My mom scans my crew. “Do your friends think it makes sense to marry him?”

  Ugh. Now she’s trying to throw me off via my friends?

  Jillian cuts in firmly, handling Mom like she handles an out-of-line question from an unruly press gaggle. “We think Silvio is great.”

  “We were just talking about what a sweetie he is,” Emerson adds. “How well he treats Katie.”

  Skyler strides back into the suite at the tail end of that, water bottle filled and eyes curious.

  My mom’s lips curve down. “Does he, though? Does he treat you how you deserve to be treated, honey?” She squeezes my shoulder again.

  What is going on? Why the frick is my mother trying to dissuade me from getting married an hour before the ceremony?

  “I don’t understand why you’re asking,” I say. Maybe my wedding reminds her of her own marital belly flops, the quartet of I dos that didn’t work out.

  With a worried sigh, my mother clasps her hands, her fingers fidgety. “I’m concerned. That’s normal. It seems like it’s all happening too quickly. It seems like you might not really know him that well. Or yourself.”

  What the hell? Just because we had a whirlwind courtship doesn’t mean I don’t know him well. I met him at a restaurant when our reservations were mixed up, and we dated for two months before he proposed.

  Do I know him well?

  As well as I need to.

  I don’t believe you need to spend years with someone before you walk down the aisle.

  Sometimes love happens quickly, even if you don’t like the same music, food, or wine.

  Who cares about that stuff?

  “That’s not an issue, Mom. I know he gives excellent foot rubs, he loves to snuggle, and he’ll probably take at least ten minutes to tie his bow tie even though he’s been watching YouTube tutorials for a week. His favorite book is The Little Prince, he loses track of time when he works on his murals, but he showers me with kisses when he comes home from his studio. And I feel like I know myself even better too, now that I’m thirty-five. I trust my instincts. I would love it if you would trust me too.”

  By the end, my throat has tightened like a noose squeezing my neck, and tears sting my eyes but don’t fall. I can’t believe she’s doing this to me on my wedding day. Maybe this is another reason why I never imagined a wedding as a kid—because she’d find a way to ruin it with an ill-timed warning.

  But screw it.

  I’m not going to let her.

  I suck in the threat of tears, swallow them down, and raise my chin. “I love Silvio and he loves me, but I appreciate your concern.”

  “If you say so,” Mom says, letting the words hang in the air like a cloying, passive-aggressive-scented air freshener.

  My friends step in like superheroes. Olive grabs my mother’s hand and escorts her out of the suite, and Jillian swoops in with a tissue. “Don’t let her get to you on your wedding day, or any day ever. She wants to be the center of attention, so she’s looking to make it all about her.”

  I take the tissue and dab my cheek, but I don’t think a tear sneaked out. Ha. Take that, Mom.

  “Coffee, yoga, and wine, coffee, yoga, and wine,” I say, repeating one of my favorite mantras as Olive returns, shutting the door loudly behind her.

  “And tonight, there will be wine,” Olive declares.

  Cheers erupt, and we sing an impromptu homage to wine.

  That gets my mother out of my system.

  When we’re done, Emerson sweeps a tinge more mascara on my lashes, I slide on some lip gloss, and Karissa declares my hair is fabulous. Skyler offers me a sip from the water bottle, but I decline.

  “You’re ready,” Olive says.

  I am so damn ready.

  I look in the mirror, draw a deep breath, and catalogue the woman I see. Bold, honest, strong, outgoing. The dress is my best me too. A chiffon A-line, it swishes around my ankles, with cap sleeves showing off my arms. It’s simple, white, classy.

  We’ll exchange our vows at five against the backdrop of the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge, then we’ll head into the art museum for a reception, surrounded by more than seventy Rodins in the galleries.

  No axe-throwing, but hey, I like art too, so it’s all good.

  A deep, fortifying breath lets me put my mother all the way behind me.

  Time to go.

