Page 9

9

Ripley

I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off with Kali. I noticed it the moment we walked into Starlight Pi’s—she’s all smiles one minute, then her face sort of falls as soon as those women approached me. Part of me wonders if she’s just annoyed by the fan-girl circus, or if it’s something more. Whatever it is, she tries her best to hide it under polite chatter and forced laughter, but I’ve spent enough time around her these past few days to tell when she’s putting on an act.

Even Juniper notices. Halfway through our meal, my daughter tugs at my sleeve and whispers, “Is Coach Kali feeling okay?” I just give her a small shrug and tell her to keep being her usual, sunny self. But inside, I’m tense—like I’m bracing for something I don’t fully understand.

After we finish off the last of the pizza—pepperoni and pineapple for Juniper, cheese for Kali, and plain old pepperoni for me—Kali insists on paying her share. I wave her off, sliding my card onto the edge of the table before the server picks it up. She presses her lips together but doesn’t argue. I wonder if she’s upset about that, too, or if it’s just another layer to this tension.

It’s getting dark when we leave, the neon “Starlight Pi’s” sign buzzing quietly in the window behind us. Juniper is yawning, so I scoop her up in my arms. Kali walks a few steps behind as we head out to the parking lot, her arms folded around her middle like she’s trying to hold herself together. The night air is thick with the promise of summer—humid, but with a slight breeze that rattles the chain-link fence around the dumpster area.

I stop by Kali’s car, a small sedan that’s a bit worn around the edges. She fishes her keys out of her bag, glancing at me with a faint smile. I know it’s not her real smile—too tight, too hesitant.

“Thanks for coming out with us,” I say, shifting Juniper’s weight on my hip. “She always loves hanging with you.”

Kali’s gaze flicks to Juniper, who’s half-asleep against my shoulder. “I had a good time,” she replies, her tone soft but distant. Then she adds in a quieter voice, “Thanks for inviting me.”

I wait for her to say something else—maybe bring up whatever’s bugging her—but she doesn’t. So I gently clear my throat. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You seem a little… I don’t know. Different.”

She nods too quickly. “I’m fine. Really. Just tired.” Her eyes dart away, and I can tell she’s not telling me the whole story. But I can’t exactly corner her in the parking lot to demand an explanation, not with my daughter half dozing in my arms.

“All right,” I say finally. “Guess I’ll see you soon, then. At practice or something.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, “definitely.”

She unlocks her car door, and I stand there feeling like there’s a ton of unspoken words clogging the air between us. But with Juniper squirming, I don’t push it. I step back, and Kali slides into the driver’s seat, offering me one last forced smile before she closes the door. I watch her headlights cut across the lot as she pulls away, the brake lights disappearing around the corner.

I sigh, tightening my hold on Juniper. Something’s not right, and I’m determined to find out what.

* * *

By the time we get home, Juniper is fully conked out, barely stirring as I tuck her into bed. My mind keeps wandering back to the look on Kali’s face at the restaurant—the way her eyes dimmed when those fans tried to slip me their numbers. I wonder if she was put off by that. Usually, I handle the random fan stuff without a second thought, especially at the minor league level. It’s more flattering than it is intrusive. But for some reason, seeing Kali’s reaction to it has me all knotted up inside.

The next day is an easy Sunday. There’s no early games or mandatory practices. I figure I’ll get some errands done, maybe toss the ball around with Juniper in the afternoon. But after breakfast, Juniper plants herself on the couch, remote in hand, flicking through channels before she looks over at me with hopeful eyes.

“Daddy, can we invite Coach Kali over today?” she asks, legs swinging off the edge of the cushions. “Maybe we can do practice in the backyard again.”

I hesitate, rubbing a hand over my chin. The truth is, I want to see Kali too—partly because I enjoy her company, but mostly because I can’t shake the memory of her disappointed expression at Starlight Pi’s. But something about inviting her over again, after last night’s weird vibe, feels risky. I’m not sure if she needs space or an open discussion.

Still, I can’t help but recall that flush of warmth in my chest every time she’s been around, how Juniper lights up whenever Kali steps into the room. Maybe this is exactly what we need—some time to talk and figure out what’s going on. Or maybe it’ll blow up in my face. Hard to say.

“We’ll see,” I tell Juniper, earning a dramatic groan from my daughter. I pull out my phone and stare at Kali’s contact info for a solid minute before I type out a short text: Hey, everything okay? You seemed a little off last night. I read it back twice, then send it before I can overthink it.

