Page 123 of The Havenport Collection

Callum

I had not anticipated the administrative burden of coaching soccer.

But here I was, on a Friday night, creating a computer spreadsheet to allocate responsibility for the orange slices.

Apparently the moms got really angry if you weren’t organized about who was doing what.

And I had already received over a dozen emails about everything from scheduling, which I had no control over, to playing time, which was going to be equal for all players.

I did not anticipate just how insane some parents would get over kindergarten soccer. My mistake.

I couldn’t help but think about Violet as I jotted down ideas for games and drills to do with the kids. I knew Fridays were busy for her, preparing for the farmers’ market on Saturdays, so I didn’t want to bug her. I debated texting her, but that felt strange.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about our kiss. It felt so natural, so right to pull her into my arms and kiss her. I didn’t overthink it. Hell, I didn’t really think at all. I just reacted. The warm summer night, the fireworks, the nostalgia of being teenagers in love—my instincts took over.

And my instincts were spot-on. I had not been imagining the chemistry between us.

It started soft and sweet but turned passionate so quickly.

Violet might have looked like a laid-back hippie chick on the outside, but she was pure fire on the inside.

The way she moaned gently? The way her small hands caressed my biceps?

I had thought of nothing else for the past week.

I needed to see her. I could talk myself out of it ten different ways, but I missed her and wanted to see her smiling face.

I wanted to make sure we were okay and be assured that she liked it as much as I did.

And I wanted to figure out where and when we could do it again, preferably as soon as possible.

Maybe I could show up at the farmers’ market tomorrow to do some shopping? I didn’t cook and I hadn’t ever turned on my oven, but I wanted to swing by and support the farm.

I picked up my phone to text Violet, and it began to ring. It was my mother.

“Hi, Mom.” I closed my eyes and braced for impact.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks, Callum.” Annie Quinn was a tiny, yet formidable woman who could get the three of us in line with one look.

Even at thirty-six years old, I was still afraid of her a little bit.

She hid it well behind a sweet middle-aged lady facade.

She was all linen pants and charity bake sales, but underneath the surface she was a stone-cold savage.

“Mom, that’s not true. I saw you last week when I was working on my laptop at High Tide. ”

“Really? You think waving to your mother across the street counts as quality time?” she chided.

I sighed, waiting for whatever lecture was coming.

“I’m just worried about you, Callum. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m great, Mom. Just busy with work.”

“Or are you just avoiding the world because that trollop is getting married?” Shit. How did she know?

“Mom, you’re getting really creative with your insults for my ex-wife,” I deadpanned.

“But whore is so overused, you know? Thought I’d get Shakespearean. Maybe strumpet? Harlot? Tramp? Floozy? Jezebel?”

I tried to suppress a laugh. I didn’t want to encourage her. “Okay, Mom, I get it.”

“I could go all night.”

“I’m sure you could.” My mother had never liked Becca. That was an understatement. They basically despised each other since the day they met. To my mother’s credit, after our wedding she did make an effort, but Becca disliked spending time with my parents, and it was easier for me not to push it.

Then when Becca left me, my mom’s dislike transformed into searing hatred.

Her best friend, Mrs. Leary, once had to physically restrain her when they ran into Becca at the nail salon.

In her mind, Becca denied her grandchildren and broke her firstborn’s heart, so she was basically the devil. Or a strumpet. Whatever.

“When were you going to tell me?” she asked.

Never. This is the last thing I want to discuss with you. “How did you find out?” I asked.

“Trent was visiting yesterday, doing a few things around the house, and he mentioned it.”

Fucking Trent. I could punch that traitor.

Trent was Liam’s best friend and worked with him at the brewery.

He grew up in foster care, and my parents always looked out for him.

So he expressed his gratitude by visiting, doing chores around the house, and generally making the three of us look bad.

I didn’t mind; he was a close friend and my mother loved him like another son, but he was weak, and she loved to use him to extract gossip.

“I know this must be difficult for you. Have you thought about dating? I was talking to my friend Maureen the other day.” Oh shit. I had to stop this train before it left the station.

“Mom, I’m going to stop you right there.

” This would not turn out well. My mother was a meddler, and all three of us had fix-up horror stories to show for it.

The last thing I needed was her badgering some poor barista at the coffee shop, or the pharmacist, or her mail carrier, to go on a date with me.

“Okay, sweetie. You just tell me when you’re ready.

” I would never be ready for an Annie Quinn fix-up, but it was best to keep that information to myself.

I was not used to being the target of my mother’s meddling.

She was normally fixated on Liam and occasionally Declan.

But now that they were thriving and had girlfriends, my mother had turned her attention to me. And I hated it.

“Actually, Mom, I was thinking of hitting the farmers’ market tomorrow. Can I pick you up?” My mother never missed the farmers’ market and often met her friends there to sip matcha lattes and peruse the handmade soaps. Parading her son around would only enhance the experience for her.

“That would be fantastic, sweetie. I need to pick up several things for your father’s kale smoothies.” I shuddered. Since his heart attack last year, my mom had my dad on a strict vegan diet regimen. He was super healthy but pretty miserable.

