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“What’s up, motha-fucka?” Tristan answers, drawing out the “ahhh” sound in fucka.

“Cut that shit out,” I snap, and I’m met with silence. I wait a beat, and then I apologize. He doesn’t know why I’m snapping. He’s just answering the call the way he always does. “Sorry.”

I grab the quarter out of my pocket and start to flip it.

“What’s going on?”

I glance around the patio where I stand, and I look up toward Harper’s bedroom after I slip the quarter back into my pocket. The window’s closed, and so is the slider door that let me walk out here.

I’m by myself, and it’s time to confess what’s going on to my best friend.

“Remember when I told you I had a daughter I’d never met?” I begin. He was one of the few people I told that secret to, and once I told him, I somehow felt more comfortable talking about it. I told a few other guys on the team, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because they have kids, so somehow I felt like I could relate to them on a different level by admitting I had one, too…even though she wasn’t mine to have until yesterday.

“Yeah,” he says, his tone inflecting at the end in a question.

“Her parents both died in an accident a few days ago and their will named me as her guardian.”

“Holy shit,” he murmurs. “So you didn’t just father a child. You’re a dad now?”

“Apparently.”

“How is she?”

“She’s…she’s okay. She’s scared, and she’s sad, but she’s also really fucking incredible,” I say.

“How are you ?” he asks.

In all the chaos of the last thirty-six hours or so, I haven’t really thought about how I’m doing. Leave it to my best friend to bring that up.

I choke on some emotion in the back of my throat as I try to piece together how I’m feeling.

My life was flipped upside down because of someone else’s irresponsibility. Two lives were lost. A little girl will never be the same.

The rolling effects of one action are completely unfathomable, and I haven’t had the time to process any of it since I’ve been focused on what this means for my daughter.

I clear my throat, and I attempt to say something, but my voice won’t quite work.

I nearly hang up the phone. I don’t let other people see me like this. I don’t allow myself to get like this.

But I hold on. I draw in a deep breath. “I’m not sure,” I answer honestly, my voice a little deeper and a little raspier than usual as I force out the words. “I’ve been focused on the girl.”

“Then you’re already learning what it means to be a dad,” Tristan says, and that’s when I fucking lose it.

Is it true? Am I already learning? Can I really do this?

I’m not the kind of man who wears my heart on my sleeve. Some guys are, but I’m the one who doesn’t show emotion very often. When I do, it’s almost always on the field—it’s after a tough loss in the playoffs or seeing a friend go down with an injury or when I blame myself for a play that wasn’t executed the way we planned it.

I’ve never cried because of another person…at least not when somebody else could hear me. I’ve never been moved to tears over a situation, but I’ve never been in a situation like this .

I cry silently for her loss, and my chest aches at the thought of everything that will change. It’s not just uprooting her from everything she knows, and it’s not just unfair for her to lose all the things she loves at once.

It’s flipping my world around, too. It’s caring for a child when what Jerry said was true—I can hardly care for myself. The only reason I do take care of myself is because I want to be on the field. I want to start games. I want to play football.

What’s all that going to look like now that I have a kid? I can’t exactly drag her along to practice or to games out of town, and I don’t even know where to begin to look for someone I’d trust enough to help.

Tristan must sense that I’m choked up on this end of the line because he says more words before I get the chance to respond.

“Look, man. It’s tough all the way around no matter how you slice it. But you can do this. You’ve got a huge network of people ready to step in and help in whatever way we can—me included. And you know Evan Wilkinson, the defensive end we got from Detroit? He got a place just down the street from Tessa and me, and I’ve gotten friendly with him. He’s got a daughter that looks like she’s around ten. I can ask him where he’s sending her to school if you want.”

I draw in a shaky breath as I use the back of my hand to wipe my face. I clear my throat as I steel myself for what comes next.

I can do this.

If I repeat that enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I finally say.

That’s the thing about a good friend. Somehow they know what to say to both pull at your emotions and make you feel like you can fucking do this.

“You can do this, Travis. You’re Travis Fucking Woods, and don’t forget that. You’re a tough motherfucker, man. Follow your gut and you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” I admit.

“Find someone who knows her, and ask questions—especially if she’s not ready to answer them herself. Settle up life in LA and get back here to Vegas where your real family can help you pick it up from there.”

