Page 10

“Oh, babe. That sucks. I’m so sorry. What for?

” I ask, picking up the envelope. Unfortunately, getting sued isn’t an uncommon occurrence when you’re a public figure.

I’ve been sued a handful of times myself.

Usually it’s some sort of bullshit claim that my lawyers have been able to shut down easily.

I’m sure whatever someone is trying to throw at Luke can be squashed, but getting served at work had to have been embarrassing.

I pull out a stack of papers and notice that the issuing court is in Idaho. The petitioners are listed as Joseph and Rebecca Connelly.

Connelly? As in–

“It’s my parents, Dean,” Luke rasps. “They’re suing me for custody of Lemmie, Mellie and Ollie.”

My hand flies up to my face, covering my mouth as I inhale sharply.

Luke doesn’t talk about his parents, for good reason.

One night early in our friendship, we were having one of those heart-to-heart conversations that go all night long, and he told me a little about them.

How his dad is the pastor of a Fundamentalist Christian church in Idaho with very outdated—and, in my opinion—ass-fucking-backwards worldviews.

From what he told me, their sect was very exclusive, very secluded, and very stern in their belief that homosexuality is a sin of the highest order.

Ironic that Joseph and Rebecca had two gay children.

Luke and Gigi left home when Gigi turned eighteen, and as far as I know, there was no love lost between the parents and their kids. I think that’s why my brain can’t process the stack of papers on the table in front of me.

“How did they…why would they…have you…” I try to form a coherent question, but my brain feels like it’s trudging through mud.

“I don’t know. I always knew it would be easy for them to keep tabs on me if they wanted to once I started playing in college.

And then when I got to the NFL, obviously.

Even pseudo-cult members like football, but Gigi and the girls…

we always kept them out of the spotlight,” Luke says, his voice a whisper either for Lemmie and Mellie’s benefit or because he can’t bring himself to speak any louder. I clear my throat.

“They must have seen that Gigi passed. I know the obituary was private, but the accident was reported on. Maybe they have a Google alert set, and they?—”

“That doesn’t mean they can bulldoze their way into my life and take my fucking kids!” Luke roars, slamming his hand down on the table. I jump back at the noise, and Lemmie and Mellie turn, their lips trembling. Ollie, to her credit, keeps munching away happily on her green teether .

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Luke whispers to me as he pushes up out of his chair to go to the twins.

“I’m sorry, chickadees. Did I scare you?” He asks, kneeling in front of the girls as they nod.

“Uncle Lukey, you got mad,” Mellie says, and Luke sighs.

“I did. I got mad, and I lost my temper. That was wrong. I should have tried to do a better job of expressing my emotions. Can you forgive me?”

“Will you put fifty dollars in the swear jar since you said ‘fuck’ two times?” Lemmie asks, and neither Luke nor I can hold back our laughter.

“I’ll tell you what, Lem. I’ll put a hundred dollars in the swear jar if you promise to never say that word again.”

Lem and Mel look at each other, each tapping their pointer finger on their chin while doing that twin telepathy thing that I used to think was a myth but have since learned is very much real.

“Deal,” they say in unison, offering their hands for Luke to shake.

“?Mierda! The swear jars have gotten more expensive since you and Kira were kids,” Camila laughs. I forgot she was still “here” on FaceTime. I pick up my phone and roll my eyes.

“I know, right? Lem and Mel are little hustlers. You’re lucky that I haven’t expanded their Spanish lessons beyond household items, or you’d be out a hundred bucks, too.”

By the time the kids finish saying their goodbyes and Camila has hung up, Luke and I have set the papers and the looming dread aside for the night.

Luke helps me make the empanadas—they’re not nearly as good as Tía Camila’s, but they’re not bad—and we freeze the leftovers.

After dinner, I offer to take over bedtime on my own so Luke can have some time to himself to sit with the news.

He agrees, albeit reluctantly. When the kids are bathed and sleeping soundly in their beds, I knock on his bedroom door.

He doesn’t answer, and I want to believe it’s because he’s asleep and not ignoring me.

I open the door a crack, and when I peek inside, Luke is on the edge of the mattress with his head in his hands. His iPad sits next to him, the screen lit up bright.

“I know this is probably the stupidest question I could ask you right now, but are you okay?”

Luke doesn’t look up, he just shakes his head.

It isn’t until I’m in the room, kneeling in front of him, that I notice the picture of Luke, front and center on the iPad.

It’s a shot of Luke on the sidelines from last season.

He’s dressed in his Redwoods uniform, but it was only a formality.

He didn’t play for a single minute last year, his knee injury wouldn’t allow it.

In the picture, Luke is nose to nose with one of the coaches.

He’s pointing an accusatory finger, red-faced and clearly in the middle of one of those coach/player tiffs that happen more often than football fans realize.

This one just happened to be caught on camera and is accompanied by the headline:

“Down By Contact: Luke Cannon, the NFL’s most dangerous liability.”

“What the hell is this?” I ask, snagging the iPad and scrolling.

Immediately, I hate everything I see. The article—if you can even call it that—is a total hit piece.

There’s photo after photo of Luke snarling and yelling—all while on the field and totally appropriate in the context of a professional football game.

But accompanied by the “inside sources” who say Luke’s temper is out of control and the listicle of “Luke Cannon’s Top Ten Angriest Outbursts”, the whole thing is set up to make Luke look like some sort of out of control, hot-headed psychopath, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

“It was them, Dean. My parents. The author, Jeremey Saunders? He’s from Salem, Idaho. He’s never had a feature in any major publication before and now this exposé is front page news? I have no doubt that my dad paid him to write this.”

“Luke, this is ridiculous. This Saunders shit head’s only named-source to all your supposed misconduct is Coach Elliot, and he lost his head coach position for being an angry homophobic piece of shit when Lawson and Griffith came clean about their relationship last season, remember? No one is going to believe this shit.”

“Look at the comments, Dean. They already do, and why shouldn’t they?

I was an asshole after my injury. I did treat the coaches and my teammates like shit.

I did mouth off to reporters. I disappointed the fans, I disappointed my sister.

Everything that article says is true, and now…

” his voice breaks, and before I can even think about what I’m doing, I scramble onto the bed next to him and pull him into my arms. “And now I’m going to fuck up the one thing that Gigi asked me to do.

I’m going to lose these kids, Dean. After everything Gigi did for me.

After she sacrificed her entire livelihood to pull me out of that house and raise me on her own, those fucking people are going to take her girls away from me and they’re going to ruin their lives and everything my sister did with her life will have been for nothing. ”

I let Luke cry into my chest, because there’s nothing I can say that will make him feel better right now. All I can do is hold him through this and try my best to put him back together after he’s torn himself apart .

Once Luke’s sobs have faded into quiet tears, I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial the number I’ve been itching to call since earlier this afternoon.

“Hello?”

“IronDad…” I say, my voice wobbling.

“Dean, honey, what is it? What do you need? Hold on, let me put you on speaker. Pops is right here.”

I close my eyes, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. My dads are unflinchingly supportive. I know that whatever I need, Pops and IronDad will do everything in their power to get it done. I’m incredibly lucky to have them.

And hopefully, Luke and the girls will feel some of that luck, too.

I might be a grown, taxpaying citizen with a proven track record of handling big adult problems on my own, but I’m not too proud to admit when I’m in over my head and need my parents.

“I need help. Luke and I need a good lawyer, fast.”