Page 6

OUR VERY FIRST DAY

Dean

“Are you really just going to sit there on your ass and watch while I bring all this shit inside?” I huff as I come into a low squat to lift a box full of my football memorabilia from the bed of the moving truck.

I parked on the back side of the house since the city doesn’t allow oversized street parking in this neighborhood, which means I have to carry all my stuff across my sister’s backyard, through to Luke’s and up the stairs.

After five trips, I’m already exhausted.

“Yes, Dean.” Warren, Kira’s husband, chastises me.

“Your sister is absolutely going to sit here on her perfect ass and watch while you bring your shit inside. My wife is pregnant. She’s not lifting a goddamn thing.

” The two of them are lounging in pastel yellow Adirondack chairs, sipping on lavender lemonade with Tajín on the rim while they watch me struggle.

I drop the box at my feet, wincing at the rattle and hoping nothing inside broke, but I need both hands to argue with my brother-in-law.

“I was talking to you, Warren. You’re not currently growing any new McKenna’s in your womb.

What’s the matter, old man? Are your ancient joints too achy for a little manual labor?

” I ask, placing my hands on my hips and raising a brow.

Warren just smirks at me while Kira’s eyes bounce back and forth between us, following the show like it’s a verbal tennis match.

“I don’t know why you didn’t hire a moving company like any other sensible man of a certain age would do.

Does American football not pay enough? Or have you blown through your entire retirement fund already?

Dean, darling, you know if you need money, all you have to do is ask your big brother, right?

” Warren says, his voice shifting into a sort of baby talk that sounds infinitely more patronizing in his London accent than anything I’ve ever heard.

I flip him off, but we’re both laughing.

I like to give the guy shit—I mean, he’s banging my little sister, for fuck’s sake—but Warren is a good dude.

He’s a billionaire who treats my sister like she hung the fucking moon and loves our family fiercely.

He also has stepped in to help Kira and Luke wrangle all the kids over the last few weeks while I closed down shop on my life in Tennessee.

I couldn’t ask for a better man to marry my sister and become my brother-in-law, even if he is fifteen years older than me—and pestering me for being too frugal and prideful to hire movers.

Kira pulls an ice cube out of her glass and tosses it at my head.

“?Cállate! Stop busting my husband’s balls and get back to work.”

And just like that, Kira laid down the law, and I’m officially on my own.

It takes me another hour and a half to unload the rest of my boxes into the house.

By the time it’s all said and done, I’m beat.

I’ve got a bed, a few pillows and a fresh set of clothes for tomorrow.

The rest of the unpacking can wait. I even bite the bullet and call someone from the rental company to come pick up the moving truck, so I don’t have to return it myself.

I like to do things on my own. Call it a need to prove myself honed from years of following in my father’s footsteps as the quarterback to the Knoxville Crushers and desperation to prove that I was there on my own merit, not just my last name.

Even so, I’m not too prideful to admit that I have no desire to drive a Class 4 moving truck up San Francisco’s hills again.

I check the time on my phone, and it’s creeping towards dinner time. Luke and the girls will be home soon, and I’m sure they’ll all be tired and hangry.

Especially Luke. He has a tendency to forget to care for himself when he’s got the kids in tow, and he’s a bear when he’s hungry.

I check the fridge to see if there’s anything I can throw together for dinner but come up short.

Not that there isn’t food. The damn thing is stocked like grocery stores are going out of style, but everything in there is just…ingredients. Eggs. Vegetables. Raw meat. All things that require preparation and cooking, two things I don’t know how to do.

Okay, that’s not completely true. I can cook a mean pancake, and I know how to throw a couple slices of bacon onto a baking sheet and cook them until they’re crispy, but that’s about the extent of my cooking knowledge.

Does Luke know how to cook? Did I not know that about him? I just assumed every pro-athlete had a chef or a meal delivery service on standby.