  My friends and I make our way through the Legion of Honor toward the lawn. But nature calls, and the last thing I want is to think about peeing while I’m saying my vows.

  “Let me just pop into the ladies’ room,” I say to the bridesmaids when I spot the restroom.

  Emerson slashes an arm in front of me like a human stop sign. “That one is too close to where the men are getting ready.” She turns me by my shoulders and ushers me down the hall the other way.

  “We definitely don’t want to bump into them. Whatever would we do?” I ask in exaggerated horror. “You superstitious creature.”

  She shrugs impishly. “I am what I am.”

  “I’m not worried if I see him before the wedding. I don’t believe in all that stuff,” I say, as we reach the other restroom.

  I stop with my hand on the door because faint voices carry from the end of the hall.

  A man and a woman.

  Sounding . . . worried.

  They’re familiar, but muffled, so I strain to make them out.

  “I tried,” the woman whispers.

  “Of course you did,” the man says, gentle, caring.

  Ohhh.

  That’s definitely a voice I know.

  I swallow roughly, trying to understand what they’re talking about.

  Emerson asks me questions with her eyes, and I bring my finger to my lips.

  Gathering up the skirt of my dress, I pad as silently as possible to the corner, where I can hear more easily.

  “So what now?” the woman whispers.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” he says.

  The rustle of clothes. The sound of lips touching lips.

  My skin crawls.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  All the breath flees my lungs when I peek around the corner for confirmation.

  It’s twenty minutes before my wedding, and the man who’s supposed to become my husband is kissing another woman.

  2

  HARLAN

  “Elvis Presley is in the house!” I shout as I crank up the volume to “Hound Dog,” and Abby lifts her chin to howl at the moon.

  I clap, keeping rhythm as my six-year-old uses a wooden spoon as a microphone, crooning along with Elvis’s tune.

  She breaks off to grab a rubber spatula from the flour-and cherry-covered kitchen counter. “You need a mic too, Daddy,” she says, thrusting it at me.

  I take the instrument and we slide into our best imitation of The King as we wait for the pie to bake.

  We finish our daddy-daughter duet as the timer bleats, and Abby points wildly to the oven. “It’s ready! We can eat it now.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “You know the drill. You’ve only made, what, ten million pies with me? We have to let it cool.”

  “Ten million and fifty!” She bats her lashes. “But I was just hoping maybe this time.”

  I ruffle her curly brown hair, chuckling at her attempt to make me bend. “Hope is a good thing, little bear,” I tell her as I turn off the timer. “But pies don’t cool with hope. They cool with time. Also, you know this pie isn’t for us.” I grab a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer potholder, open the oven door, and slide out the cherry pie. I set it on a rack on the counter, then use my hands to direct the scent of sweet and tart fresh fruit and crumbly crust our way.

  “It smells so good,” Abby says, bouncing on her toes as she inhales.

  “Course it does. We made it. We rock. And your mom is going to love it.”

  Abby arches a mischievous brow. “What if I eat it all first?”

  I bend to drop a kiss onto her nose. “Then you’re going to have the biggest bellyache in all of San Francisco,” I tell her, then rub her tummy.

  “Fine. I’ll wait. But I hope she lets me have some tonight,” she says with a touch of worry. “I really, really hope so.”

  Ah, the dilemmas of youth.

  I worry whether this city’s NFL team will offer me a contract next season and if I’ll even want it, whether my kid is making friends at school, and whether she’ll want to find a new gymnastics class, since she decided to quit the one she was taking.

  She worries about pie.

  It’s a fair tradeoff.

  An hour later, we’re ready to go. I grab a pie box from the stash I keep, pop in the tasty treat, and tell Abby to find her overnight bag.

  It’s bowling night with the guys, so I’m dropping Abby at her mom’s house. I don’t always bring pies, but Danielle and her hubs dig them, so I try to do so as often as I can. Also, it does not suck making pies with my little girl. Win-win.

  Abby snags her panda backpack from the hallway and slings it onto both shoulders. “And now I am officially ready.”

