“The park,” she said. “Four o’clock.” Then, with the faintest edge of humor: “And don’t wear a designer suit. The kids will destroy you.”
Miles arrived early in jeans he had bought that morning and a plain polo shirt. He left his luxury car blocks away, walking the last stretch like someone trying to become a new man.
A dozen pairs of eyes studied him with the blunt honesty only children have.
Leo picked up the ball and held it out, testing him.
Miles cleared his throat. “Leo… your mom said you could teach me the way you taught Teo.”
The name felt sacred here.
Leo glanced at the other boys. They murmured and shrugged. Then Gabe, the quiet one, spoke.
“Teo said you were important,” Gabe said. “He said you met with presidents and bosses and stuff. Why would you want to play with us?”
Miles felt the truth rise in his throat, raw and unavoidable.
“Because my son was wiser than me,” he said simply. “And I was too stupid to see it until it was too late.”
Then Leo nodded once. “Okay,” he said. “But you have to play goalie. Like Teo.”
Miles was spectacularly awful.
Shots flew past him. Between his legs. Over his shoulders. He dove late. Guessed wrong. Tripped on his own feet.
The kids laughed—but not cruelly. Bright, clean laughter, the kind Teo must have loved.
“No, Mr. Carter!” Leo shouted. “You gotta move before the ball gets there!”
“Bend your knees!” Julio added.
Marcus cackled, “My grandma moves faster than you!”
When he collapsed onto the grass, sweating and humbled, Marisol approached with a plastic pitcher of homemade orange juice and paper cups.
She handed him one.
“Not exactly like your board meetings,” she said.
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