Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

“Liam’s Yoda.” I point my racquet at my son. “That’s you, right? Y’all are both serious little dudes, wise beyond your years, and y’all talk funny too.”

This time Amelia laughs, and a feeling takes flight in my chest.

I’m making her laugh. The kind of laughing—real laughter, not flirty or forced—I haven’t shared with someone since . . .

God, it’s been a long, long time.

She furrows her brow. “You’re right. That’s kinda perfect. So it’s Jabba and Yoda versus Vader.”

“Bring it.” I grip my racquet and stand in front of them. Sunshine hits the crown of my head and pours over my neck and shoulders, not hot but just warm enough to get me sweating a little.

Feels good.

This feels good, being out here.

“Ready, Liam?” Amelia asks, holding out the birdie.

Liam shuffles those little legs in excitement. “Lili, hit it!”

“You got it, buddy,” I say.

I watch Amelia help Liam make contact with the birdie. It goes flying into the air, and the two of them—Amelia and Liam—shout their praise while I go after the birdie, raising my racquet only to miss completely, nearly falling over in the process.

“Look!” Amelia says, pointing at me. “Look, Liam, you beat Daddy! Yay!”

“Yay!” Liam says.

“Not yay,” I say, gasping for air as I’m racked by laughter. Again, I don’t know why. Here we are, playing badminton without a net. I probably look like I’m swatting flies with this ridiculously tiny racquet.

This is stupid. Silly.

But maybe silly isn’t a bad thing. It’s making me laugh more than my very serious, very studious dedication to the game I claim playing “is the most fun I’ve ever had” did.

The last time I laughed like this playing football was . . . so long ago I can’t remember.

Yeah, I laugh for the cameras. The smiles I give them after making a play or winning a game are genuine.

Now, though, I’m wondering if they’re joyful.

Amelia and Liam hit it to me a few more times. I miss twice and make contact on the third serve, only to send the birdie flying into the tree above us. This makes Liam literally scream with delight, and without thinking, I scream too, this high-pitched monkey sound that has all three of us in stitches.

Maybe Amelia really was onto something when she said adulting wasn’t all bad.

Hell, it can be downright fun.

“Can I help you now?” I ask Liam, nodding at his racquet.

He glances up at Amelia, uncertain, but she smiles encouragingly. “Daddy is an athlete. Apparently.”

“Watch it.” I hold up the birdie. “Give us a few tries, and we’ll have deadly aim.”

“No doubt,” Amelia replies, throwing up her brows in disbelief. “All right, Liam, Daddy’s gonna show you how not to play. I’ll be right over there, okay?”

Amelia takes her position across from us while I bend down to help Liam. To my surprise, he lets me cover his hand with mine on the grip, his little body tucked against mine.

The fact that he’s trusting me makes my chest tighten. He’s so little and so sweet. Sweaty too, but in that cute, pink-faced way kids are when they’re playing.

“Let’s show Miss Amelia who’s boss,” I whisper in his ear, glancing at the woman in question.

“Lili show We-wa,” Liam repeats.

Together we manage to send the birdie soaring through the air toward Amelia.

I’m holding up my hand to Liam for a high five when she leaps up and hits the birdie back to us.

Immediately Liam darts after the birdie, dragging the racquet behind him. Because he’s my son—strong, determined, yet somehow hopeless—he tries to swing the racquet on his own but can’t quite manage it. Instead, he drops the thing and runs to where the birdie landed in the grass. He picks it up and proceeds to keep running, holding the birdie above his head as he circles the tree.

“Kid’s got endurance,” I say, and bend down to pick up Liam’s discarded racquet.

Amelia tucks her hair behind her ear. “Yes. He took a surprisingly great nap and had a big snack, so he’s got some energy to burn.”

I hold up my racquet. “I’ll school you while he runs?”

“You forget I’m the teacher.” Her lips twitch.

“You forget I’m the athlete.” I take a pair of birdies out of the badminton bag and tuck one into my pocket. I serve the other up and watch, mouth going dry as Amelia goes after it, the muscles in her calves flexing.

“So is that”—she lobs the birdie back to me with a grunt—“how you pick up chicks these days? Telling them you’re rich and famous?”

“Yes.” I return the birdie, hitting it a little too far to the left. “Do you whip out your ruler and entice guys with your mastery of the disciplinary arts?”

“Uh-huh.” Amelia lunges for the birdie and hits it back. “Broke my ruler on the last guy.”

I hit it back. “A naughty one, then.”