“Sounds great, Mom. I have to get back to work now. I’ll swing by the house in the morning around nine.”

“Sure thing, sweetie.”

After getting my mom off the phone, I turned my attention back to soccer planning.

Just keeping up with the email traffic was one thing.

Now I had to figure out how to motivate and coach a bunch of five-year-olds for an hour and a half.

The first forty-five minutes were for drills and skill development, and the second forty-five minutes was a friendly game against another team.

It all seemed straightforward as I listed out stretches, drills, and games to play.

Shouldn’t be too hard. I loved soccer. I’d played it my entire life. I would do some fun drills, divide the kids up, and keep them excited. How hard could it be?

Really. Fucking. Hard.

Turns out coaching twelve five-year-olds was excruciating. Just keeping track of their tiny bodies on the massive field was hard enough. I was sweating through my clothes, and it had only been ten minutes.

I blew my whistle. “Okay, guys, come back here so I can show you the next drill.”

Most of the girls walked over slowly while the boys continued to kick balls at each other’s heads.

I caught Henry’s eye, and he took pity on me, grabbing his brother and another kid and dragging them over to the line.

“Okay, guys. We are going to kick the ball and dribble around the cones I set out, okay? Watch me.”

By the time I was done demonstrating the drill, one kid had wandered off while another was lying on the grass picking his nose.

“Excuse me, Coach Quinn?” I looked down to see a small blonde girl with pigtails with her hand raised.

“Yes…” I try to remember her name.

“Avery.”

“Yes. Avery. What’s up?”

“Can I go first? Please? Pretty, pretty please?” Avery was practically vibrating.

I shrugged, since she seemed to be the only one interested in actually doing it. “Okay.”

Avery grabbed her hot-pink soccer ball and proceeded to attempt to run around the cones while some kids watched and others shoved each other.

“Guys, let’s make a line.”

They ignored me. Surely kids these days know how to make lines.

I looked down at my clipboard, where I had diagrammed out several drills to practice. What an idiot I was.

Avery was still kicking around the cones, oblivious to the fact that her teammates had no interest. One motivated kid was not going to make this any easier. Fuck it.

“Alright, guys. Everyone just run and kick the ball at the net.” I gestured behind me on the field to the giant, regulation sized net, not the tiny ones used for kindergarten soccer, and they all took off in that direction.

How had I gotten myself into this mess? Violet.

She was over on the sidelines, chatting with the other parents and looking all earthy and beautiful with her floppy hat and lace-up sandals. I knew how hard she worked and how much she loved her kids. There was no way I would have been able to say no to her or her sons.

And let’s face it. My brain had been short-circuiting around her since that day on the farm.

Even shoveling pig shit, she’d looked so good.

It was those damn shorts. She’d had these tiny denim shorts on with bright yellow Wellington boots that came up to her knees.

She was like some farm girl fantasy, and I wanted to throw her over my shoulder and take her up to a hayloft.

But she was my friend, so there would be no hayloft hanky-panky. Instead, I would be a good friend and an upstanding member of society and get through the next eight weeks of soccer torture.

I stood there for a minute, trying to comprehend just how much of a disaster my first day was, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and was met with a whiff of overwhelming perfume. I turned around and saw Whitney Fields, one of the moms on the team.

“Hi, Coach.” She waved her massive fake nails at me.

Whitney grew up here, but I didn’t know her that well.

She did, however, have a very distinctive look.

It was eight a.m. on a Sunday morning, and she was decked out in heels, leopard-print leggings, and some kind of loose tank top that showed off her hot-pink bra.

I considered offering her one of the extra kids’ soccer jerseys in an effort to keep things PG-13.

“Hi, Whitney.” I shifted so I was watching the kids play. Some were actually kicking the balls, and others were picking them up and walking around with them. Guess I’d have to explain the rules again.

“Just wanted to say hi. My little angel Gavin is on the team.” She pointed to the nose picker.

“Great. I hope he has a lot of fun,” I replied, wishing for her to go away. “Everyone will get equal playing time.” That sentence had become my mantra this past week. The parents were relentless.

Whitney chuckled. “Oh, I don’t give a shit about playing time. My ex makes him play soccer. I don’t care if you play him at all.” Huh. That was not what I was expecting.

Whitney leaned in close, too close for my comfort, and whispered. “Moira is my best friend. I know what you did to her. But I will tolerate you for the sake of my son.”

Jesus. Crazy Moira. This was why I couldn’t date anyone from Havenport. Because nothing was ever private, ever sacred. A real relationship wouldn’t have a chance in this insane town. I nodded at Whitney and jogged off toward my players in some vain attempt to teach them some soccer skills.

This was shaping up to be a much bigger job than I had expected.

Not that I was complaining—I was happy to do it.

I saw how happy Sam and Henry were at Patriot’s Homecoming when we had competed in the three-legged race.

I knew when I volunteered that it meant a lot to them and to their mom.

And after that smoking-hot kiss, I would do just about anything for their mom.