They moved in front of us, but Ash abruptly stopped when Mickey’s hand darted out and caught her wrist.

I looked to him to see his head tipped back, eyes on his girl.

“Go to your boy but I don’t lose sight of you, hear me?”

“All right, Dad,” she huffed resignedly and irritably.

He let her go.

Pip aimed an amused grin at me.

I returned it.

The girls took off.

I jumped when Mickey shouted, “That’s it! You got it!” and the rest of our side started clapping.

I looked to my son on the mat just as the referee slapped his hand down and yelled, “Pin!”

Auden took his feet to more applause and Cillian jumping up and down on our bleacher, yelling “Right on! Auden rules!”

At this moment of victory for my son, I felt the hairs stand on end at the back of my neck. I turned my head just in time to catch Conrad looking away from me.

He was alone. No Martine. No Tammy.

A good choice.

It was sad but it was his lonely bleacher he’d made for himself.

I turned to Mickey who was grinning at the mat and clapping.

“You do know you’re going to have to back off this Ash and Kellan thing,” I advised.

He stopped clapping and grinning and looked to me.

“She’s fifteen, she gets more freedom. She’s fourteen, she does not.”

“She’s fifteen next month,” I told him something he knew better than me.

“Then she doesn’t have long to wait,” he retorted and looked away, toward the boys in their clutch patting Auden on the back.

He took it then his eyes went to his dad. After that, they came to me.

I gave him a thumb’s up and some silent clapping.

He shook his head and rolled his eyes but did it grinning.

Then he started pulling on his track suit.

“Look at those mooks,” Cillian stated disgustedly, staring at the two boys now wrestling on the mat. “Auden is the best…ever.”

Mickey slid an arm along my waist and kept it there.

I endured the bone-crushing boredom of watching another bunch of boys—these I didn’t know and love—wrestle, doing this fortified by Mickey’s arm around me.

Then, thankfully, it was over and we all went home.

* * * * *

I knocked on the door to the locker room.

It flew open and I found myself flying in because Mickey’s hand latched onto my wrist and he pulled me in.

He looked out the door he had his other hand on.

“Kids in their seats?” he asked the hallway.

“Yes, Mickey,” I breathed.

He slammed the door, locked it and shoved me against the cinderblock wall.

Then, in his boxing trunks and shoes, upper body bare and still slicked with sweat, he dropped to his knees in front of me.

“Mickey,” I panted.