Chapter 9: Watch Party

By two o'clock on Sunday, the den held fourteen people and a tray of sliders.

Devin had invited the team parents months ago, before any of this, for the second semifinal.

There were fathers in jerseys, mothers with potato salad, and a row of old players home from college sprawled across the carpet.

I was in a yellow sundress, carrying drinks, and I felt like I was wearing a sign.

"Katie, sweetheart, you're home from college!" said a woman I'd known since first grade.

"I graduated, actually."

"Of course you did. And then where?"

"Chicago, in September."

"Your mother must be so proud."

"She is," I said, and my face did the smile on its own.

The only free seat in the room was the big armchair in the corner.

Devin was already in it, with a beer and a team scarf around his neck.

"Katie, sit with your stepfather," a father called. "There's room on the arm."

"I'm fine," I said.

"Sit," said Devin, perfectly pleasant, and he met my eye.

I perched on the arm of the chair beside him, and my skirt rode up an inch.

The match began.

The red shirts and the white shirts were evenly matched, and the room was loud.

Someone started a chant. A grown man knocked over a soda and got swatted with a dish towel.

Under cover of all that noise, Devin's hand slid up the back of my knee.

It was warm and dry and absolutely steady.

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