Page 72 of Lessons in Forgiving
The energy on the field shifted the second he touched the ball for the first time. Opponents didn’t get as close to our box anymore; the game was mostly played on the other side of the pitch and Henry was determined to get the few balls that made it onto ours, away from the opposing players.
He was big for a soccer player, which made it easy to track him, even if I wouldn’t have known his number. For playing defense, he was quite far from our goal now, the ball always by his feet as he ran further into the middle of the pitch—seemingly catching the Brinley Tigers off guard, as he simply dribbled through their lineup. Right up until number three put a stop to it.
I was confused by the sight—a man taller and wider than even Henry, running toward him, and looking very intent on getting that ball away from his feet and back onto our side of the pitch. Henry looked around to pass it the second he noticed him.
The only number he had a free shot at was seven: Dylan McCarthy Williams.
For a moment, I honest to God thought he’d rather give up the ball than assist Dylan with a goal. But that wasn’t Henry—he’d been raised to do nothingbutwinning. It was his thing.
Whatever rivalry the two had off the field, right then and there, with the ball between and the odds against them, you couldn’t see any of it. They worked in perfect sync. Harmony.
Henry passed the ball smoothly across the field, right to Dylan’s feet. The latter made a run for the goal before he’d even secured the ball, then lined it up perfectly, and didn’t hesitate before he fired it into the net.
With ten minutes to go, Dylan scored the equalizer to make it 1-1.
The relief and gratitude washed off Henry’s face just seconds after the goal, and he glowered at the boy like they hadn’t just worked perfectly together. Like they’d shared a single braincell and used it to get that ball into the box.
The game ended in a tie, and I was already crafting possible sentences about it in my head by the time I was leaving. Without my laptop, I was wildly typing into my notes app. My eyes glued to my phone, my focus on the structure of the profile and how I could incorporate today’s game into it seamlessly. Henry this and Henry that—every second sentence started with his name.
Which was fine, and not creepy at all. This profile was about him, after all.
A hand on my shoulder shocked me out of my head—made me realize I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings at all. Five seconds away from running into the lamppost I was now staring at. I whirled around.
Henry. His tall frame blocked the setting sun behind him.
I couldn’t say I was surprised.
His name was all over my life at the moment—literally, judging by the document on my laptop and the note in my phone. I couldn’t avoid him forever.
No matter how much I wanted to.
“Knew that was you.” His hand fell from my shoulder, and I hated the eerie cold it left behind.
I frowned up at him from below the blue baseball cap. “How?” I asked. “I’m masked.” I gestured to the hat, tapped it once. I had brown curls, not neon pink hair. The back of my head wasn’t unique enough to spot from a mile awayandrecognize.
“First of all.” He began, his head tilting in amusement. “I don’t know how great you think your disguise is, but you justlook like Paula with a hat on to me.”Outrageous, I thought. “Second of all. That’smycap.”
My eyes widened. As if he could read my thoughts—that were full ofCouldn’t bes andNo ways—he snatched it off my head and turned the back toward me. It read Parker. “That’s my name on it,” he stated matter-of-factly.
My head shook. “That’s not your name.”
At least not legally. His full name was Henry Parker Pressley, and if it didn’t say that on the hat, he couldn’t prove it was his. There was probably a brand out there calledParker, right?
“Plus, I gave all your stuff back.”
His eyes rolled at the technicality, widening the strap on the back and placing it on top of his head. It did look better on him.
“My aunt preferred my middle name,” he reasoned. “Which is why I hate my middle name, and the reason I gave it to you. I told you that.”
I tried to ignore the slither of a memory in the back of my mind.
I shook my head, fiercer this time. “Nope.”
I grabbed for it once more, got on the tip of my toes to reach it, only to be stopped by Henry’s hand. Around my wrist. Again.
I blinked up at him. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
And I didn’t mean to whisper the words. The air just felt thick, and that invisible string supposed to keep us a safe distance from each other since our agreement in New York much thinner. About to snap.
