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ONE
Three monthson a Caribbean island helped a man find clarity. Sunshine, sand, and most of all, the children of Hope House orphanage had loosened the grip that grief had on Doyle Kingston.
He might actually be ready for a fresh start.
At the very least, he felt in the best shape of his life.
“Over here, Jamal—I’m open!” He gestured at the eight-year-old as he ran down the rutted, weedy, semi-dirt soccer field, the sun fighting through low-hanging clouds that were turning the field to shadow. Salt and brine hung in the air, waves crashing against the high cliffs where the former-monastery-turned-Hope-House-orphanage sat, and it might be the perfect day to tell the boys the good news.
But not yet.
Jamal dodged a player from the other team—a nine-year-old named Lionel—and then glanced over at Doyle. Jamal wore the yellow-and-white jersey of the Mariposa Wings, the number nine from his favorite player—Ronaldo Vieira, another striker.
Ronaldo and the entire team had donated the jerseys to Hope. A move Doyle could only blame on Tia Pepper, his new... what, codirector?
Annoying wannabe boss?
Doyle kept pace, running at center field. A glance in his periphery said that Aliyah had found a spot in midfield, her brown-eyed gaze on him, ready to intercept. And at goal, sixteen-year-old Kemar wore the gloves Doyle had received in a recent donor package.
Again, Tia’s doing. It had been more than a little awkward when she shown up a month after he’d arrived on the island, her only explanation being that she’d been hired by the founder of Hope House, Declan Stone, to “get the orphanage on financial track and head up fundraising.”
He’dbeen hired—by Declan—to reorganize and help the kids find a solid future. Whatever that meant. He was still trying to do that for himself.
Jamal kicked the ball, and Doyle ran to intercept, caught it, and sidestepped Taj, one of the RAs in the boys’ dorm, a big guy, wide hands, wider smile. Taj laughed. “Yow, Big D, you drink jet fuel this mornin’?”
Something like that.
Doyle raced down the field and spotted twelve-year-old Fiona waving her arms, open. With her hair bound in tufts on her head, and a generous smile, she’d been easy to spot. He kicked the ball to her.
Aw,it shot past her, out of bounds.
He stopped running, grabbed his knees for a breath.
Andre, another RA, ran to retrieve the ball, blowing his whistle. Lionel set up to throw it in, and his team lined up.
Under the early-afternoon heat, sweat poured down Doyle’s face, saturating the back of his shirt, and he was tempted to pull it off. Except he’d already managed a wicked sunburn his first week here. He didn’t need a reminder of the way he stood out against the population of the island.
Outsider, from his skin to his mannerisms to his expectations for the kids. Like being on time for, well,anything.
So, yeah, he needed to loosen up, live and let live, breathe.
So far, the plan was working—start over, leave the grief behind, focus on something new.
Like finding permanent homes for these children in his care.
He stood up, moving to guard Lionel, the nine-year-old laughing as he pushed Doyle out of his way, stepped in front of him, then grabbed the ball and maneuvered it around him.
“Hey, that’s illegal.”
“Keep up, old man.”
Doyle took off after him and as if to steal the ball, although of course he’d let him win. The entire team had improved since their last game with nearby Sint Eustatius, and now Lionel shot the ball off to Aliyah.
Jamal intercepted and the game turned. Doyle again switched directions, heading toward the goal as Jamal passed it off to Gabriella, a playmaker, lean and tall and fourteen years old. He hadn’t found a home for her yet, but maybe she would age out of Hope House, go on to college.
She had the makings of a doctor, the way she helped out in the medical clinic.
Gabriella kicked the ball through the legs of an opponent and raced toward the goal.