Josh didn’t say a word.

I just stared at the sink behind Dallas. I had maxed out the amount of times I wanted to cry in front of this man.

“Diana, can I talk to you?” came the nearly gentle question that only made me angry.

Had he told her to talk to me about my shorts so he wouldn’t have to?

It only took me a second to decide he wasn’t that kind of person. I don’t know why I’d been thinking the worst of him so much lately. He didn’t deserve it.

Still insisting on looking at the sink, I let out a breath that made me sound like I had lung cancer. “I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” I pretty much whispered.

“Josh? Please?” was Dallas’s reply.

“Don’t make her cry again,” my eleven-going-on-twenty-year-old nephew demanded. “She never cries.”

That was a lie, but I appreciated why he’d gone with it.

Maybe my feelings were hurt and a part of me felt like it had been split open, but I didn’t want Josh to think I couldn’t handle my own battles, even as I bled my feelings all over the place. Slipping my hands over his shoulders, I tightened my grip on him. “Thank you, J, but I’ll be okay. Go finish warming up. We aren’t quitters.”

And my poor, beloved nephew who knew me too well, turned to look at me over his shoulder. Those brown eyes were guarded and worried. “I’ll go if you want me to.”

Fuck. I touched his shoulder. “It’s okay. Play your game. I can handle this. You don’t have to quit. I’ve got this.”

He didn’t budge.

“Go, Josh. It’ll be fine. I’ll be—” Where? I didn’t want to go back by the bleachers just yet. I wished I could be the bigger person and not let a bunch of words hurt me. “Here. I’ll be on the bleachers watching.”

He nodded.

Stooping down, I gave him another hug because I couldn’t help it, and he hugged me back. I kissed the top of his head quickly and released him, watching as he shot Dallas a look that I knew would eventually become trouble when he got older, and then disappeared through the winding hallway of the door-less bathroom… leaving me alone with his coach. It was a place I didn’t want to be.

I’d learned years ago that I didn’t have to do things I didn’t want. It was a gift of being an adult, getting to choose what you wanted and didn’t want in life. You just had to see how many choices you had, and if you didn’t have any, then you made some.

And without thinking twice about it, the second Josh was around the corner, I made my decision. I was going to sit and watch the fucking game even if it killed me. In the words of my abuela, que todos se vayan a la chingada. Everyone could go to hell.

Except as I walked past the second to last man I wanted to talk to in the near future, fingers reached out and snatched at my wrist. “Diana,” my name came out comforting and smooth like warm milk.

I stopped, my gaze going down to the fingers wrapped around my bones. “I just want to watch the game. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

“I know.” At least he wasn’t arguing with me. “But I wanna tell you I’m sorry. I know she’s been gunning for you, and I didn’t put a stop to it.”

I swallowed, my throat muscles bobbing hard, making me feel like I was trying to pass an egg, but really it was just my pride.

“She doesn’t have any idea what she’s talking about,” he said softly, with so much kindness and compassion, it unzipped me from the throat down.

Tears filled my eyes and I tried to blink them away, but they just stayed there, making my vision hazy and distorted. “I’ve never even done anything to her. So we argued. I argue with everyone. I know I’m a pain in the ass sometimes, but I would never go out of my way to be mean to someone who had never really done anything to me.”

“I know you wouldn’t, and you’re not a pain in the ass. We get along just fine, don’t we?” he assured me, making me sniffle.

“Yeah.” Was I still tearing up? “She doesn’t know me. She tried to tell me I wasn’t a good parent figure to Josh, that I—I’m not a real one. I am—”

“I know you are,” came his low reply, all mellow and tender. “They know you are.” I could see him getting closer to me out of the corner of my eye. “They couldn’t have anyone better raising them. It doesn’t matter what she says. You’re great. You know you are.”

I sniffled, angry and hurt. “Yeah, well, no one else seems to think I am except you… and them… and the Larsens.” My voice cracked. My own mom didn’t seem to believe that half the time. But I couldn’t say that out loud.

Instead, I started weeping again, silently.

I swore I could feel pressure at the back of my head like maybe he was cupping it. I didn’t move. I would swear on my life he made this “shh, shh, shh” sound, like he was trying to soothe me. “This is my fault.” When I didn’t say anything, he leaned in even closer to me. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

There was an earnestness in his tone—hell, in his entire body—that seemed to reach into me more than his actual words. I’d been apologized to hundreds of times in my life, but there was something about Dallas doing it that didn’t seem false or contrived. Maybe I was being dumb, but I didn’t think I was imagining hearing or sensing something that didn’t actually exist.