  I swing open the door. “Panda is on the back so it’s go time.”

  On the sidewalk, Abby reaches for my hand. I take her little one in mine and we head toward California Street.

  She looks up at me, concern in her hazel eyes. “Are you sure you have to go to training camp next week?”

  Okay, not all her worries are of the sugar variety. This kid misses me when I’m out of town, and I sure as hell miss her.

  I throw her a them’s-the-breaks smile. “I do. The Renegades won’t let me play if I don’t show up. But I’ll talk to you every day.”

  “I know. I just miss you when you’re gone,” she says, matter-of-factly as we near the corner.

  “I miss you too, little bear. Every day. And that’s why I always call you from training camp, and away games, and every night when I’m on the road,” I say.

  She sighs, a little forlorn. “And I always can’t wait for your calls.”

  Time to cheer her up. Remind her that we have a regular routine. That I’m around a helluva lot. Half and half—that’s how the time split works with her mom. “Did you know I’ve been calling you from every single training camp since you were born? Even when you were only eight months old?”

  Her expression turns intensely serious. “I remember that.”

  I bark out a laugh as we turn the corner. “You do not remember that. No one remembers stuff from when they were one. Or two, or three, or four, or five, for that matter.”

  “Well, I’m six,” she says, like I don’t know her age. Like I need the reminder of how seismically my life changed that November day more than six years ago. When she was born, this little bundle of joy and chatter and brightness upended my days and nights, and I learned in an instant what it means to love someone so much it hurts. It hurts so good to love like this.

  “I am well aware that you’re six and sassy. But still, you don’t remember me FaceTiming you from the Paleolithic era.”

  She crinkles her nose. “What’s pale licks?”

  “A long time ago. When dinosaurs roamed Earth.”

  “Daddy!” she shouts in a fit of laughter. “I’m not that old and you’re not either.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty old. In football years, I’m definitely a dinosaur. But not a T-rex, because they can’t do anything with their teeny arms,” I say, flapping my left arm like it’s as useful as a big dino’s, while holding the pie high in my right hand like it’s a football.

  Abby’s eyes widen to pizza size. “Be careful!”

  I thrust the box even farther away with my outstretched arm. “Did you or did you not see my one-handed, game-winning catch in the Super Bowl this year? My second Super Bowl win, Miss I Remember Everything.”

  But she’s lasered in on the pie, and only the pie. Back to sugar worry. “I just really don’t want you to drop the pie.”

  “And I really didn’t want to drop Armstrong’s thirty-three-yard pass,” I say, taking her back to that beautiful day in February. “So I didn’t.” I put her out of her misery, hauling the pie box back to my chest. “Better?”

  A long sigh of relief is her answer. “I’ve been waiting all day for that cherry pie. But it feels like I’ve been waiting a year.”

  “I know what you mean, but it’ll be okay. Promise,” I say. Because kid time is eternity.

  We weave past a goateed guy pushing a sleeping toddler in a jogging stroller.

  The guy stops. “Taylor? Harlan Taylor?”

  “That’s me,” I say, hoping he’s a fan, not a hater. We have our share of both in this city. Any team does, and you never know who you’re going to run into.

  But the dad breaks into a wide grin, pressing his hands together in a prayer. “Thank you for that catch. But please re-sign this year. If we lose you to another team, I will die.”

  He’s exaggerating, of course. But he sure does sound like he’d be devastated if I went elsewhere in free agency. But it’s not up to me. I have no idea if the Renegades will re-up with an ex-running-back-turned-receiver who’s nearing the end of his playing days. I’m thirty-six, already on the long end of a long career.

  “I’ll do my best to make sure you live,” I tell the fan as I offer my free palm to high-five. He smacks back, then continues on his way.

  Abby and I do the same.

  “It’s weird that you’re famous,” she says, reaching for my hand and swinging ours together again.

  I scoff. “I’m not famous.”

