My throat feels heavy, along with my chest, and if a magic genie offered me one wish right now, it would be for Banks to overhear this conversation. Here it is. This is why I feel such a kindred attachment to this woman’s son. We’re both wrestling with the need for pride from our parents. It makes me wonder what a conversation would sound like between my parents and a stranger. Maybe their feelings about pride are just as complicated. Maybe I should ask.

For now, though, in this moment, if there is some way to nudge the relationship between Banks and his mother back to solid ground, I have to try.

“Well.” I swallow the weight in my throat. “As someone who is in a constant battle for her parents’ pride, I can tell you, I don’t care how I come by it. As long as I get it.”

She considers that for a few beats. “Did they support you in your chosen profession?”

“Yes. All eight of them.” I laugh, but it fades. “They’re starting to lose hope, though.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“No, it’s true.” The pressure on my chest briefly doubles, but I rub it away. “It’s weird how I need their support now, as an adult, almost more than I did as a kid. The need never really goes away. It’s just lurking around, hoping to be fulfilled.”

When I glance back at her, she’s staring out at the field. Without following her line of vision, I know Banks is back on the pitch, along with his team. The reluctant hope in her eyes says it all. “It’s too late…for a second chance.”

“I don’t think it is.” I hesitate before saying the next part, worried it’s too much. But some sort of sixth sense tells me she won’t budge without good reason. “I think when he stops leaving the ticket…that’s when you know it’s too late. But if the ticket is his way of asking for support, maybe you don’t want to wait?”

The woman doesn’t respond, her gaze remaining locked on the pitch.

With a murmured goodbye, I head back to the curved indoor hallway, intending to make my way back to the section where I’m sitting with Tobias. Just before I walk out of sight, I glance back and find the woman stepping into the sunlight, handing her ticket to an usher.

A flowing sense of euphoria and relief has me walking faster. The chance encounter has robbed me of my cynicism—briefly. Let’s not get crazy—and I’m as light as a feather. I can’t wait to…tell Tobias. Did I really just think those words? Yes. Yes, I did. But I’m too hopeful to care. Banks is going to see his mother at the game. The happiness I desperately want him to feel is kicking inside of me now, trying to burst from my throat.

That’s when I see Tobias up ahead.

He’s behind the counter of the portable bar on wheels.

There are two plastic cups in his hands and he’s shaking them overhead, loudly rattling the ice inside. Several attendants in red shirts are standing around, watching him work with rapt attention. “The secret to a good martini is the quality of the ingredients, of course. But often overlooked is the temperature, lads. No one wants warm vodka. Only ice cold—” He sees me coming and his occupied hands drop to the counter. “And just where have you been?”