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“You’re its mom now, country boy.”
“What? I’d be the dad. You’re the mom.”
Before I can defend my masculinity, Coach Allen strolls in, and Jameson slams his bag shut so fast I worry he’s given the kitten whiplash. Coach doesn’t notice anything but his clipboard as he announces, “Get some food, boys. Be back by three for warmups.”
As soon as the dugout clears, Jameson sets his bag down and the tiny black missile launches out, running circles between our legs like it’s had three espressos, screaming its head off and trying to climb Jameson like a tree.
I watch the circus, already defeated. “I’m not taking care of that thing.”
“Bro, we live together.” Jameson scoops up his new best friend. “Joint custody.”
I shake my head, already thinking about texting Camdyn a pic—she’d probably love this little demon. He looks like a furry penguin. “You were one of those kids who brought home strays, weren’t you?”
“No, but I did hide a baby goat in my closet for a week.”
Of course he did. “How’d your parents not notice?”
“I don’t know.” Jameson shrugs. “Their room was on the other end of the house.”
“So when’d they find it?”
He laughs. “When it chewed through the wall into my sister’s room.”
The kitten meows again, and I can already see my future: our dorm room, unauthorized pet sanctuary, all because Jameson can’t resist a stray.
As you probably guessed,Jameson’s powers of persuasion (or my temporary insanity) won out, and now we have an illegal dorm resident who’s claimed my pillow as his kingdom.
I groan, watching this tiny black menace make biscuits on my perfectly arranged bedding. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”
Here’s something most people don’t know about me: I’ve got OCD. Not the casual kind where people joke about pencils lined up—I mean the real deal. Everything in my space has an order, a purpose, a place. And animal fur? That’s my own personal nightmare. Invisible chaos floating around, landing on everything. And now it’s on my pillow.
The pillow my face goes on.
The pillow I washed yesterday.
Completely unacceptable.
Jameson’s too busy admiring his new son to notice my crisis. “What should we name him?”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“I checked. It’s a boy.”
Of course he did. Probably did a full exam while I was in the shower. “You name it. I don’t care.” I drop onto my bed, phone in hand, and the little fur demon immediately crawls over, screaming like I’m his long-lost brother. I refuse to pet him. I will not be manipulated by four pounds of fluff.
“What about Mookie? After Mookie Betts.”
I’m barely listening, too busy refreshing my messages. Nothing from Camdyn since our texts about her game yesterday.My good morning text just sits there, looking more pathetic by the minute.
Maybe her plane’s delayed? She’d have texted, right? Unless she’s avoiding me. My stomach does that thing again, like I’m facing a 3-2 count with two outs and the bases loaded.
“I don’t care what it’s called,” I mutter. “I care about it leaving my pillow alone.”
Jameson turns his hat backward, the universal sign he’s about to get stupid-serious. “He’s your son. You should care.”
“It’s a fucking cat, bro.” I watch as said cat makes another pilgrimage to my pillow. “He’s not my son.”
“Mhm.” He rolls his eyes. “Now you’re hurting his feelings.”