While I’m waiting for a response, Juniper chatters about the cartoon on TV. My phone buzzes after a minute or two, and I glance down.

Kali: I’m fine, really. Sorry if I seemed off. Just tired. Thanks for checking in.

I frown. That’s the second time she’s told me she’s fine. In my experience, when somebody insists they’re “fine” a few times in a row, they’re usually the opposite. Might as well cut to the chase. So I send back:

Ripley: I’d like to see you again. Maybe dinner tonight? Maybe around 6 if you’re free.

There’s a longer pause this time. My heart thuds in my chest like I’m awaiting the final out of a tight game. Then my phone buzzes again.

Kali: Okay. I’d like that. I’ll come by.

Relief washes through me, followed by a swirl of apprehension. Good, we can talk. I glance at Juniper, who’s half paying attention to the cartoon, half eyeing me suspiciously. I open my mouth to tell her Kali’s coming over, but my phone buzzes again—this time it’s Hattie calling.

“Hey, sis,” I answer, stepping into the hallway for a moment of privacy.

“Morning, Rip,” Hattie greets. “Just calling to remind you that Juniper’s staying with me tonight, remember? We’ve got that early trip out of town tomorrow and I wanted to leave before traffic gets nuts.”

I smack my forehead lightly. “Right, the mini vacation. She’s been talking about that all week, how could I forget?” I throw a glance at Juniper over in the living room. She’s got both arms in the air now, pretending to be a soaring airplane. Sometimes I swear my kid never runs out of energy. “So you want me to drop her off this afternoon?”

“That’d be perfect,” Hattie says. “I’ll have her back tomorrow evening. I’ll bring her to the field for your game. Tell her we’ll be stopping for ice cream on the way—she’ll be thrilled.”

I chuckle. “You spoil her rotten.”

“Of course,” Hattie snorts. “Anyway, see you later.”

We hang up, and I pocket my phone with a sigh. So dinner tonight is just going to be me and Kali. That’s… definitely not how I pictured it when I asked her. But the idea sends a strange jolt of excitement and nerves through my gut. This might actually be better. A chance to figure out what’s going on, uninterrupted by six-year-old commentary.

* * *

The day slips by in a blur. I help Juniper pack a small bag while she chatters about Aunt Hattie’s plan to visit some kind of roadside attraction. Then we pile into the car, and I drive her to Hattie’s place. My sister greets us with a teasing grin, asking if I’ve got a “hot date” while Juniper’s away. I dodge the question as best I can, muttering something about just hanging out at home.

Once Juniper’s taken care of, I head back to my place, the house eerily quiet without her. I toss a look around the living room, noticing stray socks and Juniper’s crayons scattered on the coffee table. I tidy up a bit, my nerves hitting me full force now that I’m alone. Why am I so wound up?

I decide to keep dinner simple. I’ll grill some chicken, maybe throw together a salad. Nothing fancy. But halfway through seasoning the chicken, I realize I’m basically pacing the kitchen. Am I expecting this to turn into a date? I’m not sure. All I know is that I want to see Kali, talk to her, maybe figure out how she feels. Because I’m starting to realize how I feel—it’s more than casual. It’s… something bigger, something that doesn’t settle quietly in my chest.

Finally, around 6:10, there’s a soft knock at the door. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and take a calming breath before answering.

Kali stands on the porch, wearing a light sweater over a casual sundress, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looks more relaxed than last night, but there’s still a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The sun’s dipping low, casting a warm glow across her face. For a moment, we just stare at each other, neither of us quite sure what to say.

“Hey,” I manage, stepping back. “Come in.”

She enters, glancing around as if checking to see if Juniper’s lurking behind the couch. “Quiet,” she remarks, a tentative smile appearing. “Where’s your little shadow?”

I scratch the back of my neck. “She’s with my sister tonight. They have an early trip in the morning.” I shrug, trying for nonchalance. “So it’s just us.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, and I can see the questions swirling there. It’s almost palpable, this tension like something unspoken and electric in the air. I take a breath, remind myself to keep it cool.

“Hope you’re okay with chicken and salad,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen. “I was going for easy.”

“Sounds great,” she says softly. “Better than me microwaving leftovers in my apartment.”

I manage a chuckle, gesturing for her to follow me. “Well, let’s get to it, then.”

And as she steps past me into the living room, I can’t help the swirl of thoughts in my head. She’s here, we’re alone, and I have no idea what’s about to happen. But I do know one thing: I want to find out what’s got her so spooked, and maybe, if I’m lucky, give her a reason not to be.