I know he’s right. Once we just pick up and get moving, things will fall into place. A year from now, it’ll just be how it is. You can do anything for a year, right? It was something I reminded myself time and time again when I hated my lot in life. When I was first sent away to boarding school and I hated it there, I reminded myself it was temporary. When I first started lifting weights, that pain was temporary, too. When I had a grueling routine to get in shape to play for college…temporary.

The hard part will be getting through the next few days, and weeks, and months…but a year from now, it’ll just be the way it is.

After I compose myself, I find my dad once again working at the kitchen table. If he feels uncomfortable in this house of ghosts, he doesn’t mention it. He also doesn’t mention whether he saw my emotional breakdown on the back patio a minute ago.

“Do you know how I can get in touch with Harper’s teacher? I feel like maybe she’d know the girl best and be able to tell me if there’s anything I need to know,” I say.

“That’s a fine idea,” my father says, some approval there in his tone. “She attends St. Mary’s Elementary School. I’m not sure anyone would be around to answer the phone on a weekend but if you left a message with the front desk—”

I hold up a hand to cut him off. “Can you help me track down maybe an email address? Some way to speak directly with her teacher?”

He nods. “Right away.” He taps around on his computer for a few beats, and then he nods toward the stairs. “Have you asked Harper about her teacher?”

I shake my head.

“Might be an easy solution,” he says, and I suppose he’s right.

I head upstairs and find her bedroom empty. I check in the room next to hers, and then I head down the hallway toward the primary bedroom.

And there she is, curled up on her parents’ bed, fast asleep.

I leave her be, and I go back downstairs. “She’s asleep,” I tell my father.

“I found two fifth grade teachers at St. Mary’s,” he says. “They both look young, not that it matters. I can forward you their email addresses.”

“Since you have them pulled up, would you mind sending the email?” I ask.

“Then their response will come to me,” he says, his brows knitting together in confusion.

“Not if you give them my number.”

He nods, clearly letting whatever he’s thinking go. “Sure. What would you like me to say?”

“Is it okay to assume they know what happened?”

“You know what assuming does,” he says.

My brows knit together but I don’t admit I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Okay, then let’s just say hi teachers, your student Harper Randall will be transferring to a new school in Las Vegas effective immediately, can you please call her guardian to speak about this tragic situation as soon as possible.”

He types while I talk, and it’s quite the role reversal for a man of his stature. Usually he’s the one dictating and someone else is the one furiously typing the words.

He reviews what he wrote, asks me my phone number, and sends the email.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rings with an unknown caller.

“Hello?” I answer.

“I’m calling for Mr. Woods,” the female voice on the other end says.

“This is Travis,” I say.

“Hi, my name is Claire Parker, and I just saw your father’s email. I heard about what happened with Harper’s mom and dad and I am so, so sorry.”

“Thank you,” I say. I head out to the patio to make this a private conversation. “I just met Harper yesterday, and I need to take her back home with me. I just don’t know how to go about transferring her school paperwork or getting to know the sorts of things her parents would have wanted me to know about her.”

She pauses a beat as if she has no idea how to answer that question. “Well, she’s been in my class since August, and it’s a big class at thirty-one, but I can tell you she’s very artistic. She’s usually pretty quiet, but I see her talking with Leona at recess. And you know about her peanut allergy, right?”

“Her…” I trail off as the blood drains from my face.

“Peanut allergy. We have two EpiPens here at school to administer in case of emergency, but she’s pretty good about knowing what she can and can’t eat, what she can and can’t come in contact with,” she says. “Leona is the one girl who doesn’t bring peanut butter and jelly for lunch, so I think that’s why they became friends. It’s someone to sit by since the poor girl breaks out in hives if she even touches peanuts.” She lets out an awkward little giggle, and now I get what my dad meant when he said the fifth grade teachers both look young. She sounds young, too, like maybe she doesn’t know my daughter all that well even though she’s been teaching her since August.

“She has a peanut allergy?” I repeat. Of all the things that I’ve had to come to terms with over the last few days, somehow this is the thing registering least. It’s the thing I’m most unable to come to terms with.

Maybe it’s the cherry on top of the sundae or whatever the saying is.

This girl who’s going to come live with me can’t even touch peanuts without having a reaction, and meanwhile peanuts are their own food group in my house.

One more thing to change. One more thing to turn my world upside down. One more thing to fuck with every routine I’ve set up for myself. One more loss.

But I don’t focus on any of that. I’ll deal with it later.

Instead, I take note that apparently I need to figure out where she keeps her EpiPen just in case…and I need to do some research to learn all I can about peanut allergies.