“Your momma getting her nails done?” Gunner asks.

“Yep,” he says with a roll of his eyes before turning his attention to me.

“Hi there,” I say. I’m guessing he’s about seven or eight years old. His eyes are a light gray, his skin tone is a light brown, and he has the most gorgeous head of hair. He’s definitely going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up.

“Trey, this is Chase,” Gunner says.

“She your lady?” he deadpans with a lift of his chin that has both Gunner and me fighting back smiles.

“I’m working on it,” Gunner says and winks as I stand there trying not to laugh.

Trey eyes me again and nods. “Try harder.”

“Trey?” a woman’s voice calls from inside the salon. “Who are you—oh, Gunner. Hi.” A woman with the exact same coloring as Trey steps forward and presses a kiss to Gunner’s cheek. “I was going to ask how you were doing, but it seems to me you’re doing just fine,” she says, eyeing me much like her son and then cackles at her own joke.

Gunner introduces the two of us moments before she’s called back into the salon.

“You better be ready to win tomorrow,” Gunner says to Trey.

“When have I ever lost?” he says with a devilish grin and a lift of his hands before he turns and heads back into the salon.

Gunner shakes his head and just laughs.

“He’s adorable, funny, and going to cause his momma a lot of trouble someday when he realizes how good-looking he is,” I say as we start walking again.

“He already knows it.”

“He called you Coach?”

“Yeah. We call ourselves coaches at The Center instead of counselors or mentors. That way the kids don’t really feel like we’re trying to pick their brain apart. They have base psychologists that do that. To them, I’m just a goofy coach who makes them laugh, get some fresh air, and hopefully help them forget for a little bit.”

I nod, reminded once again of his selflessness.

“That was Trey. Eight years old from Tennessee. Father died—killed by a roadside bomb in Kandahar. For the most part, he’s doing okay now, but we had a rough patch last year that took a while to work through.”

I simply stare at him.

“What?” he asks, embarrassed under my scrutiny.

“Why do you do it?” I ask. “I mean I know why . . . but still, why?”