I really did end up with Simon on my team and a few other guys who had been helping out with the clinic. But Jamie kept both Cooper and Dave on his team. It was maybe a slightly unfair advantage, but my team won anyway. So much for worrying about that.

After the game, everyone congregated on the sidelines. “Ready to admit defeat?” I asked Jamie, my tone playful and light. “Bow to my skill and prowess? Kiss my cleats, maybe?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have never seen Simon play like that.”

I crossed my arms across my chest. “Oh, I see how it is. Simon gets the credit for winning, huh?”

“No. You were amazing. Of course you were amazing. You guys beat us fair and square. But seriously. Simon was . . .”

“What was I?” Simon joined the group, grabbing a water bottle out of the cooler at Jamie’s feet.

Jamie turned and rummaged through his bag, pulling out a miniature soccer ball—gold with black detailing that looked like it had all but completely flaked off. It looked like a Nerf ball I would have played with as a kid. He tossed it at Simon. “Take it, man. You earned it.”

“Behold,” Dave said, his voice hushed and reverent.

Cooper copied Dave’s tone. “The king has been dethroned.”

I looked from Jamie to Simon, then back to Jamie again. Finally, Dave had mercy on my confused state. “It’s Hamilton family tradition,” he said. “That gold soccer ball has been passed around from brother to brother since we were all playing youth league soccer at the YMCA. When one of us had a good game, scored a hat trick, made it to a championship game, or whatever, the ball was ours.”

“Until someone else did something amazing,” Cooper said. “Then it was passed on.”

Okay, that was an adorable tradition. The fact that as grown men the brothers still passed it around? Also adorable. “So why is Jamie the king?”

It was Simon who answered. “Because no one’s had this thing as frequently as he has. And it’s been years since it’s changed hands.”

Jamie reached for a water bottle, grabbing a second one and handing it to me. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he said to Simon. “Next time we’re on the field, I’ll get it back.”

Dave started to cough—a loud, fake cough. “Dude, I think I’m getting sick. I don’t think I’ll be playing soccer again for a long time. How are you feeling, Coop?”

Cooper threw his hand to his forehead. “I think I’m coming down with something too. And wait . . . look . . . yep. I think my ankle’s broken.” He started hoping on one foot, hanging his arm over Dave’s shoulder. “I’ll be out for weeks, months even.”