  “Please, Daddy. Don’t be silly. You’re sooooo famous. All the kids at school say so.”

  “I’m only kind of famous. And only locally. And only with sports fans.”

  “That’s still famous, then,” she insists, and I can tell I won’t win this battle with her, so I relent.

  “Fine. You win.”

  “But you don’t seem famous when we’re at home,” Abby points out.

  “Good. That’s how it should be.”

  Soon, we turn onto Danielle’s block and head up the front steps to her Victorian home.

  Abby pushes the doorbell, but Danielle’s already swinging open the red door, letting her in.

  “Hey, cutie-pie,” she says, scooping up our daughter and peppering her cheek with kisses. Then to me, she says, “Hey, you.”

  “Hi, Danielle. I brought you your favorite pie.”

  “Cherry!” She makes grabby hands. “You’re a godsend. Jamie and I have friends coming over tonight, and I was going to rush out to the bakery and grab a cake.”

  “There is never a need for cake when you have me around,” I say, then make my way into her home.

  Her husband looks up from the dining table where he’s drawing a pig, or maybe a duck, or possibly a cat, with their two-year-old.

  “Hi, Harlan!” the little kid shouts.

  Jamie lifts a hand. “How’s it going? You ready for your last season?”

  My mind snags on the word last. Is he trying to trick me into confirming the rumors?

  Love the dude, but I swear he’s got a bet with his buds he’ll be the first to reveal what I do at the end of the season.

  Hell, I’d like someone to reveal it to me.

  Danielle comes to the rescue, setting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Honey, you’re a broken record. Maybe find a new topic.”

  Jamie shoots her a confused look, his gray eyes narrowing. “Like what, sweetheart? The new surgical technique for reattaching a retina? And football is starting soon. Football is the topic.”

  Danielle tosses her hands in the air. “How about the latest restaurants in Hayes Valley? Or maybe interesting tech news? Perhaps baseball?”

  “Hmm, the new Thai place or whether the city’s star receiver is going to stay or go . . . What’s more interesting?”

  Danielle shrugs helplessly. “Football fans. What can you do?”

  Jamie smiles and stands, gesturing to the kitchen and the deck beyond. “You want a beverage, Harlan? Soda? Bubbly water? Beer? We’re grilling later if you want to join us.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “We can talk about baseball. How about those Dragons?”

  “They look good this season. Maybe they’ll finally win a World Series,” I say, happy to shift to another sport.

  “Home run!” the two-year-old shouts.

  “And a bubbly water would be great,” I add.

  “I’ll grab it,” Abby calls as she sweeps into the dining room, clutching an early reader book from among the many lying around. “And I like football better, Daddy.”

  As the girl joins her mother in the kitchen, Danielle pats Abby’s head. “I wonder why.”

  After Abby returns with a raspberry LaCroix, I catch up with Jamie, chatting about the Dragons chances of making it to the Fall Classic. When we’ve shot the breeze for thirty minutes, I stretch my arms and tell them I need to take off.

  Danielle walks me to the door, motioning for Abby to stay behind.

  “Thanks again for the pie, and for the school check,” she says softly.

  “Of course,” I say, but I kind of can’t believe she’s thanking me for paying for Abby’s school. What else would I do?

  “I appreciate it,” she adds.

  “Danielle. C’mon. It’s a given,” I say.

  Her expression softens. “I don’t take it for granted.”

  “You never have, and I never thought you would,” I say, since friendly is how we do things.

  I met Danielle at the University of Washington. We dated our freshman year of college, but then she transferred to a school with a better pre-med program. I ran into her again the night I won my first Super Bowl. She was at a post-game party, and we hit it off again. I gave her a hard time about her preferring the San Francisco Hawks over the San Francisco Renegades. Then I gave her a hard time between the sheets, and we said our goodbyes in the morning. A few weeks later, she learned she was pregnant.

  A Super Bowl baby.

  The Southern gentleman in me reared his head and asked Danielle if she wanted me to marry her.