrugs and takes Polly’s things. “Come on, Pol.”