How am I supposed to help Luke raise Lemmie, Mellie and Ollie if I don’t know how to prepare a meal for them? I’m pretty sure keeping children fed is like…rule number one in the parenting handbook. I don’t know if I can handle this. I’m too young to have three kids. I’m basically a teen dad.

You almost were a teen dad, idiot.

A pit forms in my stomach at the errant thought. Alright, maybe I wasn’t almost a teen dad, but at twenty-one, I might as well have been sixteen for how mature and prepared for the real world that I was.

It’s been a long time since college and Samantha and the family I thought I was going to have.

So long that the whole debacle is something I rarely think about anymore.

Until recently, that is. Apparently volunteering to become insta-guardian to three kids is just the thing to keep bringing up memories of the worst time of my life.

I shake off the runaway train of thought. This is a completely different situation. I’m just Dean, here to help Luke keep his head above water while we keep three girls alive.

And, apparently, I’m going to need to learn how to feed them, too.

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and then pull my phone out of my pocket and tap a few buttons.

Sixty seconds later, I’ve got an order for a couple of pizzas placed and a text message sent to my Tía Camila.

She’s the only person in my family who actually knows how to cook, and I’m going to need some help if I’m going to be a proper caretaker.

I crack open a can of grapefruit sparkling water and plop my ass on the couch in the living room while I wait for Luke and the girls to return from the zoo.

I thought I’d relish the moment of quiet alone time, the calm before the storm on my first night here at casa de Cannon.

After five minutes of scrolling through endless viewing options on half a dozen different streaming services, I’m already itching for the noise and chaos that those kids bring to the house.

I’m greeted by that noise a moment later when Mellie comes charging in through the front door with a stuffed panda twice the size of her slung over her shoulder and Lemmie hot on her heels.

Luke waltzes in next, Ollie strapped to his chest in a baby carrier, a stroller and a giant San Francisco Zoo tote bag in one hand and a plastic bag with the scent of lo mein wafting from it in the other.

“Lem, Mel, calm down, please,” he calls after the girls, who have already started running circles around the couch. I stand, moving towards the door to unload some of the crap from Luke’s hands.

“Cotton candy?” I ask, nodding over my shoulder to the twin terrors burning a hole in the carpet with their feet. I take the stroller from Luke and prop it against the wall by the door next to the pile of kids’ shoes.

“And slushies. Rookie mistake. They’re never going to sleep tonight,” he says. I take the bags from him, and he gets to work unstrapping Ollie from his chest and setting her in the pack-and-play.

“Fuc—fudge. You picked up Chinese food; I ordered pizza. It’s already on its way. We have two dinners and two sugared up five-year-olds. What a waste.”

“That’s alright. We’ll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Once less meal to stress about.” Luke looks around the living room, taking in the few stray boxes I left down here filled with things that don’t belong in my room—books for the shelves, some of my favorite coffee mugs, and of course my collection of throw blankets because I’m always cold.

“The movers didn’t finish unpacking?” he asks, gesturing to where Lemmie has crawled on top of a box while Mellie swats at her legs.

“Why does everyone keep asking about movers? I’m a professional athlete; I can unpack my own damn boxes.”

“Swear jar!” the twins call out in the same high-pitched shriek. I give the girls a confused look, and Luke shakes his head while he fishes in his pocket, pulling out two one-dollar bills and leaning over the couch to hand them to the kids.

“You gotta practice softer words to use around Lem and Mill. Darn, fudge, shoot like that. Either that, or go to the bank and request some ones, because their little ears don’t miss a fudging thing.

And yeah, Dean, you’re a professional athlete.

You can afford to hire movers. You’re telling me you did all this yourself? ”

I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets.

In all honesty, it’s not like I had a ton to move, anyway.

My boxes of knick-knacks and the new mattress I picked up this morning made up the bulk of it.

It would have been a waste to hire someone for a few things that didn’t even make a dent in the space of the moving truck’s bed.

“I’m simple, Luke. You know that. You should be happy that I didn’t carry all my stuff in a bindle over my shoulder.

