Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER THREE

"Nice end-around, Aidan," I say once the crowd has cleared.

Aidan has already removed his helmet and is working on his shoulder pads. He rips at the buckle, refusing to look at me. I step forward to assist him, but he bats my hands away.

"We still had thirty minutes left in practice," he grunts, wiping the sweat from his brow. "You couldn't have waited to summon your fan club?"

The group of around fifty people has moved to the endzone, chatting excitedly and occasionally throwing glances toward my son and me. Cheerleaders gossip amongst themselves, twirling their ponytails around their fingers. The Pemberton football team has begun dismantling their equipment, obviously assuming my presence signals the end of their training.

"Sorry, man," I say, watching my son toss his padding onto the clay track. "I was just—"

"Why are you here?" he interrupts, flicking the hair from his forehead.

Mallory wasn't kidding. I'm not exactly getting a warm reception from my kids. Grace has more attitude in her pinky finger than a New Jersey housewife, Aidan thinks I'm stealing his thunder, and Blake—although technically not my son—won't even tell me what his mother's favorite flower is.

"I'm picking Grace up from choir," I tell him, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

He squints into the setting sun, notching his chin toward the stands. "Well, she's waiting for you."

I follow his line of sight, spotting Grace on the bottom set of bleachers. For a second, I mistake her for Mallory at that age. She's in the maroon and gold Pemberton uniform, the blazer unbuttoned and fishnet stockings pushed down to her ankles. Instead of flats or sneakers, black Doc Martens rest like oversized boats at the end of her skinny legs. She's got earbuds in, a frayed copy of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina open in her lap. When she looks up at me, her frown deepens, a line appearing between her thick brows.

I turn to Aidan. "You need a ride home?"

He's already heading toward the locker rooms. "Nope."

Perfect. I get some quality time with my lovely daughter.

Grace rises from the bleachers, slinging a leather Chloé mini backpack over her shoulder, and follows me to the parking lot. Music blares from her earbuds, but I can't decipher the genre apart from it being loud. She's silent as we get into my Lexus rental, buckling herself in and crossing her arms over her chest.

I roll my lips between my teeth, trying to think of something to say that won't piss her off. She's already in a foul mood, and I think it's just my presence that's causing it. When we turn to head into the center of town, I pull the headphones from the dock at the bottom of her phone. She growls—I kid you not, my daughter just growled at me—but before she can say something snarky, I plug her music into the auxiliary.

"Man in the Box" spills from the car's interior speakers, vibrating the leather seats. Layne Staley's iconic voice echoes off the windows. Meanwhile, my jaw is on the floor.

"Alice In Chains?" I exclaim, giving my daughter a double take. "You listen to Alice In Chains?"

She shrugs, peering into a compact mirror to purposefully smudge her eyeliner. "I listen to everything."

I flip my signal on, which is pointless in a town with one stoplight. "Who's your favorite band?"

"Nope," Grace answers, popping her lips on the 'P.'

I stare at her profile. "Nope?"

She runs her tongue over her teeth, snapping her compact closed. "I'm not doing this with you."