I move to action, grabbing the bags from the backseat and crossing the field like a man on a mission.

The other moms spot me first. Kids suddenly forgotten, their stares rake over me like I’m Superman. I think it must be the groceries or maybe the fact I’m even here. The only other guy on the field is the coach. Don’t dads show up for this kind of shit?

I ignore their curious glances – focused only on getting to Katrina. I can tell the moment she notices me. Before her gaze even meets mine, she stills, and her eyes widen while she scans the field. Like she can feel my presence before she sees me. A myriad of emotions crosses her face as she takes me in. Confusion, happiness, surprise. She steps forward slowly. All eyes are on us.

“Wha—”

“Sorry I’m late,” I say loud enough that the nosey moms hanging on my every word can hear me crystal clear. I lift the groceries at my side. “Where you want them?”

She opens her mouth and closes it, glances over to our captive audience and back before she answers, “Right over there.”

I follow her to a folding table with a bag of individually boxed raisins and a gallon of orange juice with paper cups sitting next to it. I can’t help the smirk at her last-minute snack selection. “I had to improvise,” she grits out quietly.

I shoot her a wink as I set the bags down. We unpack the items in silence, but I feel her watching my every movement.

Her eyes aren’t the only ones I feel on me. The group of women that’d been ignoring her when I pulled up, now walks toward us. Their leader is wearing yoga pants and a tank top with a zip up hoodie left open at the top so her cleavage is on display. When she speaks, her tone is Splenda- sweet, which is to say, fake as fuck. “Katrina, I don’t think I’ve met Christian’s father.”

“Oh, no, he’s…” Katrina’s face reddens and it’s clear she’s uncomfortable, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m here or because Christian’s father isn’t. Either way, I want to erase that look.

Stepping forward, I extend a hand. “Joel. Nice to meet you.”

“Samantha. Bryson’s mom.”

A whistle blows and the kids race toward the sidelines at top speed.

I look to Katrina. “I should probably go.”

But my goodbye is interrupted as a little blonde head throws himself around Katrina’s legs. “Mom, did you see it? I kicked it in the goal.”

“Good job, buddy.” She offers him her hand and he slaps a low five.

I gawk. I can’t even help it. Knowing she had a son was one thing. Seeing him, watching them interact, knocks the breath out of me.

Brown eyes meet mine. He looks so much like Katrina that I can’t help but smile. Button nose, big eyes, dark lashes, and a mess of blonde hair.