And it’s all done, except for these three boxes.

I figured since it’s all stuff for the shared space, I should wait for your direction on where to put things,” I say.

But what I mean is— you’ve been living here for weeks and haven’t changed a thing.

I’m starting to think you’re going to leave this house as a shrine to your deceased sister and I’m afraid that if I get too comfortable, we’ll both break down.

“Alright, cool. Let’s try to wrangle the circus monkeys into the kitchen and get some protein in their bellies to help soak up the sugar.

I’ll help you finish up if they ever settle down— oof ,” Luke lets out a rush of air just as Mellie launches herself at his legs, her fist making perfect—and by the looks of it, painful–contact with his groin.

He doubles over, and I feel my own balls shrivel up in sympathy.

“Uncle Lukey, let’s play ballerina!” Mellie squeals.

“Uncle Lukey doesn’t want to play ballerina,” Luke wheezes.

From her side profile, I can see her lower lip begin to tremble and sense the incoming sugar-crash-out.

This is it, my first opportunity to show Luke that I can be useful in this situation.

That I’m not just here for show, but that I am a valuable asset.

Or, at least, I can learn to be a valuable asset. And I can show off all the skills I learned from years of watching my sister’s recitals and the occasional ballet classes the Crushers made us take for agility and coordination.

“I’ll play ballerina, Mellie. Here, sauté,” I say, crouching down and opening my arms wide.

“Huh?” Mellie says, scrunching up her nose in confusion. I guess they haven’t gone over the terms for all the moves in the Tutus for Tots class yet.

“Run and jump, I’ll catch you,” I say, and that gets Mellie going.

She ricochets off of Luke’s calf and sprints straight into my outstretched arms. I catch her easily, lifting her over my head, Johnny and Baby style.

Pushing up to the closest I can get to a point in my Jordan’s, I do my best Danseur impression and tippy toe us around in a circle while Mellie squeals with laughter.

“I want to play ballerina, too!” Lemmie shrieks, and I shift around so that Mellie is down on my hip and my other hand is free to catch Lemmie as she launches herself at me.

“Hel—heck yeah, Lem. Let’s turn this Pas de Deux into a Pas de Trois.

” I continue my spins, kicking out my legs in something resembling an arabesque while my very tight muscles scream in protest. But instead of my leg going out straight behind me, it sort of hangs in a bend like a flamingo.

Mellie and Lemmie don’t seem to mind, though.

They giggle and pose and bring their arms over their heads while I dance around the living room, their laughter like a balm to whatever weird achiness I was feeling at the constant reminders of my past.

“Uncle Lukey, look at us! We’re ballerinas!

” Lemmie cackles as we spin. I try not to think about the motion sickness I’m giving myself, especially when I catch the look on Luke’s face out of the corner of my eye.

It’s soft, a mixture of grief and gratitude that I’ve become well acquainted with in the two weeks since Gigi passed.

I can feel the myriads of emotions I know are swirling in his mind.

Thoughts like “I wish Gigi were here to see this,” and “damn, I’m glad Dean is here. What would I do without him?”

Alright, maybe I’m projecting that last one, but I do think Luke is happy to have me here. And I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d want to be.

Content as I may feel right now, a rush of gratitude washes through me when the doorbell rings. I’ll play ballerinas all day, but I’m this close to giving myself motion sickness from all the spinning.

“C’mon, mis pollitas. Let’s go wash our hands while Uncle Lukey gets the pizza,” I say, winking at Luke and feeling a little unsteady on my feet.

“What’s a poop-yee-top?” Mellie asks, and I lovingly roll my eyes.

“It’s poh-yee-tah, mi amor. It’s a Spanish word. I’ll teach you more over dinner.”

“Pizza, Chinese, and Argentinian. It’s international night at the Cannon-McKenna’s!” Luke calls after us as I kick the bottom of the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the living room.

The Cannon-McKenna’s.

Damn. I shouldn’t like the sound of that so much.